Green Ice

by Gerald A. Browne

  “The guys in customs, here and in Paris. They could have tipped off someone,” Wiley offered.

  “They never know whether a carry is worthwhile, as in this case, or nothing at all. They wouldn’t take the risk for a possible nothing.”

  Argenti sat back, sniffed at his cognac and swiveled slowly to and fro, letting Kellerman go on with it.

  “You claim you went twice to Monsieur Forget’s apartment.”

  “I did.”

  “He was not there, you say?”

  “He wasn’t.”

  “Monsieur Forget swears he was home all that day, awaiting the carry.”

  “What about him? He knew.”

  “We know our customers. Monsieur Forget is a French mouse well aware of the traps. Besides, to him five million would be a mere nibble.”

  Kellerman was closing all the ways out, Wiley realized.

  “You would also have us believe the thieves left you semi-conscious.”

  Wiley wondered if Kellerman had ever been kicked in the balls. Hoped so.

  “You got a good look at them. You could identify them. Why did they not kill you?”

  “I figured they would,” Wiley said.

  “I still do.”

  “Okay, you don’t believe me. What do you believe?”

  Kellerman hardly hesitated. His words were crisply clipped, his tone unequivocal. “You left Bogotá with five thousand carats of our fine quality goods. When you arrived in Paris, you never went near Forget’s apartment. You went to a bank, placed the emeralds in a safe-deposit box. After that, you probably did a bit of shopping, had a relaxing meal and probably, as well, an attractive piece of French dessert, if you know what I mean. Then you came back here with your melodrama nicely memorized.”

  Wiley was exasperated. He appealed silently to Argenti, who asked: “Did you buy anything in Paris?”

  “An overcoat and a pair of gloves.”

  That seemed to decide it for Argenti.

  Wiley told him straightforwardly: “Kellerman has it twisted.”

  “You failed,” Argenti said wearily.

  “I was robbed.”

  “You don’t expect us just to take the loss, do you?”

  A what-else shrug from Wiley.

  “You owe The Concession five million.”

  Ridiculous amount. “Sue me.”

  “We will think of some way to settle it,” Argenti told him.

  “When I took the job, there was no mention of having to make up for losses.”

  “It went without saying.”

  “All your carriers operate on those terms?”

  “Otherwise we might have many situations such as this.”

  Lillian swiveled halfway around.

  Wiley knew, but hadn’t realized how much, he needed the sight of her. She was profile to him, didn’t look at him, told Argenti, “I’ll see that you get your five million.”

  Argenti dismissed that idea with a backhanded gesture; however, it wasn’t a definite veto.

  Wiley told Lillian this was his business, his problem, he’d handle it.

  She still didn’t look at him.

  Argenti told Kellerman: “Have Conduct Section keep a close watch on Paris, also the London and Rome markets.”

  Kellerman would.

  Argenti to Wiley: “In all fairness, I suppose we should give you some benefit of the doubt. Perhaps your thieves will validate your story for you by trying to sell off those goods all at once. Even if they try to move five hundred carats at a time, we will know immediately where and who.”

  There was hope, Wiley thought.

  “Meanwhile,” Argenti went on, “you are suspended from The Concession. Not fired, merely suspended, and I mean precisely that, suspension.”

  “I’m supposed to just hang around here?”

  “More pleasant solutions come to mind but …”

  Lillian brought her eyes to Wiley’s. The message in them was a warning, not to press. She turned to Argenti with a pleasant, thoughtful look, as though she were about to say something meaningful. “Instead of another movie,” she said, “let’s play gin.”

  17

  “Don’t mope about it.”

  “I’m not, I was sleeping.”

  “It really didn’t sound like moping.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Close to three.”

  After only five hours’ sleep, his first real sleep in three days, Wiley was suddenly wide awake. For her.

  She was by the side of the bed, not quite within reach. Wearing a floor-length silk robe of a light-peach shade, 1930s in style. It exactly fit the lines of her and light played softly on it, causing reflections like openings. She had just put on fresh lipstick, brighter red than he’d ever seen on her before, slick.

  “If it’s any solace,” she said, “I blitzed the hell out of him.”

  “For how much?”

  “Sixty thousand.”

  “He paid up?”

  “Didn’t have his checkbook and couldn’t bother looking for it. Said he’d take care of it first thing tomorrow. What a welcher! In practically the same breath he said that at daybreak he’d be flying to Quibdó, something to do with a platinum mine.”

  Wiley wondered how it was to do business on the platinum level. “Where’s Quibdó?” he asked, hoping it was far away.

  “West of here, I think, near the Pacific. If I’d kept count over the years he’d owe me at least a half million. Move over.”

  Wiley made room for her, lifted the covers.

  But she sat on the edge.

  “I guess you know now you did a dumb thing.” Meaning his trip to Paris.

  “Maybe it was almost a smart thing. It happened exactly as I said.”

  She believed him. “It was dumb.”

  “I was trying to catch up.”

  “You can’t.”

  He resented that. Was now the time to bring up her twelve-thousand lie? It seemed less important than ever, but it was still there, between them. “I needed the money,” he said.

  “Need,” she said, mentally assaying the word.

