Moroccan Traffic Read Online Free PDF Page A

Sir Bob’s bloody portrait. You thought you might suggest an accommodation. So, fast-forward: such as?’
    It was time for my pitch. The tables around us were empty, although at the other end of the room a few flushed youngish men were emitting bursts of occasional laughter. From time to time, one of them waved at our table. Mr. Johnson paid no attention.
    I said, ‘The portrait deserves to be finished. Also, we’d like it exhibited this year as a business asset. We know you can’t come to us. But Sir Robert would come to you to be painted in whatever time you could spare from your client. At his own expense, and wherever you say. With a little goodwill, surely that would be possible?’ A man from the rowdy table had risen. He was young, blond and built like a Saxon gasometer.
    ‘Clients, plural,’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘I have to paint more than one person. And you’ve put it very nicely, but no, I’m afraid it wouldn’t be possible. My sitters are not in this country.’
    ‘That needn’t matter,’ I said.
    ‘To Sir Robert Kingsley?’ he said. ‘Miss Helmann, you know and I know that his diary must be full to December.’
    ‘No,’ I said. ‘He and Lady Kingsley were planning a vacation in March. Where are your sittings to be?’
    He never did answer. Before he could speak, the gasometer was standing before us. Close to, in every sense, he was staggering. I was aware of leather and buckles and suntan; of rippling sand-coloured hair, and eyes fringed with white lashes like woodlice, their gaze wholly directed at me. The vision said, ‘Who is she, JJ? Come on! We’ve all put down a tenner.’ Sandhurst and Army, I thought. Cheek and Old Money again, but this time not so casual.
    ‘Go away, Seb,’ my host answered. It was quite pleasant, like Sir Robert’s voice in the Boardroom.
    ‘Not a hope, old pal,’ said Seb. ‘We heard you scored with a wench in the Balkans.’ He was still examining me. ‘Are you from the Balkans? And wasting your charms on a shark from the Navy? What’s your name, darlin’?’
    The great painter stirred. ‘Miss Wendy Helmann of Kingsley Conglomerates,’ he said. ‘Meet Colonel Sebastian Sullivan, sportsman. Amateur sportsman.’
    ‘Bloddy hell!’ said Sebastian Sullivan. He was Irish.
    ‘Amateur,’ Mr. Johnson repeated. ‘If you were a real one you’d get the hell out.’
    ‘No,’ said Colonel Sullivan. He was swaying slightly. He said, ‘Hey!’
    ‘Yes?’ said Mr. Johnson.
    Colonel Sullivan said, ‘Does she work for King Cong?’
    ‘Who?’ said Mr. Johnson.
    ‘Kingsley Conglomerates,’ I said calmly. ‘It’s what they call us.’
    ‘It’s what they call Bob Kingsley,’ said Colonel Sullivan. ‘And if she works for him, she’s never come from Jugoslavia. She’s not Balkan, and I’ve lost me bloddy tenner.’
    ‘I’m British,’ I said. It’s what I always say.
    Colonel Sullivan pulled out a chair and sat down. He said, ‘So whose girlfriend are you?’
    Mr. Johnson gazed at him. ‘Mine,’ he said with some distaste.
    ‘At the moment. Colonel, your guests are getting fed up.’
    I don’t know about getting fed up. The remaining two men at his table had stopped drinking and were watching us with apparent difficulty. One was young and raunchy like Sullivan. The other wore a smart leather jacket over a button-down shirt and pink tie. As we looked, leather jacket got up, steadied, and began to come over. His round face was not improved by a crewcut, and he’d had a lot more club claret than I’d had. Seb Sullivan jerked his thumb at the table. ‘You know Gerry,’ he said. ‘And the approaching skinhead is Pymm, a visiting scribbler from our Canadian colony. Ellwood, Mr. J. Johnson.’
    The skinhead, arriving, heard the introduction and said,
    ‘Ma’am!’ to me, and ‘Sir!’ to my host. I should have said he was an American.
    ‘Delighted,’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘Goodbye.’
    ‘I’m not going,’ said Colonel Sullivan. ‘And you