Paint the
Town Green
by Robert Colby
Robert Colby was a staple of the Gold Medal fifties and produced one of its best novels, The Captain Must Die. He has not stopped writing and, as this story demonstrates, not stopped competing well against the generation that came after him. This is a small masterpiece.
First published in 1977.
When the plane set down at L.A. International, Brock rented a car and drove to the Beverly Hills Hotel, a rambling cloistered structure in the lush money-green suburbs. By 9 o’clock he was checked into one of the private bungalows on the grounds, and within an hour he was placing an ad in the Los Angeles Times:
LARGE CASH SUMS OFFERED FOR QUICK, SURE PROFITS
Out-of-state speculator with heavy capital reserve considering unique, exciting ventures with instant profit potential. No fast-buck deal too adventurous.
Calls accepted daily between noon and 2 P.M. only.
Ask for Mr. T. C. Brock.
At the bottom of the ad he wrote the phone number and paid for a one-week run. Then he checked into another hotel, a towering structure in the heart of L.A. He took a splendid room overlooking the city on the floor just below the top of the building, which was occupied by a skyview restaurant. To this room he brought the fine custom suitcase containing his clothing and other belongings, having left a cheap overnighter and an attaché case, both weighted with old magazines, at the bungalow. Long experience had taught him that when trouble developed, as it often did, it was best to conduct business in one place and sleep in another.
The next day at noon Brock was in the bungalow screening calls from the hustlers who had read his ad in the paper. Most of the shell-game propositions to take the rich dude from out of town were obvious frauds. There were offers of ready-to-soar mining stocks—gold, diamond, or uranium, take your choice. Land that was fairly bubbling with oil could be leased for a bargain price. The scoop on a fixed horse race was for sale, and there was a matchless opportunity to back a self-proclaimed card shark in a game of high-stakes poker. A map guaranteed to pinpoint the location of buried treasure on an island in the South Pacific was a steal at fifty grand.
Brock wasted no time on these: They were small-time cons with nothing that suited his purpose. He needed the perfect combination.
In the first three days he took only two calls that were intriguing enough to arouse his interest. The first call was from a man with just a hint of Spanish accent. He spoke softly and with soothing charm, in the formal, nearly stilted manner of one who has learned his English in the old country.
“My name is Carlos,” he said. “The last name is difficult and of no importance. The only importance, sir, is the extent of your interest to purchase a quantity of, uh, not so legal items that can be instantly exchanged for a profit ratio in the near vicinity of eight and one-half to one.”
“Are you going to tell me what you’re talking about, or do you want me to guess?”
“On the phone, Mr. Brock, it is not possible to be so very much definite. But let me say further that the items I will exhibit to you for your approval are green in color and of a size to fit the wallet. They are of a quality not to be believed. In fact, without a tiresome study, they cannot be told from the genuine article. Yes?”
“Yes. I’ll take a look and decide for myself. Meet me here at my bungalow on the hotel grounds—number fourteen. If you’re not here within the hour, I’ll be gone.”
“I am not far removed,” said Carlos. “Half an hour will be sufficient.”
The second offer that seemed worthy of at least a look came just a few minutes later. The woman had a cultured, weary way of speaking, as if she had done it all and had it all long ago. Her name was Mila—they rarely gave last names—and she was forced to part with a fabulous diamond ring worth six hundred thousand for a paltry four hundred grand. The ring had been a gift from her husband and she had told him that she had lost it. Though he was an extremely rich man he refused to give her more than a meager amount of money to spend, and this was her way of getting the cash she needed to cover some pressing personal debts.
The story was probably a fabrication, but diamonds never lie to people who understand them and, telling the lady to stop by with the gem in exactly two hours, he put down the phone and began a regal lunch, delivered complete with a frosty martini, by room service.