  He reached to the nightstand for a cigarette. She intercepted his hand, held it. Such a willing captive.

  “What are we doing here in Bogotá?” he asked.

  “Just staying.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather be … anywhere else?”

  “Not at the moment. Besides, you have to stay on now that you’ve gotten yourself in bondage to The Concession.”

  “Argenti wasn’t serious.”

  “He’ll hold you to it. Five million.”

  “Can’t get blood from a stone.”

  She winced at the cliché. “You’re not a stone.”

  She was being overapprehensive, he thought. Kellerman and his Conduct Section would track down the thieves and recover the emeralds. Argenti had as much as predicted that. It was a matter of days. That’s how it would go. He pushed the main weight of it off his mind, asked Lillian, “Would you really have paid five million for me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why?” Obviously fishing.

  “If you must know, I was bluffing. I thought it would be better if I owed him, that’s all.”

  “Let’s pack and go. Right now.”

  “No.”

  “What the hell’s the attraction here?”

  “You’ll see,” she said cryptically.

  “Is it Argenti?”

  “You must be sleepy.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You’re too tired.”

  “I look it?”

  “You always look a little tired.”

  No one had ever told him that. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen himself in a mirror.

  “Actually, it’s sort of fascinating,” she said. “Evidence of experience.” She thought a moment, unconsciously made a moue. “Did you enjoy your dessert in Paris, as Kellerman suggested?”

  “All I had was a saucisson sandwich in a bistro at the airport.”


  “You ought to take better care of yourself.”

  “I’m willing.”

  “Before you got in up to your ass with The Concession, why didn’t you discuss it with me?”

  “You were gone visiting.”

  “And I suppose you couldn’t find your way to me the night before.”

  “I was invited?”

  “Expected.”

  “Is that anything like wanted?”

  She hesitated exactly long enough. “Synonymous,” she said.

  “I love you.” It just came out again, over the spillway of his feelings. He was so high with her.

  She shrugged resignedly. “You expect me to just forget Route 200?”

  “Huh?”

  “That first afternoon when you proudly exposed your darker side. Your mistake.”

  “As I told you before, I was putting you on.”

  “You were bragging.”

  “At that moment I felt that being something, anything, was better than nothing, so I pretended.…”

  One of her eyebrows arched dubiously. “You’ve never considered the convenience of having a wealthy woman?”

  He tried to remember whether or not he had ever lied to her. He wanted to keep his slate clean. In that respect, one big one up on her. Anyway she’d know it was a lie. “It’s a common male fantasy.”

  She smiled, her point made.

  He crushed out his cigarette. “Okay, have it your way.”

  Her expression dropped. “You give up?”

  “Might as well.”

  “Just like that, you give up?”

  He nodded conclusively.

  “I didn’t think you would, not you.”

  He couldn’t really blame her for being skeptical. Even if he hadn’t made that faux pas at the start, she had good reason to doubt. Probably a lot of men had made tries for her and her money. It said much in her favor that she hadn’t been taken. Perhaps she had. Wiley asked her.

  “Engaged twice, escaped twice,” she said nonchalantly. “Both times at a bargain price.”

  “Could have been worse.”

  “Learned all the don’ts from my father, who did them.”

  “I’d be willing to sign an agreement,” Wiley said. “Yours would be yours, mine, mine.”

  “What would I do, invite you to stay over, tell you not to worry about eating too much beluga? Would you bring your own bottle and jammies?”

  She was right, he thought.

  “Anyway,” she said, “I want to be a one-hundred-percent heart-and-soul believer.”

  “How about body?”

  “You know damn well I’m already convinced.”

  He thought she would get in with him then, but she rose, took three steps away and hesitated. He noticed she had on delicately scaled sling sandals, high-heeled, bright red. Nothing under the robe, he imagined.

  She turned, read his look, outdid it. “How about joining me in a little Holy Bang?”

  “Holy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sounds rewardingly sacrilegious.”

  “You have to put it in the hole three times.”

  “Why three?”

  “That’s the rule, lover.”

  “I suppose I could abide.”

  She told him not to bother putting on anything more than his trousers. On a table near the door she had left two bottles of Latour ’61, both opened. Also a pair of leather drawstring pouches. They picked those up on the way out. He padded barefoot after her as she clicked in her heels along the marble hall and down the stairway to the first floor. Through two rooms, to one not quite so large.

  She flipped the main switch, turning on the chandelier. A hundred bulbs amidst two thousand pieces of crystal.

  “The music room,” she said.

  There was a grand piano, a Steinway, and a harp. A pair of violins were mounted on one wall, crossed like swords above a small but imposing brass plaque stating they had been made by Giovanni Paolo Maggini in 1612. They didn’t look that old, Wiley thought. A huge armoire handpainted with various songbirds contained a complex tape deck, and a cartridge system, which Lillian snapped on, to get someone hitting and holding a Puccini high note in La Bohème. Lillian yanked out that cartridge, replaced it with a Stevie Wonder. Then went around to turn on every lamp and lock all the doors.

