“Not for long. I’m sending you over a pair identical with these. Zeiss ten by twenty-fives. They’ll put you right in here.”
Mitch nearly forgot how close-up Visconti was seeing him, almost allowed his true sentiments to show.
“By the way,” Visconti asked as though just making talk. “Did you come onto those goods yet?”
“Which goods?” Mitch pretended.
“The Kalali goods.”
Mitch couldn’t recall having told Visconti whose goods they were, not by name. “No, but I’m getting there.”
“When you do don’t forget to let me know:”
“Why?”
Visconti was faster and better with a reply than Riccio. “So I can help you celebrate,” he said, “what else?”
Immediately after hanging up Mitch got up and drew the blinds. After a short while he went down and out to continue angling for a lead. That the Kalali goods apparently hadn’t hit the district as of yesterday didn’t mean they wouldn’t today. He had to keep circulating and hope his going over the same tracks didn’t give away how purposeful he was.
He put in two hours of moving around. Was, at that point, on the south side of 47th a couple of numbers over from Fifth Avenue, having a few words with an older 47th Streeter whose fingertip skin was stained black and eaten away by years and years of acid-testing things, stolen things usually, to determine their gold content. From his overconditioned point of view life was degrees of purity: 22k, 18, 14, 10, less. His eyes were zero k, gone creamy dull, tarnished, resigned to never being worth more. He had nothing for Mitch.
Across the way was the major West 47th building designated number 1. Mitch looked up the face of it to a certain set of windows. He’d looked up to them numerous times over the past few days. They’d always been dark. Now, however, there were lights on.
He crossed over, entered the building and went up to six.
His brother Andy’s place of business was a short ways down the corridor. The LAUGHTON logo was gold-leafed on the door along with ESTATE JEWELRY in smaller letters. It was two adjoined rooms of modest size fixed up to give the impression that Andy could, if he needed, afford twice again as much space.
Mitch went in.
Doris, Andy’s love and lover, was standing there with a smile already on, as though having foreseen Mitch’s arrival. Perhaps she’d noticed him from the window, seen him cross the street, had positioned herself and waited. She greeted him with left and right cheek kisses, real contact ones, said his name fondly instead of a hello. “We got back only a few minutes ago,” she told him.
The dress she had on looked long-journeyed in, Mitch noticed. Her makeup was fresh but her eyes seemed sleepy. She wasn’t wearing any jewelry, which was rare for her. Usually she decorated herself with better pieces. Like several rings, as though the large selection she owned had all vied for her fingers and she’d given in to as many as possible. The same with bracelets. But now, for whatever reason, she didn’t have on even simple gold ear loops.
Jewelry was Doris’ addiction. She admitted it. She didn’t really need it. Harry Winston had once told her that. Her beauty was enough, it accessorized her, Winston had fibbed for whatever reason.
“How was the trip?” Mitch asked. Standing aside were four pieces of luggage with first-class JFK destination tags attached to their handles.
“Andy will tell you,” she said evasively, “when he gets off the phone.”
The door to the inner office was not quite closed. Mitch’s view of Andy was a slit and he couldn’t hear what was being said. Probably he had Riccio on, Mitch thought. He could have gone in, crowded Andy, but he decided to wait, be easier.
“How about something to drink, a Coke or something?” Doris offered.
“A root beer, got a root beer?”
“You and Andy,” she remarked and got a Hire’s from the small fridge. Mitch watched her pop the tab. He hoped she didn’t break a nail.
Andy came hurrying out, glad to see Mitch, demonstrating that with a strong hug. He was a six-year-younger and slightly shorter version of Mitch. Nearly the same smile, and eyes. A lot of his gestures and body language was imitative of Mitch’s, picked up early.
“You didn’t get any sun,” Mitch said.
“No.”
“Do any fishing? I had you in a stream making a perfect presentation to a big one.”