A wiry man of medium height, Brock seemed always a bit wide-eyed, his expression slightly startled, as if he were a visitor in an alien land which he found full of curious and entertaining surprises. His manner of dress, though somewhat excessive, was grand. Against the background of a midnight-blue suit, he wore a pearl-gray tie that was fastened with an emerald-studded pin. His gold wristwatch was embellished by a dial of ruby chips, and his outsize diamond ring had the wink of superb quality.
Carlos arrived just as a waiter was removing the debris of Brock’s lunch. A small neat man with a small neat moustache, he had jet-dark hair, mild coffee-colored eyes, and an apologetic smile. He was impeccable in a beige gabardine suit with stitched lapels and leather-trimmed pockets. He said he came from Bogota, and there was about him the quiet, well-mannered air of Latin aristocracy. Chatting easily, in no apparent haste to transact his business, he told Brock he had once been in partnership with his father, an exporter of coffee to the United States and other countries.
“For a long time,” said Carlos with one of his apologetic smiles, “my father’s business of exporting the coffee was truly magnificent. Then it became very bad, you see. And my father, he began to export in secret a few drugs—the heavy stuff—you know? He was soon caught and sent to prison where, sadly I must tell you, he died.”
Carlos smiled in a way that was appropriately sad. “I was not used to poverty, could not abide with it,” he continued. “So now I make my living where you find the much greener pastures, on the other side of the fence.” With a twinkle he lowered his head in a mock attitude of shame.
Probably, thought Brock, the superfluous charm and small talk concealed as wily a rascal as could be found anywhere. “All right,” he said, “let’s see what you’re selling.”
“Pardon?”
“Did you bring it with you—the funny money?”
“Funny money?” Carlos presented a face of round-eyed innocence.
“Carlos, don’t waste my time with games.”
“Very well. But how do I know you are not the police?”
“Counterfeiting comes under the jurisdiction of the Secret Service. And the boys of the SS don’t usually advertise to catch criminals.”
Carlos nodded. “Yes, I suppose not. In any case, I have brought nothing with me to sell, only samples.”
He removed three bills from an envelope he took from his pocket and handed them over. There was a twenty, a fifty, and a hundred. The texture of the paper was excellent. It was aged just enough to give it the authentic feel of usage. More, the color of the ink was exact, and with the naked eye Brock could not find the least imperfection in the engraving of the bills. Only after he examined them minutely with a pocket magnifying glass under a strong light did he spot the single flaw—the absence of red and blue fibers in the paper.
“Well, what do you think?” said Carlos. “Are they not beautiful?”
“They appear to be quite good,” Brock said carefully, though he had never seen better and doubtless they would be accepted by anyone but an expert who had been forewarned. “Where did you get them?”
Carlos shrugged. “The details, no. But I will tell you this much: The bills were shipped from my country where we have some of the world’s finest papers and inks—and a retired engraver who fashioned plates for the U.S. government before he entered our service.”
“A former U.S. engraver, huh?” Brock snorted. “And how much can you deliver?”
“At once, three hundred thousand. More in a week or two.”
“Mmm. And what is your price?”
“Fifteen percent of face v
alue. Forty-five thousand for the three hundred grand.”
It was a good price. Fakes of that quality were so rare that
Curios could ask and get twenty percent. But to test him, Brock shook his head. “Too much. Ten percent—thirty thousand for three hundred of the bogus.”
Carlos looked wounded. “But surely, Mr. Brock, you will not haggle with me over bills of such perfection. They will pass anywhere, even in the banks. No, fifteen percent is entirely fair and I will stand firm.”
“You’re right,” said Brock. “I shouldn’t haggle with you, and I won’t.”
Carlos beamed.
“So I’ll just say once more—thirty thousand. That’s my final offer.” He stood and fastened Carlos with the unblinking gaze of relentless decision.
Carlos went through the motions. He groaned, sighed, pursed his lips, and made a pretense of calculation with his fingers. Then, clucking, his face agonized, he slowly nodded and said, “You are a hard man, sir. You leave me just the small margin of profit. But yes, because I have many obligations at this time, I will deal with you on your terms. Thirty thousand it is.”
