Bloody London (36 page)

While everyone circled around Phillip Frye and praised his project for the homeless, they talked about leases and renovations and profit margins, and architects who charged a grand just to pick up the phone and corrupt estate agents and how you couldn't get anything in W11 for under a mill.

The irony wasn't lost on them either; they were cool. They laughed at their own ambitions, but I knew Tolya Sverdloff was right: people would kill for real estate.

Then I saw Isobel Cleary. Iz wore a green silk dress and high heels and Lily was with her, the two of them arm in arm, heads together. They were laughing uproariously at something, shaking with laughter. It was why I had come, but Lily had her back to me and then she walked off in the other direction before I could call her name or wave or get to her.

“Micro celebs,” I heard someone say, and I looked around and recognized a few actors. Isobel came over to me and kissed me and pointed out some politicians, a couple of rock stars, a famous chef, some writers. I never heard of any of them except for David Bowie and Michael Caine. No one seemed to notice the way the wind suddenly came up strong or the river lapped the deck outside.

There was food: little crunchy birds and spicy polenta, hot breads, salsas. Jack got me by the elbow and shoved a plate into my hand, and we loaded up and sat down at one of the tables in the center of the restaurant. The band, which was really good, played “Moonlight in Vermont” and “Summertime”, and people ate, drank and danced.

Afterwards, waiters appeared with silver trays heaped up with little chocolate houses. People scooped them up and munched the houses and I watched and listened the way you'd watch a circus, all three rings going at the same time: the light and shadow on the dance floor and couples dancing; a redheaded man in a loud checked suit and big black glasses surrounded by serious men in suits, a security man with a finger in his ear near by; a pack of druggy models with smudged eyes; the oldest was maybe sixteen. The semi-famous huddled together.

And Lily. On the other side of the room, in a tight black velvet pants suit. She looked great. I looked again. She shrugged and pointed to her leg, which was free of the velcro and bandages, and she smiled mournfully and waved, and I looked down at my glass, then looked up and raised it in her direction. But a guy in a tux pulled her on to the dance floor.

I danced with Isobel, and she said, “You OK?”

“I'm OK.”

“You want to talk about Pru?”

“Not tonight.”

Iz nodded. “So how do we look through your eyes? What's it like for you?”

“Like being an alien.”

“Dance with Lily,” she said.

I went back to Jack's table. People came and went, sat for a while, got up to dance, moved around, smoked. “We closed Indonesia,” someone said. “We did. It was the last great party before the end, then they closed the country.” The conversations were the same you heard in New York, only the inflexion and the details were different, the barbs more vicious, the sarcasm fiercer, the talk more political.

Snatches of talk reached me: Russian fascists at Austrian spas, the price of a villa in Tuscany for the summer – or was it a village?

Models and party girls, men in khakis and tux jackets, three hundred people stuffed themselves with chocolate houses now. A handsome man in a silk suit and black silk shirt sat down at our table, ate mashed potatoes and talked French to the woman next to him. They covered Japanese Fusion chefs, varieties of Champagne and if there really was what one of them called “anti-Semiticism”.

Jack reached out as a waiter passed, pulled a fresh glass off his tray and muttered to me, “I've just had a mine shaft into the rest of the world, man, you know, we're in here and everyone else is out there in the howling void, and I wonder if I should be doing something about it, but it doesn't matter so I won't bother.” Jack was drunk. When he was drunk the mild speech impediment disappeared and the chip fell off his shoulder; charm was Jack Cotton's middle name.

Then there was a drum roll.

On the outside deck, bright blue and gold cloth
covered a hulking shape. Phillip Frye stood on a chair, and people gathered. The wind blew harder now off the river, and people clutched at their clothes. The women's tiny skirts blew up; you could see a lot of great ass.

Frye toasted Pru Vane's memory and everyone murmured politely and shifted their feet. Then Frye spoke about the Life Bubble and how it would withstand even this wind, and someone said the word “
Titanic
” and we all laughed.

