The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [69]
The familiarity of the market made Tom feel uncomfortable. The crockery stall, the secondhand clothes, the noise, the accents—all represented a world he was glad to have left behind. In the circles he now moved in, he exploited his working-class origins—they were quite fashionable—but he had no fond memories. He looked at the beautiful Asian women in saris, the fat West Indian mothers, the Greek youngsters with their smooth olive skin, the old cockneys in cloth caps, the tired young women with babies, the unemployed lads in the latest stolen bell-bottoms: and he uneasily resisted a sense of belonging.
He pushed on through the crowd, aiming for the pub at the end of the street. He heard a singsong voice from a man selling jewelry off an upturned orange crate: ″Stolen property, don′t say a word—ʺ He grinned to himself. Some of the goods in the market were stolen, but most of the bargains were just factory rejects, too poor in quality to go to the stores. People assumed that if the goods were stolen, they must be good quality.
He came out of the market crowd and entered the Cock. It was a traditional pub: dim, smoky, and slightly smelly, with a concrete floor and hard upright benches along the wall. He went up to the bar.
″Whisky and soda, please. Is Bill Wright here?″
″Old Eyes Wright?″ the barman said. He pointed: ″Over there. He′s drinking Guinness.″
″One for him, then.″
He paid and carried the drinks to a three-legged table on the far side of the room. ″Morning, Sergeant-Major.ʺ
Wright glared up at him over a pint glass. ″Cheeky young pup. I hope you′ve bought me a drink.″
″Of course.″ Tom sat down. With typical cockney complexity, ″Eyes″ Wright′s nickname was a double joke: not only was he a former professional soldier, but he had bulging eyes of a curious orange color.
Tom sipped his drink and studied the man. The head was shorn to a white bristle, except for a small round patch of oiled brown hair right on top. He was deeply tanned, for he spent six weeks every summer and winter in the Caribbean. The money for these holidays he earned as a safe-breaker—the career he had taken up when he had left the Army. He had a reputation for being a skilled workman. He had only been caught once, and that through incredibly bad luck—a burglar had broken into the house Wright was robbing and set off the alarm.
Tom said: ″A lovely day for villainry, Mr. Wright.″
Wright emptied his glass and picked up the one Tom had bought ʺYou know what the Bible do say: ʹThe Lord sendeth his sunshine and his rain on the wicked as well as the just.′ Always been a great consolation to me, that verse.″ He drank again. ″You can′t be all bad, son, if you buy a drink for a poor old man.″
Tom raised his glass to his lips. ″Good luck.″ He reached over and touched Wright′s lapel. ″Like the suit. Savile Row?″
″Yes, lad. You know what the Bible do say: ′Avoid the appearance of evil.′ Good advice. Now what copper could bring himself to arrest an old sergeant-major with short hair and a quality suit?″
″Let alone one that could quote the Bible at him.″
ʺHmmm.ʺ Wright took several large gulps of stout ʺWell, young Thomas, itʹs about time you stopped beating about the bush. What is it you want?″
Tom lowered his voice. ″I′ve got a job for you.″
Wright narrowed his eyes. ″What is it?″
″Pictures.″
ʺPorn? You can′t get—ʺ
″No,″ Tom interrupted. ″Works of art, you know. Rare stuff.″
Wright shook his head. ʺNot my field. I wouldn′t know where to get rid.″
Tom made an impatient gesture. ″I′m not doing it on my own. I′ll need finance anyway.″
″Who′s in with you?″
″Well, that′s another reason I′ve come to you. What about Mandingo?″
Wright nodded thoughtfully. ″You′re splitting it a lot of ways, now. How much is the job worth?″
″A million, all told.″
Wright′s sandy eyebrows lifted. ″I tell you what—if Mandingo backs it, I′m in.″
″Great. Let′s go see him.″
They left the pub and crossed the road to where