Stone 588

by Gerald A. Browne

  Where, Springer wondered, was he when she was tiring of those things? He spooned up some of the caramel custard. "Ever consider that you have a blood sugar problem?"

  "Hell, no. I'm blessed. Sugar may be a problem for some but not for me."

  "It'll catch up with you."

  Her perfect teeth severed the tip off a wedge of plum tart. "That, lover darling, is why I'm getting such a huge head start."

  For the next day and the day after. Springer was a prisoner of the house, waiting to be contacted as the Marche aux Puces button lady had promised. He went out only once, left a note on the door saying he would return within the half hour. He crossed over the bridge to the lie de la Cite. Along the quai there in colorful contiguity were the flower vendors. Springer bought anemones, two dozen purple/blue and two dozen red. They were fresh and shy, their faces still tightly hidden. They were for Audrey's bedside table, would open for her.

  Audrey went out several times on errands. She told Springer a surprise was forthcoming. She bought him a pair of black alligator loafers at Hermes and an antique walking stick that had a carved ivory whippet's head. The shoes fit him perfectly and he liked them, though he doubted he'd ever be so much of a dandy he'd use the walking stick. Neither of those was the surprise Audrey had mentioned. On Thursday afternoon she came home with that.

  Her little painting.

  She had paid a restorer four times his going price to hurry it for her. He had removed layers of grime and varnish and paint to get down to what was there. Not a landscape at all. A portrait of a young girl, an idealized ingenue in a prim blue blouse that accentuated her bluer eyes. Blond hair painstakingly painted swirling around her placid, meticulous face. A direct, guileless gaze, a devoted mouth. Perhaps the artist had projected such ingenuousness, captured it, and then was betrayed by reality. Why otherwise would he have buried her under such drab layers? It was easy to say, looking at the painting now, that the artist had loved his subject. The painting was a Eugene Boudin, signed and dated 1864. A precious find worth a thousand times what Audrey had paid for it.

  "How did you know it was there?" Springer asked incredulously.

  "The pendulum," she replied matter-of-factly.

  Springer recalled the arrogant manner of the stall owner from whom Audrey had bought the painting. Served him right. But Springer didn't believe the pendulum had had anything to do with it. A coincidence, that's what it was. Audrey had gotten lucky. Of course, for the sake of harmony. Springer didn't tell her that.

  Thursday night at eleven the sounding of the front door buzzer turned out to be a man who introduced himself as Igor Bitov and said he was delivering some buttons. When he was seated in the salon with a tumbler of vodka in hand, he stated that Igor Bitov was not his real name and let it go at that.

  The man was wearing a summer suit and a winter tie. Springer noticed, and black, round-toed, thick-soled shoes. He kept tugging down his shrunken shirt sleeves. His complexion was sallow, a bit jaundiced-looking, and his eyes were set so deep the skin around the sockets appeared bruised. He had black hair combed straight back, long hair. Combed forward it would have covered most of his face. He spoke English with a British accent.

  Bitov made some preliminary small talk about Paris and the dispositions of the French. He glanced in Audrey's direction and then back questioningly to Springer.

  "My partner," Springer explained.

  Bitov reached down and fussed with the right cuff of his trousers. From the inside hem he withdrew a small folded square of chamois that he handed to Springer. It contained a single diamond, round cut.

  "That is ten carats," Bitov said.

  "I specified—"

  "For quality only."

  Springer examined the diamond with his loupe under the light of a nearby table lamp. He saw no flaws but couldn't possibly determine the diamond's color. Every lightbulb in the house, no doubt in keeping with Libby's wishes, was the diffused, flattering type. Springer remarked about the light. He blamed himself for not being prepared for such an eventuality; he had thought any evaluating would be done in the daytime.

  "The kitchen," Audrey suggested.

  They went back through the house to the kitchen and, indeed, there, illuminating the white tiled counters, were daylight-type fluorescent bulbs that allowed Springer to ascertain the diamond's true color.