Andy looked away, as though a second self was standing nearby to advise him whether or not he should continue the pretense. He came back to Mitch to be eyes to eyes with him for a long moment, during which he told the truth without saying it. “How did you find out?” he asked.
“Visconti. One half of the street always knows what the other half is up to. You should know that by now.”
“Since when have you and Visconti been buddies?”
“It was a stupid move, Andy.”
“Went off without a hitch,” Andy said.
“This was your first errand?”
“Second.”
Mitch exhaled a disgusted breath with an expletive on the end of it.
Andy needed to lift the situation to his own high. “Let me show you something,” he said brightly.
They went into the inner office.
“I haven’t delivered yet,” Andy said as he opened his briefcase and from it removed an oblong black leather box with a snap closure. The box contained ten or so briefkes, those double papers folded eight times a certain special way, which gem dealers use to inescapably hold their precious stones. Andy chose one of the briefkes, unfolded it.
They lay in a crease like an accumulated ridge of the clearest frost. Forty pieces of D-flawless one-carat diamonds.
“Russian goods,” Andy said, “electronically faceted, perfect makes.”
Mitch took the briefke, rocked it slightly and ran the tip of his finger through the lot of diamonds, disturbing them, causing them to scintillate as though they’d been provoked and were resorting to that, their weapon.
“Stunning, aren’t they?” Doris said rather covetously.
“Riccio should be pleased,” Mitch remarked, holding back expressing his admiration. “How did you manage to get them?”
“Through a broker in Antwerp named Hamner. An older guy Dad used to deal with occasionally.”
“You were lucky.”
“It really didn’t take much doing.”
“You were lucky.”
“We were careful,” Andy contended.
“Very,” Doris confirmed.
They’d flown to Buffalo, rented a car there and crossed over into Canada as though they were just part of the traffic bound for a Blue Jays night game in Toronto.
Three million was in the trunk, snugly packed in one of the pieces of luggage. Sixty-two pounds of used, untraceable hundreds.
The crucial banking part of it had been prearranged for by Andy on a previous trip to Toronto. The private bank on the fringe of the financial district was glad to handle such a sizable deposit. It specialized in such temporary transactions at a fee of one percent.
Next they’d flown to Brussels where they opened an account at another private bank. Then went on to Antwerp where the diamond broker, Hamner, and the goods were waiting. Andy hadn’t specified Russian goods. That had been an unexpected plus. Russian diamonds, because of their ideal color and consistently perfect makes, had up to lately demanded a premium price; however Russia’s needful economic situation had brought the price down into the more competitive range.
Andy had examined and chosen four lots of caraters: eighty pieces of D-flawless, sixty-four pieces of D-color VVSIs, thirty pieces of E-color VVSIs and twenty-five pieces of F-color VVSIs. An even two hundred pieces in all.
Prices had been discussed and after sufficient, rather ritualistic haggling, agreed upon.
The bank in Toronto was instructed to wire transfer $2,970,000 (the $3,000,000 less its fee) to the bank in Brussels, which immediately disbursed $2,479,021 to Hamner, the broker (that included his 8 percent
fee). The remaining $490,979 (less the Brussels’ bank charges) was Andy’s margin. He had it wire-transferred to a bank in the Caymans.
Thus, Riccio’s dirty three million cash, that unwieldy, incriminating bulk, had been transformed into the most lasting and dazzling of commodities. Negotiable anywhere, transportable in a shirt pocket, diamonds were a mob guy’s best friend.
“Have to go some to make an easier, faster four hundred.” Andy grinned.
A cynical grunt from Mitch. He folded the briefke to escape the influence of Riccio’s diamonds. “Have you thought how it could have gone?”
“Sure, there was a downside.”
“A way downside.”
“You’re going to piss on my score.”
Maybe not, Mitch thought. Maybe, considering Andy’s elation at the moment, he should back off, wait until a more neutral time. That was hard for Mitch to do because of the worry that had steamed up in him. “I’m glad it went okay,” he said.
Andy read him. “You don’t have to pretend you approve. I know you don’t, I knew you wouldn’t. That’s why you had to hear about it the hard way.”
