dress and accessories that wouldn’t have disgraced a computer and reluctantly admitted the final total.
Desforge put an arm round her and squeezed. “Heh, Arnie,” he said. “I’m thinking of taking Ilana down to Sandvig tomorrow to do a little reindeer hunting. Can you fly us in?”
“I wish I could,” Arnie told him, “But I’m flying up to Søndre in the morning.”
Sarah Kelso was just about to light a cigarette and she paused and looked up at him sharply. He ignored her and smiled across at me.
“Olaf Simonsen tells me you’re going to have a crack at Sule after all.”
“That’s right.”
“I certainly hope that’s an accurate met report he showed you. Rather you than me.” He touched Ilana on the shoulder. “Care to dance?”
She glanced briefly at me, then pushed back her chair, “I’d love to.”
“That’s one hell of a good idea.” Desforge stood up, swaying a little and held out a hand to Sarah Kelso. “Let’s you and me show them how it’s done.”
Although he tried to conceal it, Vogel didn’t look too pleased, but she went anyway. The juke box was playing something good and loud and the tiny floor was crowded. I watched them go, then glanced across at the Portuguese. Most of them were watching Ilana, stripping her with their eyes which was only to be expected, but the really noticeable thing about them was that they didn’t seem to be talking much. Da Gama leaned back against the bar, hands in pockets, a cigarette hanging from his lips. His face was a stone mask, but his eyes followed Desforge constantly.
When I was thirteen I once found myself out on the wing in a school rugby match, very much a last minute substitution because no one else was available. My one moment of glory came when I brought down the captain of the school team a yard from the touchline, frustrating a win on the part of the other side.
He was a large, beefy individual of eighteen who gave me a thrashing in the shower rooms afterwards with the threat of worse to come if I ever got in his way again.The important thing wasn’t that the experience put me off team games for life, but that it gave me a hatred of violence and a loathing for men of Da Gama’s stamp, which produced a violence in return that was infinitely more frightening in its implications.
And violence was here now in this room, crackling in the air like electricity, mingling with the smoke, the human sweat, the reek of spilled liquor soaking into my brain as I breathed in so that I felt light-headed and a strange, nervous spasm seemed to pass through me in a cold wave.
And when it came it was from the most unexpected quarter. Another number started on the juke box and Ralph Stratton got to his feet without a word, pushed his way through the crowd and tapped Arnie on the shoulder. Arnie didn’t look too pleased and released Ilana reluctantly.
He returned to the table and I nodded towards Stratton and Ilana. “They dance well together.”
“About all he’s good for I should say,” Arnie commented sourly.
Da Gama spoke to one of his men, a large, dirty-faced individual in a greasy leather jerkin. The man forced his way through the crowd and tapped Stratton on the shoulder. Stratton simply shook his head and kept on dancing. The Portuguese tried again and Stratton shrugged him off, impatiently this time.
In his Savile Row suit and RAF tie the rather effeminate looking Englishman would have stuck out like a sore thumb in that kind of place even if he hadn’t been dancing with the most striking looking girl in the room,and plenty of people were watching. What happened next came as a shock to most of them although I can’t say it surprised me particularly.
The Portuguese pulled Stratton round and grabbed him by the lapels. It was difficult to see what happened exactly, but whatever it was, the effect was devastating. I presume Stratton must have kneed him in the groin because the Portuguese cried out sharply, his voice clear above
Desforge put an arm round her and squeezed. “Heh, Arnie,” he said. “I’m thinking of taking Ilana down to Sandvig tomorrow to do a little reindeer hunting. Can you fly us in?”
“I wish I could,” Arnie told him, “But I’m flying up to Søndre in the morning.”
Sarah Kelso was just about to light a cigarette and she paused and looked up at him sharply. He ignored her and smiled across at me.
“Olaf Simonsen tells me you’re going to have a crack at Sule after all.”
“That’s right.”
“I certainly hope that’s an accurate met report he showed you. Rather you than me.” He touched Ilana on the shoulder. “Care to dance?”
She glanced briefly at me, then pushed back her chair, “I’d love to.”
“That’s one hell of a good idea.” Desforge stood up, swaying a little and held out a hand to Sarah Kelso. “Let’s you and me show them how it’s done.”
Although he tried to conceal it, Vogel didn’t look too pleased, but she went anyway. The juke box was playing something good and loud and the tiny floor was crowded. I watched them go, then glanced across at the Portuguese. Most of them were watching Ilana, stripping her with their eyes which was only to be expected, but the really noticeable thing about them was that they didn’t seem to be talking much. Da Gama leaned back against the bar, hands in pockets, a cigarette hanging from his lips. His face was a stone mask, but his eyes followed Desforge constantly.
When I was thirteen I once found myself out on the wing in a school rugby match, very much a last minute substitution because no one else was available. My one moment of glory came when I brought down the captain of the school team a yard from the touchline, frustrating a win on the part of the other side.
He was a large, beefy individual of eighteen who gave me a thrashing in the shower rooms afterwards with the threat of worse to come if I ever got in his way again.The important thing wasn’t that the experience put me off team games for life, but that it gave me a hatred of violence and a loathing for men of Da Gama’s stamp, which produced a violence in return that was infinitely more frightening in its implications.
And violence was here now in this room, crackling in the air like electricity, mingling with the smoke, the human sweat, the reek of spilled liquor soaking into my brain as I breathed in so that I felt light-headed and a strange, nervous spasm seemed to pass through me in a cold wave.
And when it came it was from the most unexpected quarter. Another number started on the juke box and Ralph Stratton got to his feet without a word, pushed his way through the crowd and tapped Arnie on the shoulder. Arnie didn’t look too pleased and released Ilana reluctantly.
He returned to the table and I nodded towards Stratton and Ilana. “They dance well together.”
“About all he’s good for I should say,” Arnie commented sourly.
Da Gama spoke to one of his men, a large, dirty-faced individual in a greasy leather jerkin. The man forced his way through the crowd and tapped Stratton on the shoulder. Stratton simply shook his head and kept on dancing. The Portuguese tried again and Stratton shrugged him off, impatiently this time.
In his Savile Row suit and RAF tie the rather effeminate looking Englishman would have stuck out like a sore thumb in that kind of place even if he hadn’t been dancing with the most striking looking girl in the room,and plenty of people were watching. What happened next came as a shock to most of them although I can’t say it surprised me particularly.
The Portuguese pulled Stratton round and grabbed him by the lapels. It was difficult to see what happened exactly, but whatever it was, the effect was devastating. I presume Stratton must have kneed him in the groin because the Portuguese cried out sharply, his voice clear above
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