  It was a dazzling ten carats with that unmistakable clear-frozen Soviet quality. And cut to perfect proportions. There was no way Springer could negotiate by opening, as was customary, with some depreciating point. "How much?" he asked.

  "This size?"

  "This quality, twenty-five carats."

  "This size would not satisfy you?"

  "Why? Can't you supply twenty-five-carat goods?"

  "It is not that," Bitov said calmly. "I merely wanted to make sure you know what you want."

  "Twenty-five-carat goods."

  "Fifty thousand a carat."

  It was as though Bitov was reading the balance in Springer's new bank account. Twelve stones of twenty-five carats each would be three hundred carats. Fifty thousand a carat would come to fifteen million. "Too much," Springer said.

  "I agree," Bitov said, as though someone else had set that price.

  Springer told him, "I have in mind thirty thousand."

  "Not enough."

  "I'm buying twelve stones, remember."

  "All the more reason thirty is not enough."

  "How much then?"

  "Forty-seven."

  "Forty."

  There came a time during any negotiation when the next figure stated

  would be the making or breaking. Springer knew that point had been reached.

  Bitov tugged at his shirt cuffs. "Forty-five," he said with a firmer voice.

  "Done," Springer said. He'd hoped to get the goods for forty a carat, which seemed a fair price; however, as Drumgold had reminded him, these were not ordinary, readily available stones he was after. A premium price was justifiable. Springer had reduced his take more than half. After Drumgold's commission and Townsend's fee he'd now come out with only a million one. Some "only," he thought. "When can you deliver?"

  "Where?"

  "London."

  "One week."

  Springer didn't really want to take delivery in London, would only if that was how it had to be. It would mean his having to find some way of getting the goods into the States that circumvented customs. The fixed import tax on all Soviet goods was 10 percent. An honest declaration in this instance would cost him one million three hundred and fifty thousand. Everyone in the deal would make out except him. He'd even end up losing a couple of hundred thousand.

  Fuck that.

  The alternative was to carry the diamonds through customs. Be nonchalant. The risk was if he got shaken down by the customs officials the diamonds would be confiscated and he'd owe Libby thirteen and a half million. He couldn't imagine owing anyone thirteen and a half million. Plus interest, probably. Even if he died older than just old he'd still be paying.

  "How about delivery in New York?" he asked.

  "No problem," Bitov said casually.

  A million-one answer. Springer wondered if his relief was apparent. "When in New York?"

  "Nine, ten days at most."

  "You understand I want twelve identical flawless stones. They must match exactly in color and cut."

  Bitov nodded, a bit detached now that the deal had been set.

  "And," Springer specified unequivocally, "they must be Soviet goods, equal in quality to this ten-carat piece."

  "From Aikhal," Bitov assured him.

  "How will you want to take payment?"

  "The person who delivers the goods will tell you that. You will be contacted in New York." Bitov folded away the ten-carat diamond, put his foot up on the edge of the kitchen counter, and inserted it into the hem of his trouser cuff. He was anxious to leave, declined another vodka, went out, and walked swiftly down the Quai d'Orleans as though late for another ap
pointment.

  "Good for you," Audrey told Springer and gave the back of his ear a congratulatory kiss.

  "Maybe," Springer said. It had been both the largest and most nebulous piece of business he'd ever done. No money had changed hands, nor any goods. He didn't even know the man's real name. The so-called Bitov had not once even intimated that he was a Soviet official of any sort, which was untypical. If he'd been with Almazjuvelirexport or whatever, wouldn't he have established that? Springer decided this man was a go-between. Needed because the diamonds would be coming out of Russia underhandedly. The better-grade large stones from the Yakut were cut and then somehow skimmed, put aside into a secret hoard, and sold off carefully to the West. No ordinary comrade would be able to pull that off. It would have to be someone with weight and leverage. And courage, considering the consequences if found out. Possibly several such someones were, in the milieu of Soviet bureaucracy, in positions to protect one another while they salted it away outside the Curtain. How did they get the diamonds out of Russia and into the United States, for example?

