A crowd was gathering. She could see people out of the corner of her eye, and hear some of their hushed comments. She had grown accustomed to being watched, and she felt a particular excitement now. She knew her sketch of the tourist in the cranberry jacket was an exceptionally good one.
The crowd of onlookers was growing now, many of them far more interested in the beautiful artist than they were in her sketch pad.
Her subject was enjoying every minute of it. He loved the attention he was getting from the crowd, and he loved being able to stare unabashedly at the gorgeous brunette who was caught up in her rendering of him. Damn, what he wouldn't give for a hot little piece of ass like that! Hell, she was far and away better than any of them topless broads he had seen at those clip joints on the Broadway strip – and some of them were knockouts. But this little girl had them beat by a country mile. Damn, it made his cock twitch just to think about her – and that wouldn't do it at all! Not here!
"Don't forget to sign it now. I'm gonna put this in a frame and hang it in my office," he said jovially as he chewed on his cigar. Some of the gapers chuckled and Jill smiled warmly as she put the finishing touches on the portrait with a soft lead pencil. She took one last, searching look at the man, added a little touch of color here and there, made a few more lines with her pencil then scrawled "Conklin – 5/14/76 S.F." on the bottom. She was very pleased with her efforts. She felt she had truly captured the man on sketch paper.
"I hope you like it, sir," she said as she handed his likeness to him. The crowd was almost hushed with anticipation, and the big man played his scene for all he was worth, studying the portrait critically from every angle as he chewed on his cigar. Finally he smiled, and his smile widened to a broad grin.
"Well I'll be darned. That's the best darned picture anybody's ever done of me! It really is! I paid some jerk $200 last year to paint my portrait, and I had to sit still for what amounted to almost two weeks, and he didn't do half as good a job as you did in five minutes, little lady! I surely do want to thank you," he said, reaching in his pocket and producing a five dollar bill from a money clip. "Here, you take this," he said, pressing the fin into her hand.
"But, sir, it's only…" she started to protest.
"It's only a small portion of what it's worth. I know. Now if I can find that stubborn wife of mine, I'm gonna drag her back here and have her pose for you. She's not goin' home without a picture done by you, Miss…" he looked at her signature, "Conklin. What's your first name, Miss Conklin?" he asked, leering down at her.
"Jill."
"Jill, eh? Well now ain't that a coincidence – mine's Jack, Jack Dawson. Here, have one of my cards. Do you have a card, Jill?"
"No, sir, I'm afraid I don't," she said with embarrassment. People were listening to the exchange.
"Well you should, Jill. Any artist as good as you needs a business card. I'll see you later, Jill. I'm going to find that wife of mine and drag her back here for a picture." And he was off, cigar smoke billowing in his wake.
A quiet couple with a pigtailed little girl had been standing patiently to one side. They stepped up to her. "We'd like you to do Tammy's portrait," the wife said.
"I'd love to do a portrait of Tammy," Jill said sincerely, smiling down at the freckle faced seven year old. "Children are really fun, and a challenge. They can't sit still."
The whole day was like that. One customer after another. It wasn't until the wind came up at three o'clock that Jill realized she hadn't stopped for lunch. She was suddenly ravenous, and starting to get chilled. She started to break out in goosebumps and her nipples were standing out erect beneath her thin T-shirt. She cursed herself for forgetting to bring her sweater. Three raucous hardhat types started to give her a bad time. They were making embarrassing and insulting remarks, and staring at her proudly upthrust breasts with the very visible and erect nipples.
Suddenly Jill caught sight of Jack Dawson coming towards her. But the big man in the cranberry knit jacket was not accompanied by his wife – there was another man with him, a very distinguished looking gentleman who was the antithesis of the cigar smoking tourist. Jack Dawson's companion was a tall, refined and elegantly handsome Latin with an impeccably tailored beige silk suit, light blue shirt with French cuffs and navy blue silk necktie with white polka dots. His whole aura bespoke breeding and authority, and he had the unmistakable smell of wealth about him. Jill gave the pair a grateful smile of recognition. "Why, Mr. Dawson!" she called out. At that the hard hat boys dispersed muttering epithets under their breaths.
"I brought a friend of mine to have you do his picture. Couldn't get the missus out of them bo'tiques. She needs a supermarket cart to put everything in! Jill, this is Mr. Garcia."
"Ernesto Garcia, Miss Conklin," the elegant man offered in a deep and slightly accented voice. He took her extended hand and shook it warmly, looking directly into her eyes in such a penetrating way that Jill had to suppress an involuntary shudder.
"How do you do, Mr. Garcia," she said a little breathlessly.
"I think we are too late, Jack. Miss Conklin is obviously finished for the day. You look chilly, my dear."
"Well, yes, I am a little cold, actually."
"Here, I'll give the little lady my jacket," said Dawson, starting to undo the gold buttons on his cranberry knit.
"Please. Miss Conklin should not be imposed upon," Garcia insisted with an air of quiet authority. His eyes never left her face, and he smiled ever so slightly as he spoke. "Let us see Miss Conklin home. Perhaps we can prevail upon her to do my portrait another time." And he signalled for a taxi with one commanding gesture. Instantly the Yellow Cab was at the curb before the flustered Jill could protest that she only lived a few blocks away.
Jill sat between the two of them, feeling small and overwhelmed. The suave Latin produced a business card from a snakeskin case. "Will you be my guest for dinner tonight, Miss Conklin? Jack and his wife will be joining us also, of course," he asked in such a way that made refusing awkward. Then he added, with a twinkle in his eye, "You see, I have an ulterior motive."
Jill was conscious of the feel of Dawson's thigh pressed tightly against hers. She looked up uncertainly at Garcia. "An ulterior motive?" she echoed naively. Garcia handed her his card.
"Now you can't say 'No,' Jill," Dawson put in, leaning more heavily against her. "Mr. Garcia is a pretty important person in the art world. He just might help a young artist like you a whole lot."
Jill read the card: Ernesto Garcia, Pres. Galeria Garcia, New York, Mexico City, Acapulco.
Jill's large hazel eyes widened. Even from her rudimentary high school Spanish, she knew that "Galeria" meant "Gallery" – art gallery. This could be the break she'd dreamed of for so long.
"And be sure to bring samples of your work, Miss Conklin. I'll have Jack and his wife pick you up in a taxi at 8:00… if that's convenient," Garcia said confidently.
"Y-yes. Eight would be fine, Mr. Garcia," Jill answered breathlessly. There was something almost hypnotic about the smooth Latin. She couldn't refuse.
The taxi had stopped in front of Josephine's garrish pink house. Jill felt a flush of embarrassment in the presence of a man of obvious wealth as she followed Dawson out of the cab and collected the things he had thoughtfully carried to the door. "Thank you, Jack. See you at 8:00," she said cheerily, as she opened the dark wooden door and stepped inside the musty hallway of Josephine's "mausoleum".