Stone 588

by Gerald A. Browne

  She took his genitals in her hands, as though her hands were a serving bowl, lifted the flaccid mass and was a bit surprised by their weight. She squeezed them gently and every so often purposely let them know one or the other of her fingernails. He didn't respond.

  She would, she told herself, have to suck him. Men always wanted her to suck them because of her full lips. She believed she was good at it and she usually enjoyed doing it, except when a man was large. And this one would be extremely large when he was hard. She had no choice.

  She knelt, made sure of her position, and began. She expected that he would enlarge in her mouth, but he stayed the same. No matter what oral tricks she resorted to, he stayed the same. It was embarrassing for her. It angered her. She persisted, until . . .

  Again, for a moment, there was that resonant ringing sound.

  Ernestine wondered what she should do next. Should she masturbate? Should she go to the end of the bed and spread her legs and do herself? That seemed so obvious. These were complex people. No mere fingering, writhing, and moaning would satisfy them.

  She sat on the side of the bed only to be off her feet. She crossed one leg over the other and bobbed her foot nervously. Let him think up something, she decided.

  Again that resonant ringing sound.

  Wintersgill came over to her, stood close before her, presenting his genitals to her.

  Ernestine's hand lashed out at them.

  Caught them with a sharp slap.

  Struck them with two more slaps.

  She was surprised by how swiftly he hardened. She was both infatuated and frightened by his enormousness.

  On the wall opposite the foot of the bed was a recess flanked by silk brocade portieres. It accommodated a Regence daybed. The recess was in shadow. It was impossible to see Libby. She was fully clothed, seated on the daybed with her legs drawn up under her. The wine goblet in her hand was nearly empty. She had sipped some and spilled some, neither out of excitement.

  It was boring for Libby tonight. She felt removed, unable to concentrate and use it. And this after she'd saved herself erotically for two whole weeks.

  Wintersgill wasn't the problem. Nor could the girl be blamed. The girl was everything Townsend had said she would be. Actually, that cock-slapping business of hers was rather fresh.

  Libby yawned.

  She considered lying down, possibly curling up on her side with her back turned to them. Instead, she decided she would wait until Wintersgill put his cock into the girl. During the commotion that would cause, it would be easy for her to leave unnoticed. They would be players without an audience. Now, that was an entertaining thought.

  Libby lifted her wine goblet, signaled them to get on with it by flicking her fingernail against its delicate, ringing rim.

  Chapter 16

  The rest of that week went by swiftly for Springer. He sailed through it as though levitated.

  He pridefully informed Mal of the big chunk of business he'd picked up from Libby. Never had Springer & Springer gotten a single order of such magnitude. In one swoop four times as much as the firm did over a normal year.

  Springer figured the dozen twenty-five-carat stones Libby wanted would each cost anywhere from eight hundred thousand to a million two. Say a million, on average, twelve million altogether. That would leave three million, out of which Townsend would get his expenses and charges for the setting. How much could Townsend charge? A hundred thousand would be exorbitant, more than that unjustifiable. Thus, Springer & Springer stood to make close to three million on the deal. All those zeros kept going off like explosions in Springer's head.

  How sudden the change, he thought. From the dregs of Seggerman to the quintessence of Libby in the same day. And to think he'd been avoiding meeting Libby all these many months. Her largesse notwithstanding, he still wasn't sure which Libby he should believe—the slasher or the charmer. He wasn't vain or foolish enough to accept that his winning ways had brought about the difference in her, as Audrey contended. Libby hadn't begun merely dubious of him and been won over. The lady might well be as engaging and hospitable and generous as she'd turned out to be, but Springer felt sure that between the slasher and the charmer was ... the stone.

  He owed the stone.