Two of the girls from Frye's office pulled the gold and blue cloth off, the Bubble was revealed and everyone clapped and whistled. Then Frye introduced his wife.

“Shashi Frye,” Isobel Cleary said in my ear. “She's a bloody sight too good for him.”

Mrs Frye, who had designed the Life Bubble, smiled. Cameras flashed. The conversation turned to the homeless and Ethiopia, and how much good Phillip and Shashi did, how the Bubble would change things; it was the beginning of a new age, a proper start-up for the millennium, someone said. It was terrific, it looked good, it was a testament to modern Britain, a new age of great design, and they circled the thing and ran their hands over the surface, congratulated Phil, drank his Champagne.

Shashi Frye moved gracefully around the windy deck, the white dress blowing.

I leaned over the front of the boat alongside Jack. In front of us was the row of massive silver hoods I'd seen from the road. It was foggy then. Now, the Thames Barrier gleamed under the stars and looked beautiful,
mysterious, glamorous, London's first great monument if you came in by sea.

A few hundred yards from the Barrier, the barge turned slowly. Clouds moved across the sky. A spatter of rain tinkled on the glass walls.

The rain came down harder. On the deck, people picked up their glasses and ran inside. The Bubble shivered. Two waiters grabbed at it, but a huge gust of wind came down the river, and the Bubble pulled loose from the ropes that held it to the deck. More waiters hurriedly set down their trays and reached for it. Frye himself grabbed it. Jack ran to help.

It was too late.

The Life Bubble sailed off the deck and into the river. We stood in the rain and watched it float away.

By midnight we were almost back at the wharf; you could feel the barge vibrate. The disaster with the Bubble put an edge on things, people were excited and nervous; they got drunker.

I was at the bar. Without looking, I suddenly knew Lily was beside me. I saw her reflection next to mine in the mirror, but I knew she was there before I looked. I could smell her. She put her arm around my shoulders.

I said, “How's the foot?”

“I'm fine. We're all such event freaks.” She leaned closer and giggled. “I'm sorry but I loved it when the Bubble blew into the water, I can't help it.” She put her face against mine. She pulled my head around and kissed me hard. Said, “Do you want me to introduce you? I'll
introduce you. Come on. Who do you want to meet?” Lily had her arms around my neck.

I said, “Let's just dance.”

The band played “Stormy Weather” and I held on to Lily on the crowded dance floor and we laughed at the music. We danced for a long time, not talking at all. The band finished “Autumn Leaves” and started another tune.

I didn't plan on feeling happy as soon as I saw her, but I felt happy. I had planned on making it tougher for her; Lily makes me nuts, but without her I feel like my oxygen's running on low. On empty.

Whatever she'd done, however she knew Pascoe or Frye, who she'd been before I met her, right now I didn't care. Didn't care at all; it's not at all rational, this stuff; it's just how things are.

She said in my ear, “What's this song called?”

Over Lily's shoulder I saw Phillip Frye watching us. His expression was vacant. He was a pissed-off guy and I didn't think it was just the Bubble. “Why is Frye watching us?”

“Is he watching?”

“He looks mad as hell. His Bubble went overboard so he's pissed.”

“Who's with him?”

“Russian babe in Versace.” I moved us around so she could see for herself.

Lily looked over my shoulder. She grew less mellow. She said, “Please, can we go home? Artie?”

“Yes.”

She put her chin on my shoulder and said again, “And tell me what it's called.”

“What?”

“The song.”

We moved towards the door, and I said, “The song is called ‘Love and the Weather'.”

“
Tommy's dead. He's dead, Lily.”

“I heard you, Frankie. I'm sorry.”

“What's his name? I need a name.”

“Whose name?”

“
The boyfriend. Your cop. Tell me.”

“What on earth for?”

“
Help me here, Lily, please, I've never asked you for anything. Not for a very long time. I need someone. I'm alone. Tell me what his name is.”

“His name's Artie Cohen.”

“Thank you.”

“
Why do you need to know?”

“
Tommy was murdered.”

“Christ, Frankie. Jesus Christ.”