Brock shook his hand and said, “Bring the phonies here tonight at nine. If they’re identical to these samples, we’ll make the exchange.”
“What you ask is impossible, sir,” Carlos said, plucking the samples from Brock’s fingers, and tucking them into his pocket. “Even when we are most sure, as with a man of your distinction, we never take chances. No, you will come to us, and if we are certain you are entirely alone the transaction will be completed.”
“Well, I have little time for such nonsense, but the bills seem good enough to warrant some inconvenience.”
Carlos handed him a typewritten slip of paper. “At nine tonight, then.”
Brock glanced at the address and nodded. “At nine.”
“And the thirty thousand in U.S. legal? You will have it with you?”
“Naturally.”
With a fine show of teeth Carlos stepped to the door, flipped a salute, and went out.
Brock ordered another martini from room service. Sipping it as he waited for “Mila,” the lady with the diamond, he reflected on his dialogue with Carlos. Since the bills were incredibly good imitations, he would never let them go for ten percent of face value. Therefore, he must be working some sort of flimflam. Well, each to his own game. And his own reward.
Mila was on time. Her knock had the sound of delicate intrigue. A slender young woman with a dainty kind of elegance, she had tawny hair parted in the middle and gathered to one side. Her sleepy eyes and dreamy smile made him wonder if she might be flying on something with narcotic wings. She wore an expensively tailored gray suit that seemed incongruously severe.
“You Mr. Brock? My name is Mila.” Her speech was over-polished, as if by years of exposure to people of quality and education.
“Come in,” he said, and she entered a bit wearily, or timidly—she wasn’t an easy person to read. She floated across the room to a chair, her delicate shoulders curved in a languid slouch.
“Would you like something—a cocktail?”
“No, thank you, I don’t drink.”
“Well, for some people that’s wise, I think.” He sat facing her.
She toyed with the clasp of her gunmetal leather purse. “I don’t usually answer ads of any sort, Mr. Brock. But yours was irresistible. And quite providential under the circumstances.”
“I imagine.”
Her drowsy eyes wandered over him. “What sort of business are you in?”
“Various investments, speculations.”
“I gathered that from your ad. Would you care to be more specific?”
“No.”
“I see. Well, I mean, if you’re serious about buying the—”
“Mila—if I wanted seriously to buy a costly ring at Tiffany’s, what would they require of me?”
She smiled. “Maybe they would extend credit.”
“Will you?”
She shook her head. “Naturally, I must have cash.”
“Then it’s that simple. You want to sell and I have the cash.”
Nodding, she opened her purse and handed him a black velvet box. He lifted the lid and removed the ring, a large pear-shaped stone of fiery brilliance and exquisite cut. Fingering it, finding it cool to the touch, he carried it to the window and drew it across the pane, leaving a sharp clear line where the stone cut the glass. As he studied the impression the diamond had left, he caught sight of two young men who were standing together in front of the opposite bungalow. Dressed in sportcoats and slacks, they seemed merely guests making idle conversation. But Brock’s nearly infallible instinct told him they were stationed there as guards to be sure he didn’t try to grab the ring, and that likely they were carrying weapons.
Now, with his own diamond, Brock tried to scratch Mila’s stone. It was impossible. Inserting a piece of white notepaper beneath the gem, he peered into its center with a magnifying glass, checking color and purity. Then, as he held the ring in the palm of his hand feeling the weight of it and discounting the setting, he decided that the stone was probably worth the four hundred thousand she was asking, and a good deal more. Certainly it was the most beautiful diamond he had ever examined at close range, and there had been many.
“Of course, I don’t have enough magnification to be certain,” he said as he sank back into his chair and gazed appreciatively at the ring, “but it seems a nearly flawless blue brilliant. Very nice.”
“My husband bought it in Europe,” she said. “It should be worth more in this country. It weighs nearly fifty carats.”
“Well, I don’t have the instruments to check it, so I would have to get it appraised.”