  He sat alone in his office Tuesday afternoon with it the only thing on his white sorting pad. It was, he thought, so damn inanimate. If it was so remarkable why didn't it do something, give him a sign of some sort, perhaps roll over on its own, not just lie there? He reviewed what he knew about it, what his father had chosen to tell him as one of his indoctrinating stories:

  In February of 1958 Edwin Springer had, as he regularly did, attended the sights of the Consolidated Selling System in London. At his appointed time he showed up at 11 Harrowhouse Street and received his box of rough diamonds. Edwin was informed beforehand of the price The System had placed on his box. Two hundred and ten thousand dollars, a formidable sum for those days.

  The amount delighted Edwin. He took it to mean he was to be more favorably treated by The System. Up until then the value of his boxes had never been more than a hundred to a hundred and fifty thousand. Evidently, The System had decided to allot him more goods or better goods or possibly both.

  He broke The System's hardened wax seal, undid its blue grosgrain ribbon, and opened the box. In it was the same sort of medium-to-good grade material in approximately the amount he was accustomed to getting. The only additional thing was a piece of rough that weighed 56.41 carats, for which he was being charged one thousand dollars a carat.

  Edwin looked into the stone with his loupe, realized immediately that it was rife with internal inclusions. He'd be lucky if even a few clean half-caraters could be cut out of it. He knew better than to protest. He paid up without a word.

  The reason Edwin received such treatment became known to him shortly thereafter in a roundabout way and, assumedly, only because The System wanted him to know. It seemed that while in London for the previous January sight Edwin had sat at a table in the lounge of the Savoy for a drink with a fellow diamantaire, a mere acquaintance who openly expressed criticism of the obdurate way The System conducted business. Edwin had listened and made no comment, but his silence was overheard. The 56.41-carat piece of dreadful rough at a thousand a carat was his penalty for not having spoken up in defense of The System.

  Edwin considered chucking the stone down the gutter drain opening outside the Savoy. On second thought he kept it. He kept it on his dresser at home in a shallow silver dish that also held his collar stays, shirt studs, and cuff links. Where, each morning when he dressed to go downtown to the office, he would see it and be reminded of what a dirty business he was in. That was why he called it his reminder stone. It remained in that silver dish for twenty-two years, until Edwin died. And even for several years after that when it was in Janet's possession.

  And now there it was. Springer thought, gazing at it: not a diamond at all according to Joel Zimmer.

  To bear out his recollections regarding the stone. Springer had Linda go into the old ledgers. Edwin Springer, like most diamond dealers, did much business off and around the books, but it was to the firm's advantage to record a transaction such as this. It was an expenditure, a considerable one that could be honestly carried forward as inventory.

  To search that far back Linda had to go into the sealed cartons that were stored in a special room in the basement of the 580 Fifth Building. Fortunately the records were in chronological order. She pulled out the page that showed that particular bookkeeping entry and, as well. The System's invoice.

  The stone was referred to as a separate lot: 588.

  That was The System's method of numbering. It meant the stone had been sold from its inventory in 1958 and it was the eighth such lot.

  Stone 588.

  Blessing in disguise, Springer thought.

  Despite his sitting there challenging the stone to prove itself in any supernatural way, Springer's attitude toward it had changed considerably.
He was not swayed, at least not entirely, by the possibility that he was about to benefit because of it. The claims that Janet had made for the stone, and then Libby, had him really leaning. He realized now that he had experienced Janet's healed mind just as he had experienced Libby's healed hands.

  Still, there might be room for a medical explanation.

  He phoned Norman in Washington, intending to tell him about it, but he knew as soon as Norman was on the line it wasn't something for long distance.

  "I'll be down there this weekend," Springer said.

  "Business?"

  "I need your professional smarts."

  "Something to do with your health?"

  "No."

  "Money?"

  "No."

  "This isn't a good weekend for me."

  Norman sounded more harried than usual.

  "I'll only need a couple of hours. Norm, maybe less."

  "Don't be so fucking mysterious."

  Springer almost told him he hadn't heard anything yet. "You'll understand when I talk to you." "Coming with Audrey?" "And Jake."

