the safe. He took an empty suitcase and went to the bank on the Tube.
He went down to the vault, opened his box, and put all the securities in the suitcase. Then he left.
He walked around the corner to another bank, where he arranged to have another safe deposit box. He paid for the privilege with a check of his own, and put the new box in his own name. Then he put the suitcase full of securities in the new box.
On the way home he stopped at a phone booth and telephoned a Sunday newspaper.
V
SAMANTHA STEPPED INTO THE Black Gallery and looked around in wonder. The place was transformed. Last time she had been here, it had been full of workmen, rubble, paint cans and plastic sheeting. Now it looked more like an elegant apartment: richly carpeted, tastefully decorated, with interesting futuristic furniture and a jungle of bright aluminum spotlights growing out of the low ceiling.
Julian sat at a chrome-and-glass desk just beside the door. When he saw her he got up and shook hands, giving a perfunctory nod to Tom.
He said to Sammy: ?I?m thrilled you?re going to do the opening for me. Shall I show you around??
?If you can spare the time from your work,? Samantha said politely.
He made a pushing-aside gesture with his hand. ?Just looking at the bills, and trying to make them go away by telepathy. Come on.?
Julian had changed, Samantha thought. She studied him as he showed them the paintings and talked about the artists. His earlobe-length fair hair had been layered and styled, losing the public-schoolboy look to a more natural, fashionable cut. He spoke now with confidence and authority, and his walk was more sure and aggressive. Samantha wondered whether it was the wife problem or the money problem which had been solved: perhaps it was both.
She liked his taste in art, she decided. There was nothing breathtakingly original on display—unless you counted the wriggling mass of fiberglass sculpture in the alcove—but the works were modem and somehow well- done. The kind of thing I might have on my wall, she thought and found that the expression suited how she felt.
He took them around quickly, as if afraid they might get bored. Samantha was grateful: it was all very nice, but these days all she wanted to do was get high or sleep. Tom had started to refuse her the pills occasionally, like in the mornings. Without them her moods changed fast.
They came full circle to the door. Samantha said: ?I have a favor to ask you, Julian.?
?Your servant, ma?am.?
?Will you get us invited to your father-in-law?s house for dinner??
He raised his eyebrows. ?Why would you want to meet that old shit??
?He fascinates me. Who would build a million-pound art collection, then sell it? Besides, he sounds like my type.? She fluttered her eyelashes.
Julian shrugged. ?If you really want to, it?s easy. I?ll take you—Sarah and I go to dinner a couple of times a week anyway. It saves cooking. I?ll give you a ring.?
?Thank you.?
?Now then, you know that date of the opening. I?d be grateful if you could get here at about six-thirty.?
?Julian, I?m glad to help, but I can?t be anything but the last to arrive, you know.?
He laughed. ?Of course not. I forget you?re a star. The official start is seven-thirty or eight, so perhaps eight o?clock would be best.?
?Okay. But dinner with Lord Cardwell first, right??
?Right.?
They shook hands again. As they left Julian returned to his desk and his bills.
Tom moved sideways through the packed crowd in the street market. It never seemed to be half full: unless it was jammed solid it appeared empty. Street markets were meant to be crowded—the people liked it, and so did the stallholders. Not to mention the pickpockets.
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—? 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.?
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 ?You know what the Bible do say: ?The 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
?Let alone one that could quote the Bible at him.?
?Hmmm.? Wright took several large gulps of stout ?Well, young Thomas, it?s 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.?
?Porn? You can?t get—?
?No,? Tom interrupted. ?Works of art, you know. Rare stuff.?
Wright shook his head. ?Not 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??