“Let’s drop it.”
“No, you’re primed. Go ahead.”
“All right. Let’s say it all went like it was computerized: the money across the border, the banks in Toronto and Brussels, the broker in Antwerp, the smear. Let’s say you’ve got the diamonds and you’re headed back to Riccio with them, but let’s also say a take-off guy gets to you and you have to hand over the goods. You tell that to Riccio. He seems to buy it at first, but then he doesn’t, he decides the take-off guy never was, that you’re lying three million worth. He’s insulted. He cocksuckers you twice in every sentence, tells you in otherwise-you’ll-be-found-full-of-holes-off-Wards Island terms that you’d better come up with the three. What he doesn’t tell you …”
“You surprise me.”
“How?”
“The way you’re not seeing me. You know what, you think you’re the shaman of the street. While you’ve been going around dispensing cures and curses, where is it you think I’ve been, in a fucking trance?”
“Let me finish.”
“I resent it.”
“What Riccio doesn’t tell you is the take-off guy is one of his crew, if not one of his have-arounds then a zip out to prove. You were set up. You owe Riccio three million and so much vig you’ll never get to the nut. You’re his. Do or die, his.”
“I wouldn’t let it get to that,” Doris vowed. Unlike Andy, she’d been hanging on Mitch’s every word. “I’d raise the three million,” she said.
Andy went to the window and gazed down at 47th. At that moment to his eyes it had never looked greedier or grimier. Probably it would regain its more acceptable impression later on, he thought. It always had. The scenario Mitch had just depicted was by no means a revelation to him. He’d watched his back, been wary all the way. Several guys he noticed during the trip home he’d suspected of being take-offs.
He remained at the window. “I figure I could do a couple of errands before Riccio pulled anything like that. He probably had it in mind for next time.”
Mitch took that to mean Andy didn’t intend there to be a next time. He was relieved, told himself Andy hadn’t really resented his concern.
They’d always looked out after one another. As youngsters they’d even gone so far as to play at doing that. For instance, at the cottage in Connecticut where the family spent summers, they’d be out in the lake, a long ways from shore.
“It’s your turn to not be able to swim.”
“You saved the last time.”
“Like hell, but okay. Then I get two saves in a row.”
Desperate thrashing of the water and credible cries for help. It alarmed their father at first but after he caught on to what they were doing he understood and enjoyed watching them.
In winter they’d create avalanches and take turns at digging one another out.
“Don’t stop breathing. I’m almost to you!”
Realistic gasps for air. “Hurry!”
There was no mother to alarm. She’d died while giving birth to Andy. Thus he didn’t own any memories of her, had to be satisfied with those he borrowed from those that were related to him and whatever he imagined by making photographs of her come to life.
Mitch didn’t remember much about her, actually. Not her voice or her touch or her scent or any of the important things like that. However, early on, whenever Andy wanted to know about her, asked, Mitch passed on things Kenneth had told him at one time or another. A verbal legacy. For Andy’s sake, and just as much his own he realized later, he elaborated creatively, invented various incidents to exemplify her caring. Mitch still believed that helped Andy cope with the presence of her absence. Perhaps even saved him.
Now Andy turned his back to the street, told Mitch: “I’ve over a million in the Caymans. Doris will match that and you and Maddie can kick in whatever you think would be fair.”
“For what?”
“The only reason I ran Riccio’s errands was so I’d have a large enough hunk to throw into the pot.”
“I’m also throwing in my jewelry,” Doris said. “Not all of it but a lot. I’ve got too much, just stashed away, pieces I was temporarily in love with but have been ignoring for ages. It’s a crime. I bet I’ve at least enough to fill a whole showcase.”
“There’s a location on Madison in the seventies that’s coming available,” Andy said. “I’ve talked to the real estate agent about it.”
He and Doris went on about what the new Laughton establishment on Madison would be like, how successful it would be. They jumped right over asking Mitch if he was for it or not. Their enthusiasm assumed he was.