  It didn't matter to Springer, as long as he got his.

  Chapter 19

  In New York City at that hour, Mal had just set the alarms and locked the office. Outside, the rush from work was on, and the midtown streets, thronged with all the simultaneously released people, were like rapids deep and surging, requiring a certain kind of aggressive swim.

  It would not be much of an endurance contest for Mal. He had a standing arrangement with one of the radio-dispatched cab companies to pick him up at five thirty every weekday afternoon unless he notified them to the contrary.

  He came out of the 580 Fifth Building. Through the hurrying crosscurrents he glimpsed the yellow of his cab waiting at the curb.

  He also saw the woman.

  The back of her.

  She was at the open window on the meter side of the cab, bent over, talking in to the driver. She probably wasn't aware of how provocative her stance was, the way it shaped her buttocks and featured her legs. She was wearing pale peach, a straight fitted skirt and a sleeveless blouse. Her blond hair was wound and pinned into a chignon.

  Mal gave that back view of her a high rating but doubted the front half would measure up. More often than not, when they looked that sensational from behind they turned out to have beaks and overbites. He cut across to the cab, opened its rear door, and got in. The driver acknowledged him and told the woman, "Now you believe me?" Then, to Mal: "My roof light ain't working right. I been trying to tell her I already got a fare."

  The woman apologized, withdrew her hand from the cab as though it were hot. She stepped back and sighted up the avenue for another one.

  Mal realized now what a total beauty she was, a young one. He hadn't yet closed the door of the cab. The driver was waiting for that. "Are you by chance going uptown?" Mal asked the young woman.

  She ignored him.

  "I can drop you wherever you want."

  She waved at a couple of cabs, unoccupied but also on their way in response to radio calls. Futility tightened her face. She expressed a little fury by stomping the pavement with the heel of her pump. Her eyes continued to search the traffic that had a lot of taxi yellow in it but none available. She glanced at her watch and then at Mal, weighing his offer. Diffidently she asked, "Would Third Avenue and Seventy-eighth be possible?"

  "No problem," Mal said, smiling his best reassuring smile. He patted the seat. "Come on." He moved over to offer her plenty of room. She got in, careful about the arrangement of her skirt.

  "Give me that address again," the driver said. He was rankled by the delay. Every minute was a dollar.

  "Third and Seventy-eighth," Mal said firmly, and when they were under way he remarked, "People should share cabs during the rush hours. There aren't enough to go around."

  The young woman didn't comment. She sat with her knees together, as far from Mal as possible. Her mind appeared to be even farther away. She kept her eyes straight ahead.

  That allowed Mal to enjoy a more thorough look at her. He didn't steal, was straightforward about it, and she must have known his gaze was on her. She had a showgirl's body—rangy, slender, and tight. In that regard she reminded Mal of a girl he'd done just about everything with twenty years ago, a dancer in the line at the Tropicana in Las Vegas. Donna something or other. The outstanding erotic episode of Mal's life.

  This one in the cab with him now looked as though she'd be even better than Donna. For one thing she didn't have any of the usual showgirl brittle-ness that came from being constantly propositioned and from relying too much on makeup. Mal particularly noticed her hands, impeccable and well cared for. Her long, tapered fingers looked as though they could dance. He was stirred by the thought of their possibilities. She wasn't wearing a ring. No jewelry other than ear clips of single baroque pearls set within a swirl of gold, the practical kind of ear clips a woman would buy for herself.

  The traffic was thick on Third. Nevertheless the blocks were swiftly wasting for Mal. He started in neutral. "Where are you from?"

  "Here," the woman replied without looking at him.

  "What about before here?"

  "Phoenix."

  "I used to go to Phoenix often. Still do now and then."

  "A lot of old people there," she said.

  Perhaps she wasn't really putting him in his place, Mal thought. "I usually stay at the Biltmore."

  "My uncle just finished building an enormous house on the Biltmore grounds. Right on the golf course."

  "Nice place to live."