“They found him in the swimming pool downstairs in our building. He's dead. They tried to cut his head off.”

“I'm sorry. But leave Artie be, OK? Just leave Artie out of this, you understand? Please. You've done enough damage for one lifetime. Frankie?”

The stilted conversation ended. The line went dead.

In the living room of the houseboat where we sat on the floor, Lily switched off her tape recorder. “So now you know.”

“You knew her as Frankie?”

“I knew her as Frankie.”

“You taped her?”

“I guess it's habit. I was working, the tape recorder was there, I heard trouble coming down the phone, I pressed Record. I hadn't heard from Frankie Pascoe in several years. She was trouble.”

“What kind?”

“Booze. Sex. She was a sexual compulsive, some doctor told Tommy. Femme fatale. Killed with a touch.”

“Killed?”

“Metaphorically.”

“It wasn't just accidental me being on the case?”

“No. I tried to stop her. I couldn't. By the time you told me you were on it, it was too late. Frankie had that kind of clout. She knew who to call. She knew how to press the buttons that made Sonny Lippert put you on the case. She would have figured she could control you because there was a relationship with me.” Lily looked at me. “Did she control you?”

I didn't answer. I said, “Sonny didn't fucking tell me.”

“He wouldn't necessarily know,” she said. “God, I am sorry. I should have told you. I got scared and ran.”

I put my arms around her. “Scared of what?”

She said, “My own fucked-up past. Do you want a drink? I want a drink.” She found a bottle of Scotch and
poured some in a glass. “I know I've made you crazy, and I'm sorry, but I need you.”

Outside, the rain that had started earlier pelted the roof. But it was warm inside. Safe. I held her tighter. “It's OK.”

“I'm scared. Someone killed Pru Vane. Phillip's PR woman.”

“I met Pru.”

“Met?”

“No one's going to touch you.”

“Pru knew about Phillip's business. So do I.”

“You want to tell me?”

“I wanted to tell you all along, but I was afraid.”

Lily took her drink and leaned against me. “It's not always that easy, you know, when you get caught up in work.” She was weeping now; I made her drink the Scotch.

“Where's Beth?”

“She's all right. She's still in the country with the Cleary kids and their aunt. I'm going to get her tomorrow, but she's OK. She's OK.” She repeated it, like a mantra.

I said, “Are you sure?”

Lily sat up and pushed me away. “I take care of her, I really do.”

“I know you do.”

“I'm glad you're here. I was glad the minute I saw you.”

“I figured you didn't want me here. I thought you had a different life in London.”

“I did, though. Want you. I almost always do.” She
looked up from her glass. “I wanted you here because I was frightened, but I was afraid to say anything, to mention Phillip's name. I knew something was wrong with his project. I knew but I couldn't believe it. I figured I'd play along.” She was shaking. “I got over him a long time ago, just like I told you, long long ago. I'm drunk, Artie, I was drunk last night, I've had too much to drink and too many pills because my foot hurt, and I want more. I'm telling you the truth, you know? I'll quit the Scotch. Just give me some of that wine? The red. Thanks.”

She drank nervously and scratched her leg. Lily got up, looked out the window, made sure the door to the deck was locked. “Give me a cigarette.”

I found a pack, and she pushed her hair off her face, sat down, this time in an armchair opposite me, lit up and started talking again.

“I was in the Peace Corps. I was in Ethiopia, in the middle of the country, in a region named Asela, they call it the Bread Basket of Africa. That was OK. It was a shithole, but it was some kind of town, there was a market, there was a kind of motel, even if the bathrooms had actual holes in the wall. And the countryside was gorgeous, like New Mexico, you know, you remember the high desert, how it goes gold and green in the fall?

“That was OK. But after some indoctrination crap, they moved three of us south to a village near a lake. It's very empty there, real bush. No maps, no roads, lakes full of hippos, scrubby bush, and whole tribes who live on islands in the lake. It was the kids I saw first, each one
had a kayak for coming to school on our side of the lake. We were supposed to help these people, you know, but we were kids ourselves. American kids. We didn't know shit.