What was it with everyone trying to get him back into a store on Madison? Mitch thought. Did it ever occur to them—Andy, Doris, Maddie—that he didn’t want to be a goddamn shopkeeper, that he hadn’t been cut out for it in the first place, that it had been something he’d fit himself into but not without having to squeeze and force the shape of his true nature? In fact, since there’d not been a family store, not had to kissy-kissy ass all those spoiled, well-off women every day he’d felt better about himself.
That wasn’t to say he liked what he was now doing for a living. It was, as he secretly thought of it, something that kept him from doing what he didn’t want to do, which was shopkeep. Put the goods on display every morning, put the goods back in the vault every night. Set the alarm. Pay the insurance company on time and hope switchers and lifters didn’t pick you clean or some lady looking as though she could buy the place out didn’t have a .380 automatic up her sable sleeve. Fuck no. Maybe he didn’t know what he wanted to do and maybe it was a little late to be undecided about that, but for sure he wasn’t going to be a shopkeeper.
He did a smile along with some nods that made him appear interested. “You’re way ahead of me,” he said. “Let me think about it some and catch up.”
To change direction he took a set of the Kalali photos from his folio. Tossed it on Andy’s desk. “Some things I’m hoping to recover for a client,” he explained. “Take a look when you have a moment.”
His pager beeped.
Hurley wanted to be called.
Mitch reached him at the precinct.
“What you up to?” Hurley asked.
“Just shagging around.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
“I got an okay from the Jersey guys to take a look at the Kalali house. Who knows? Want to go along?”
“I’m having lunch with Maddie and afterwards I promised her the museum.”
“Which museum?”
“The Met.” She preferred the Met over the Museum of Modern Art and the Whitney. Whenever she’d sat aimed at the abstract paintings of either of the latter, she’d gotten low to medium grade anxiety attacks, sometimes even a bit nauseous; however the Fantin-Latours, Whistlers, Cassatts and Boudins at the Met had a mollifying effect.
&n
bsp; “Bring Maddie along,” Hurley suggested. “We’ll stop and have lunch at a place I know in Jersey City where the top mob guys used to go and there’s still a lot of what they once were in the atmosphere. It’s very Maddie.”
Chapter 13
Having had lunch they were again under way in the Lexus with Billy driving and Mitch up front with him, Maddie and Hurley in the back.
Billy sort of remembered the way they’d come. All through there was typical New Jersey waterfront and most of the ways weren’t streets as much as cobbled or unpaved accesses from one unremarkable section to another. So Billy was to be forgiven for choosing a couple of turns that led to only the loading platforms of warehouses. He finally came onto Avenue E and a ramp that put them on the Turnpike Extension.
Bound for Far Hills.
“Anybody against some music?” Billy asked.
No one replied so he assumed, clicked the radio on and began scanning. He passed up some gloomy Mahler and a newscast that managed to get out the word killed. Some mellow jazz was what he hoped to find, some Oscar Peterson or John Coltrane. He went up and down the megacycles twice. The air was congested with the agony of heavy metal and the high school poetry and scratches of rap.
Shit, was what Billy thought of it and nearly said aloud. He gave up on the radio.
His patience this day was thin, stretched. He saw it as a sort of membrane with abnormal elasticity that ran sheet-like. Horizontally within his skull from his brow line to the stem of his brain. Impervious up to now.
He’d never allowed the tension of his patience to show. Wouldn’t today. He’d be as expected, in the part of amenable Billy the driver, wait-here guy, on call and carry guy, a kind of satellite person the way his time revolved around that of others.
Before, when he’d driven Mr. Strawbridge, he’d done whatever was required to make himself indispensable, and there’d been no letup in that endeavor since he’d been driving Mitch and Maddie. Not once had there been a mention, not even a veiled hint of his being let go, nor had he implied that he might quit. By now the indispensability was mutual he believed. Wasn’t he bound to them?
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