same time his body was pendulumed so violently that his head struck the underside of the balcony.
The first collision roused both pain and suspicion. A lesser detective might have leaped at once to the conclusion that he wasn't dreaming, but Joe had learned a long time ago that it was better never to leap to conclusions but let them come to you in their own sweet time.
The second collision brought the conclusion a lot closer and the third confirmed its arrival.
This was no dream. He really was being dangled over his seventh-floor balcony by a homicidal maniac.
As if to reward this admission of reality, the swinging began to slow down. Which was nice, until it occurred to him this could mean either the swinger was tiring or maybe was thinking of letting go.
One result of the deceleration was that Joe was once more able to take in the view, but like one of his favorite songs almost said, What a difference a couple of seconds makes!
Now the soft beauty of the morning had completely evaporated and the gentle sun was a spotlight, picking out the little square of pavement far below against which his head was about to splatter.
He bent his neck so he could look up. Even if he hadn't been able to recognize the rage-twisted features peering down at him, he would have made a good guess at the huge hands bolted tight around his ankles. Last time he'd seen those fists they'd been remodeling the face of Ernie Jagger, the Battersea Bruiser.
He was literally in the hands of Eloise's ex, Jurassic George.
Knowing how to say the right thing at the right time is truly a gift from heaven, which was why on the whole Joe usually opted for silence or a neutral 'U-huh.' But neither of these options seemed suited to his present circumstances. So Joe let his mind go blank and said the first thing that came into it.
Which was, 'Hey, George, man, how're you doing? That was a great job you did on Jagger. Those left hooks! Just beautiful.'
It was an inspired social gambit. Boxers are simple men, a condition refined by frequent blows about the head, and though they are generally indifferent to appeals to their better nature or the higher aesthetic, the one way of catching their interest is to make complimentary remarks about their ring technique.
Above him there was a change of atmosphere, or not so much a change as the kind of hiatus you sometimes get when a big black thundercloud seems uncertain whether to launch its floods and lightnings here and now or postpone them a bit till there and then. The swinging from side to side stopped altogether and the voice modulated from threatening rasp to modest roar.
'Yeah, well, I just saw a gap, know what I mean, and I threw that first left and the gap got bigger, yeah, so I chucked in another couple and set him up to finish the job.'
Joe would have preferred it if George hadn't felt the need to relax his grip with his left hand in order to illustrate the hooks. True, the man's right hand seemed to have strength enough to hold his weight indefinitely but if George should feel moved to demonstrate the combination with which he dispatched the unfortunate Bruiser, this diversionary tactic could prove counterproductive.
Time to change the focal point of the flattery.
'Nearly took his head off!' said Joe. 'But it wasn't just strength, though, no way, George. Your footwork, man, you've really been working on your footwork. Float like a butterfly, sting like a Centurion tank, eh?'
To his disappointment, all the fulsome compliment earned Joe was a mandatory shake of the ankles.
'Sting like a bee, I think it is,' growled George. 'Ain't that right, Twitch? Sting like a bee.'
Keep it simple, Joe admonished himself. Real simple!
Another head appeared over the balcony rail. This was a smaller head and it only came up to George's shoulder. The features were indistinguishable, but the way it jerked to the side from time to time as if dislodging a troublesome insect was a giveaway.
This was the watcher outside Ram Ray's and the Hole.
Twitch. What else would he be called?
'Yeah, like a bee, George,' agreed Twitch. 'Listen, George, mebbe you should pull him up. He slips, we're all in shit, you dig?'
Joe fell in love with Twitch. Here was a real gem, a man of sense and sensibility who appreciated that while the odd body plummeting from the seventh floor might be regarded as a natural hazard in neighboring Hermsprong, here in well-regulated Rasselas it could provoke complaint and investigation.
George seemed unconcerned.
'He ain't gonna slip,' he declared reassuringly. Then spoiled it by adding, 'He hits that pavement, it's 'cos I let the motherfucker drop.'
By now Joe had woken enough to be getting his head around what was happening here.
It was Eloise. Distracted by their break-up, George had set his minion Twitch on to watch Eloise. And what had he seen?
Oh shoot! thought Joe.
He'd seen Eloise, the girl of George's dreams, with her scantily clad body pressed close against Joe Six- smith's, her mouth feasting on his, and he'd seen it twice in one day. Not only that, Twitch had probably been using that phone he was playing with to take photos.
He felt he could put things right if only he could talk to George face to face instead of face to foot.
The one good thing about being upside down was that all that blood draining into his brain seemed to be speeding up his intellectual processes. For instance it was clear to him now that the young woman must also have spotted Twitch lurking, and far from being overcome by a desire to explore his manly body, the two close embraces had just been her way of winding up George in absentia.
All he had to do was share this insight.
He called, 'George, I can explain about Eloise…'
It was a mistake. The sound of the girl's name from the unhallowed lips of her molester clearly brought the Jurassic mists rising once more and Joe felt himself swung so violently that if he'd been released at either extremity of the arc, he would have landed twenty or thirty feet from the target point he'd focused on before.
Eventually, perhaps because of the increasingly twitchy Twitch's protests, the swinging ceased once more and Joe's enhanced but jangling brain could get to grips with the pressing problem of how to deny there was anything going on between him and the girl without actually mentioning her name. He let himself go limp, which wasn't difficult, and called up in a broken voice, 'George, after I die, man, do me one promise. You owe me that, man. Promise you'll go and see Beryl and tell her I love her.' That hiatus again. For a moment he feared that George's cauliflowered ears might have misheard Beryl for Eloise and he closed his eyes in anticipation of being let go. Then the voice rasped, 'Beryl? Who's this Beryl?' 'Beryl Boddington. My fiancee,' croaked Joe. 'Your fiancee? You two-timing my Eloise?' This sideways bound of logic impressed Joe, himself no mean leaper on the dance-floor of debate, but this was no time for abstract analysis. Keep it simple. 'No… Beryl my one and only love… She's a scary woman, George… no way I'd dare two-time her… You tell her I was always true…' There was a moment of complete stillness which, thought Joe, was perhaps really death. Then he felt himself swung high once more, this time the grip on his ankles was released, and now he was flying through the air. He had time to think, 'I'm going to die,' before he hit the ground a bit earlier than he'd expected. There was surprisingly little pain, which meant he must have been killed instantly. If Aunt Mirabelle had got it right the next voice he'd hear would be the voice of St. Peter. But oddly St. Peter sounded a lot like George. 'You saying you're not screwing my girl, Eloise?' Joe opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of the balcony. Way above him loomed Jurassic, who now prodded him with a booted foot and repeated the question.
'You saying you're not screwing my girl, Eloise?'
Joe tried to think of someone who in a similar situation might have replied, 'Well yes, I am, actually. Screwing her, I mean. As often as I can.'
James Bond maybe? Had to be someone in a movie. No one in real life would even dream of it!
'Yeah, that's what I'm saying, George. I love my fiancee, Beryl.'
'What about them photos? You telling me you're not feeling her up on them photos?'
I was right, thought Joe. That bastard Twitch (he'd fallen out of love with Twitch) had been taking pictures and sending them back to George.
'No!' he declared. 'She was just pretending to mess with me to make you jealous.'
'Why'd she do that?'
' 'Cos she's still got feelings for you, man! She knew your boy was there, spying. Hard to miss him, all that twitching.'