She looked dismayed.
“Really, you wouldn’t expect me to invest that kind of money without an appraisal,” he said.
She nodded. “But I can’t possibly let the ring out of my sight.”
“No, that would be foolish.” He considered. “There’s a jeweler right here in the hotel. Why don’t we take a little walk and see if he can give us an evaluation.”
She thought about it, anxious-eyed, biting her lip. “Well, all right—yes, we could do that.”
He stood and gave her the ring. “Shall we go then?”
They left the bungalow. The two young men in sportjackets, lean-bodied, hard-faced, were now head to head, studying what seemed a racing form. As they gestured and made comments, one of them darted a glance at him. He wondered if they were hired guards or accomplices. In any case, they were sure to follow.
Mila walked beside him in silence, her tension almost palpable. They entered the hotel. He sensed the watchdogs behind him but did not turn. They went down a flight of stairs to the arcade, following it past assorted shops to the jewelry store.
Mila spoke to the clerk and handed over the ring. For a few seconds he gave it a cursory examination through his loupe.
When he removed the eyepiece, his expression was one of contained awe. He flicked a calculating glance at Mila as if trying to match the royal quality of the diamond with the woman who owned it. But then his face became bland and he said, “I’m not prepared to give you a formal appraisal, just an estimate.”
Mila looked at Brock, who nodded and said, “For now that would do.”
The jeweler removed the stone from its setting and inspected it at length under intense light. He measured it with calipers and weighed it on a scale, jotting figures on a scrap of paper. After pondering over his notations, he returned the gem to its setting and came back with the ring.
“It’s a beauty,” he said with an approving shake of his head. “I’d say somewhere between six and seven hundred thousand. Call it six-fifty, roughly.”
As she carefully tucked the ring back into the velvet box, Mila looked at Brock with an I-told-you-so expression.
Back outside, he spotted her protectors. Not far removed, they stood gazing into a shop window, faking an enthusiastic discussion of
the items on display.
“You’ve got a deal,” Brock said. “It’s only a matter of price.”
“You don’t like the price!” She looked indignant. “Mr. Brock, didn’t you hear the man say—”
“I heard him, yes.”
“Well, then—isn’t it an absolute steal at four hundred thousand?”
“A steal, yes. No doubt. Then why do you come to me? Why don’t you sell it to a commercial buyer of diamonds at four hundred, or even better?”
Her face sagged. “You know very well that I can’t. They ask questions. For a ring worth more than half a million, they want proof of ownership. And only my husband could give them that.”
“Exactly.”
“So you’re ready to take advantage.”
“I’m in business to take advantage.”
She sighed. “How much, then?”
“Let me think about it. Phone me here at nine in the morning. That will give me time to make arrangements with the bank.”
Her lips tightened. “Well, I won’t come down much, I’ll tell you that. And it must be cash, no checks of any kind.”
“Cash, of course.”
“Very well, I’ll phone you at nine sharp.”
“If you don’t mind, I won’t see you out. I want to stop off at the barbershop.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Brock.”
Her dreamy expression gone a bit sour, she turned and walked off, clipping past the bodyguards. As Brock went into the barbershop and sneaked a look, they lost interest in the window display and sauntered after her.
He lingered a minute and followed, heading for the lobby. It was a lucky guess. They were there, the three of them huddled in a corner, conversing. Anticipating their departure, he ducked out a side door, found his car in the parking area, and drove it up near the exit. Folded down behind the wheel, two cars in front screening him, he saw them come out, separately—Mila first, her boys behind. The boys went off in a white Ford sedan, she left in a taxi.
He tailed the cab cautiously to the estates of Bel-Air and hung well back as it climbed a road embowered by huge old trees hemming the houses of the rich and the mansions of the very rich. He could see Mila through the back window of the cab. She didn’t turn once to look back, though probably in the unfamiliar car and wearing his sunglasses she wouldn’t have recognized him.
Modern Masters of Noir Page 49