  She almost smiled. "He built it for someone. He's a contractor."

  "You miss Phoenix?"

  "I think what I miss most is not being able to see Camelback Mountain from everywhere. Have you ever stayed at the Camelback Inn?"

  "No."

  "It's more relaxed than the Biltmore. I worked there part time and summers when I was in high school. Try the Camelback next time."

  She was letting her eyes in on the conversation now. They were dark brown. Nice honest eyes, Mal thought. "How long have you been living here in the city?" he asked.

  "Six, almost seven months."

  "I would have bet no more than two."

  "I give the impression of being such a bumpkin?"

  Softly, after a tactical beat, Mal told her: "Just unspoiled."

  That got to her. A hint of high color came into her cheeks. She covered her self-consciousness by fussing with the fine hairs on the nape of her neck, stroking them upward with her fingers.

  By the time they were approaching Seventy-eighth Street first names had been exchanged and they'd caused one another to laugh several times. She was Marcie, which suited her.

  "Near or far comer?" the driver asked.

  "Either will be fine," she said. She took three dollars from her purse and insisted on splitting the fare. When Mal wouldn't accept the money she dropped it over onto the front seat for the driver.

  Her hand went to the door handle.

  Mal couldn't accept that either. Too much was undone. In another moment Marcie from Phoenix would be among the never-knowns and the night would be lonelier than he'd foreseen, no matter who of his licentious larder he chose to spend it with. Out it came. "Are you in a do-or-die hurry?"

  "Why?" Somewhat guarded.

  "Most nights I stop in at the Stanhope for a drink. Now, please ... I realize how ulterior and obvious it must seem . . . but I find you such enjoyable company. . . ."

  Mal's well nourished air of appeal hung on Marcie's ambivalence. . . .

  An hour later, at an outside table beneath the Stanhope's white awning, he was on his third vodka martini and the ice had melted in her second wine spritzer. She'd told him a lot about herself, divulged freely the way reticent people often do when they're convinced of someone's interest.

  Her last name was Newkirk. She had a brother and sister, both older and settled. She was her father's favorite and he, most definitely, was hers. To such an extent her mother
was jealous. Imagine? Her father was a realtor in Scottsdale, did well. These days nearly every realtor in Scottsdale did well. She had been a mere plane ticket away from giving up on New York a number of times but no longer felt so displaced. She worked at Smith Barney, the stock brokerage firm, as a secretary. Was Mal married?

  Never was he more glad that he could answer the question with a truthful no.

  Her eyes said she was wondering whether or not to believe him.

  That she was interested enough to wonder was encouraging to Mal.

  She told him that for a while she'd been seeing only one fellow, an account executive with Grey Advertising. That was definitely over now. There were plenty of single men around but most were either light of foot, so to speak, or too young for her taste. The advertising guy had turned out to be insensitive and, even worse, cheap. He'd given her a ring for her birthday and then, when they broke up, demanded she give it back. Outraged, she'd thrown it at him and it had sailed out the window and he'd rushed down seventeen stories hoping to recover it.

  "Did he?"

  An indifferent shrug. "I'll buy my own rings from now on," she vowed. "In fact, that was why I was on Forty-seventh Street this afternoon, shopping around."

  "What kind of ring do you have in mind?"

  "Something simple."

  "A diamond?"

  She laughed. "It would have to be teeny."

  "How about a solitaire?"

  "I don't know. Sounds lonely."

  Mal explained that a solitaire is exactly that: a ring set with one stone alone. As a rule, a diamond had to be a good one to stand on its own like that.

  Solitaires were especially popular during the twenties and thirties, the favorite gift of the sugar daddies.

  "How do you know about such things?"

  "It's my business, diamonds."

  "You're kidding."

  Mal gave her one of his cards.

  "Lucky you," she said.

  He agreed.

  "You probably get to travel a lot . . . Africa, India, all over."

  "Yes."

  "I suppose you're the last person I should say this to but, frankly, I'm not all that wild about diamonds. They're just not essential."