  Wednesday morning, true to Libby's word, Springer received written notification from the United States Trust Company of New York that an account had been opened on his behalf. Would he please accommodate the bank by dropping by at his earliest convenience to attend to some minor details?

  Springer was there within a half hour: At 11 West 54th Street.

  It was not an ordinary bank. It occupied a six-story Georgian-style townhouse designed in 1896 by Stanford White. No counter here. No slow-motion apathetic tellers. No hardhats or beehives or leather jackets standing in line. Instead, a prevailing quietness that assured the sort of confident efficiency needed for the personal tending of numerous millions. Oak-paneled walls, Sarouk oriental rugs, period antique furnishings.

  Springer assumed the computers were somewhere out of sight and hearing range. The banker who served him, a Mr. Leeds, shook his hand with precise firmness. Mr. Leeds sat behind a mahogany kneehole desk and made it seem that Springer was doing him a favor by filling out a signature card. He explained in a voice as soft as his silk Dunhill necktie that Springer could draw on the account immediately if he so wished. Up to fifteen million. For some reason, in this place and the way Mr. Leeds said it, it didn't sound like so much. Springer helped himself to a couple of the foil-wrapped chocolate-covered mint wafers that were on a footed sterling dish on the corner of Mr. Leeds's desk. Altogether, while there, Springer said only about ten words, one of which was "thanks."

  The following day Springer got a call from London. Though an excellent connection, it did not immediately register that the voice on the calling end belonged to the elderly diamantaire from whom he'd bought the Russian melee. Arthur Drumgold.

  "I've some money for you," Drumgold said.

  "That's a great opener." Springer reached for his memorandum ledger. He paged through and found the outstanding memo signed by Drumgold acknowledging consigment of four stones, altogether 9.52 carats at $48,100.

  "I was wondering how and where you preferred to receive payment," Drumgold said, "cash, cashier's check here or there, or what?"

  "I guess you did well with those goods."

  "Anyone could have."

  "How's that?"

  "Do you have your memo there?"

  "Right in front of me."

  "All right then, first there's the matter of the forty-eight thousand one hundred outstanding. On top of that you've twenty-three thousand eight hundred coming."

  "All you owe me is forty-eight thousand one," Springer said.

  "And twenty-three thousand eight, which sums to seventy-one thousand nine. I believe that's correct."

  "I don't know where you're getting the twenty-three thousand eight."

  "I've got it. Those four stones went as a lot for ninety-five thousand seven hundred."

  Springer was scribbling the figures on his sorting pad. He realized the $23,800 was a half split of Drumgold's profit. "Oh, no, you don't," Springer said.

  "Oh, yes, I do. You know damn well you undercharged me for those goods, probably let me have them at your cost."

  Denying that would be insulting Drumgold's intelligence. Springer decided.

  "So, how do you want your money? Cash would be no problem."

  "Hold it for me," Springer told him. "I'll pick it up when I get to London."

  "When will that be?"

  "Next week. Wednesday."

  "Where will you be stopping?"

  "The Connaught." That choice was a compromise, rather than the Savoy or Libby's Chester Terrace townhouse.

  "I'll ring you up there. Be nice to see you again. You're coming for the sights, I assume."

  "But not only for that reason." Springer and Mal had agreed that Springer might as well attend to the sight on his way to Antwerp, where he hoped to locate the diamonds for Libby.

  "Well," Drumgold said, "if I can in any way be of help to you, don't hesitate."

  It struck Springer like a hunch. The favorable way things had been going he had to follow it. "Do you know of anyone who wants to sell some particularly fine goods?"

  "To what extent fine?"

  "D-flawless."

  "Investment goods are what you're after, I suppose. One- and two-caraters. Not much of that around anymore, since The System decided to be stingy with it." In the late seventies, when most currencies were unstable, investors bought large amounts of D-flawless diamonds of one and two carats, the most easily salable sizes. The investors stashed those diamonds away at such a rate The System had misgivings. It foresaw a time when those top-grade goods would come pouring back onto the market and raise hell with its price structure. To prevent such a possibility, it began holding back on D-flawless material.