  In the center of the room, directly beneath the chandelier, was a sixteenth-century Oriental carpet that must have taken a family in Isfahan two generations to weave. It was about twelve by eighteen feet; made of pure silk, with 450 knots per square inch, which came to nearly 65,000 knots per square foot, which came to over 14 million knots altogether.

  “How many?” Wiley asked, incredulous.

  “Fourteen million,” Lillian told him. She had read up on carpets.

  “How much is it worth?”

  “Meno claimed he bought it from a nouveau-poor Englishman for two hundred thousand.”

  “The family who made it probably got paid in goats.”

  “Maybe not,” she said with very little conviction.

  They washed the thought away with wine. Hadn’t remembered glasses, swigged from the bottle. Wiley had also forgotten to bring cigarettes. He wanted one badly as soon as the wine taste was dominating his mouth.

  She handed him one of the drawstring pouches.

  Because it was too dark outside to dig a hole for Holy Bang, they would play Persian, she explained.

  The Isfahan rug had an intricate floral design with a predominately blue central medallion well defined on a red field. The medallion was about five feet in diameter.

  That would serve as the ring.

  They put in ten marbles each as the ante.

  “What are we playing for?” Lillian asked.

  “You name it.”

  “What did we play for last time?”

  “Kisses.”

  “I think by now we ought to up the stakes.”

  “To what?”

  “Winner take all.”

  “Agreed.”

  Lillian kneeled and knuckled down tight. Excellent form, with her shooter resting against the ball of her first finger. She sent it skimming across the silky surface for a direct hit on the bunched-up hoodles. They click-clacked rather painfully against one another, scattered as though in fear. Three went outside the perimeter of the medallion to be scooped up, won by Lillian.

  She was about to shoot again when Wiley told her, “No heisting.”

  Heisting was cheating by raising the shooting hand from the surface.

  “Me?” Indignant.

  “Just watch it, that’s all.”

  “If you’re trying to distract me, forget it,” she said. “I’ve got the concentration of a laser beam.” As though to prove that she knuckled down and fired. Her shooter rolled like a bullying marauder, knocking a beautiful striped orange alley, perhaps the prettiest of all, out of the ring.

  Lillian paused for a swig of wine.

  Wiley had one too.

  She went back to shooting and missed. Although she was four marbles ahead, she was disgusted with herself. “I should have cleaned the pot,” she said.

  Wiley got down to try, took aim, was all set to let his shooter fly when Lillian removed her robe. She tossed it over the arm of a nearby bergère.

  “That’s why I missed,” she claimed earnestly. “My arms and everything were restricted.”

  Wiley saw he’d been wrong. She was wearing something beneath the robe. An underthing—a combination pantie and top in one, the sort they had called a teddy back in the twenties and thirties. Bright-red crepe de chine. It fit perfectly loose above, and below, at the leg holes, would be extremely easy to slip in or out of.

  Now, the conspiracy of red mouth with red teddy with red sandals.

  The illusion of lengthier legs. The lift, tension—a slightly forward thrust, offering of hips and pelvis. Again, but more acutely than ever before, Wiley realized why the last thing a really knowing woman ever took off was her shoes.<
br />
  Lillian was just standing there. “Your turn,” she told him.

  If her robe had affected her shooting, lack of it certainly affected his. He didn’t even come close.

  She got down on her hands and knees again. Head down, back arched, buttocks high.

  Wiley gulped wine.

  She kept on shooting, intent on it and seemingly guileless about the various positions she assumed. No regard for his point of view, really.

  Wiley lost all sense of competition.

  She hit the final marble from the ring. “Skunked you!” she said.

  “Shall we go again?” he asked.

  She didn’t reply, went around to turn out all the lights except one weak one. She took the cushions from a sofa, placed them on the rug beneath the piano. Wiley helped. Removed the cushions from every bergère and sofa. What they had created was a sort of plushy bower.

  She crawled in. Wiley right after her. They lay on their sides, pressed against one another, not too tightly, so they could feel more. Their preliminary kisses were so delicate their lips barely touched. Wiley wondered if she heard his breath as he did hers, shallow, difficult, like during a climb.

  “You won,” he said, whispering now.

  She undid his trousers.

  He wanted very much to make the loser’s payment. To satisfy the debt. Oh, to satisfy it. He slipped the tiny straps of the teddy from her shoulders. She arched up so he could peel it down and off. She let him do it, even when the teddy caught on the heel of a sandal.

  He kissed the nubs of her ankles, left and right, wide open kisses. Then the same to her kneecaps, and he was that much closer to losing himself in the lover’s land.

  Whimper of pleasure from her. She took his head in her hands. He resisted but came up so they were again face to face.

  They kissed mouths, their touches wandered and he found no reason why she had stopped him.

  “I won,” she whispered.

  She kissed his throat. One spot, various kisses. Then her cheek went down upon his chest, merely pausing, enjoying her influence on his heartbeat.

  18

  By midafternoon that day they were headed out of Bogotá on the Carretera Central del Norte.

  Lillian was driving. She had borrowed the jeep. Called General Botero and told him she wanted to go sightseeing, and mainly old statue hunting, up in the high country. He had offered a four-man military escort, which she refused nicely by saying her bargaining power would be handicapped by such an entourage.