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turned and reached for the padded register. "Mr. Von Joel's other gallery is at Benabana. If you want to see him he'll . . ."
When she turned back Larry had gone.
3

    The telephone booth in the comer of the hotel foyer was small, hot, and poorly ventilated. Larry felt bilious after a hurried dinner and he knew he would be sick if he stayed in there much longer. He was wearing a suit, which threatened to add heatstroke to his miseries. Making everything a shade worse, the line to London was bad and there had been a couple of serious interruptions.
    "Yeah," Larry hissed at the mouthpiece, "I'm sure it's him." He paused, listening. He could feel his shirt sticking wetly to the entire length of his back. "What? Well, no, not one hundred percent, but— What? Okay, but you get someone from our end to talk to them here, will you? And check out the old files." He listened again, nodding impatiently, seeing two drops of his sweat land soundlessly on the ledge by the telephone. "Listen, it's him. I know it! Dig as far back as you can." He slammed down the receiver and jerked open the door, signaling the receptionist to put the call on his bill.
Susan approached as he was rereading a fax he had been handed before he went into the booth. He tucked it back into his pocket.
"Is this all right?" she held her arms out wide, showing him her dress, an off-the-shoulder number she had brought along in case they went anywhere special. "Only I was wondering, see, because I've got strap marks and—"
"It's lovely," Larry said without looking. He took her arm. "Come on."
In less than twenty minutes they were on the harbor at Puerto Banus. Late sunlight threw a flattering pink-gold glow across the waterfront as they walked arm in arm past posturing groups of young men and laughing, hard-eyed girls on the make. The food smells from the open-fronted restaurants were noticeably more fragrant and varied than they were in Marbella, and the heady vapors of Chanel and Hermes were almost common here. Susan was impressed. So was Larry, in his way.
"I've seen more ex-cons along here," he said, "than I've ever laid eyes on in London."
Susan scarcely heard him.
"Look at the boats, Larry. We should bring the boys here to see them. Oh!" She pointed at a brightly lit floating palace at the far end of the harbor where the larger craft were moored. "Just look at that one!"
Porsches and Mercedeses glided by them as they shouldered their way past tanned and sunshaded pussy-prowlers, glittering girls, and an anxious-eyed scattering of the older crowd, finding out how useless money is at canceling time. When Susan wasn't admiring the boats or being distracted by the more outre passersby, she was stopping at boutiques to coo over the clothes and gasp at the prices. Larry tried not to be impatient, but when they were halfway along the front he took her firmly by the elbow and led her through the back turnings to Von Joel's gallery.
A small crowd was milling around the entrance, talking and laughing, wineglasses in their hands. They looked as affluent as the people along the harbor, bronzed rather than tanned, minimally attired in the best that taste could seek out and money could buy, and bedecked with expensive jewelry—the men as well as the women. Larry, still holding Susan's elbow, found a path through the crowd and entered the gallery.
He had his invitation ready but no one appeared interested in checking it, not even Von Joel's lady assistant, who came by with a tray of drinks. She did not seem to recognize Larry; she smiled mechanically, introduced herself as Charlotte, and urged them to have a drink. When they had each taken a glass of wine she moved on without another word.
'There's a lot of money here," Susan murmured, sipping. "Can anyone just walk in then? Larry?"
He wasn't listening. His attention was wholly taken up by the other people in the place, the small-talking interweaving groups who didn't seem especially interested in the pictures or the sculptures.