  "No," Springer told Drumgold, "I'm looking for stones in the twenty-five-carat range."

  "Would you mind repeating that?"

  Springer repeated it.

  "Cut goods, twenty-five-carat D-flawless?"

  "Yeah."

  "Not exactly what most people peddle around, is it?" Drumgold commented, amused.

  "I need twelve stones."

  "Do you now?" Wryly.

  "All twelve must be identical, perfectly matched."

  "What shape?"

  "All rounds or all cushions."

  "You're bloody serious, aren't you?" Drumgold said, incredulous.

  Calmly, Springer told him, "It occurred to me that with your many connections—"

  "Have you considered Russian goods?"

  "Not really," Springer fibbed.

  "That would be your best bet, I believe. You know, of course, you're talking about an enormous amount of money."

  "Isn't that the beauty of it?"

  "Quite."

  A long, silent moment over the 3,471 miles. Springer could practically hear the old boy's blood racing. "Naturally," Springer said, "if you can help on this there'll be a commission."

  "Pardon?"

  "I was saying there'd be a commission."

  "I was thinking of how best to go about obtaining Russian goods of that size."

  "What are the chances?"

  "Numerous." Implying risky.

  "Regarding the commission, how does two hundred thousand sound?"

  "Dollars?"

  "Dollars."

  "Make it two hundred thousand and one," Drumgold said.

  "Why?"

  "So I can say I haggled."

  Chapter 17

  The following Saturday was a rainy one in Washington, DC. Not an on-and-off rain but a steady, fine drizzle with no sign of letting up. It intensified the color of the grass along the Mall, polished the cars and the black-topped streets, and subdued the mainly white government buildings. All the American flags hung lank.

  Springer, Audrey, and Jake hadn't come prepared for rain but they weren't about to let it handicap their day. Instead of running from it as though it might melt them, they welcomed it. A nice friendly summer rain was what it was. Spri
nger bought a huge black umbrella at a men's store near the hotel, and off they went, down 15th Street past the White House to the Washington Monument. After having gone only that short distance, their clothes were soaked and stuck to them and their feet were squishing in their shoes and the umbrella wasn't really doing much good. They voted unanimously against going up the obelisk, just stood at its base and looked up, squinting as the rain struck their faces.

  Jake felt he was too old to go piggyback, but when Springer squatted and offered his shoulders, Jake climbed aboard. With Audrey hugging Springer's arm and Jake riding high holding the umbrella they had a good time singing a Streisand song and strolling along like three rain-loving crazies across the open grass to the Lincoln Memorial.

  "What do you think?" Springer asked Jake as they stood at the bottom of the steps taking in the huge statue of Lincoln.

  "He was a great president, huh?"

  "Sure was."

  Jake studied the statue—reverently, Springer thought, until Jake said, "He looks to me like a guy sitting on his porch moping because he's got to go mow the lawn."

  Springer would have stifled his laugh if Jake hadn't been so right. The brooding Abe with his hands placed tentatively on the arms of his chair. Probably it would have amused him. Springer thought.

  "Out of the mouths of," Audrey said cryptically.

  "I'm no babe," Jake contended.

  "He's too fast for us," Springer said proudly.

  They walked back the way they'd come, continued on along the south side of the Mall, passed up the old Smithsonian Castle, and entered the National Air and Space Museum. Jake was interested in the moon rock, the rockets, and the space capsule but much more in Lindbergh's plane, the Spirit of St Louis, that was suspended from the ceiling as though in flight. Jake stood at the railing of the second-floor balcony where he was eye level with the plane, as close to it as he could get. He read aloud word for word the glass-enclosed caption and had Springer lift him so he could see better into the cockpit. It was as though he understood and could easily accept the existence and functions of the rockets and other space things, but this vulnerable little plane astounded him.