West 47th

by Gerald A. Browne

  During coffee and calvados doubles Maddie brought up the Kalali recovery. She’d been saving it, the real dessert.

  Mitch started by relating the Peaches episode. Then proceeded to his adventure at Ralph’s house. His intention was to omit certain gruesome things; however it was all linked and he got going and it all came out. From his first impression of Ralph’s swag-laden rooms to his repulsive but rewarding dip in what had to be the world’s scummiest swimming pool.

  The part that especially amused Maddie was Mitch on the uppermost floor peering down through the register at the give and take routines of Ralph and the woman. Mitch performed all their dialogue in a Cary Grant manner. Then, of course, there’d been the cactus.

  After dinner, feeling the calvados, they went to the cabaret at the Russian Tea Room for an hour of Liliane Montevecchi singing about the varieties and vagaries of love.

  Then they went home and made a few of their own versions.

  Normally, following such late night lovemaking, Mitch slept like he was in hibernation. This night, however, his consciousness gave him a jolt after only an hour. His eyelids refused to remain shut. He lay there fixed on the blade of light on the ceiling from the night bulb in the bathroom.

  A plentiful dose of endorphins were yet at work in his bloodstream, doing their best to make him feel well-being. Sleep should have been easy.

  Finally he gave up trying for it, got up and went quietly into the study.

  He would read, make use of the wakefulness by catching up on the last few issues of Gem and Geology, the quarterly journal of the Gemeological Institute of America.

  The first article of interest to him was entitled “Update of Mining Rubies and Fancy Sapphires in Northern Vietnam.”

  One of Mitch’s secret someday things was to spend time at a gem source such as that mentioned in the article: the mining areas around the town of Luc Yen located in the Bac Bo mountains two hundred kilometers northwest of Hanoi. Mitch read sections of the article twice so his fantasy was well-nourished.

  He would be there. He would traipse around the small, likely valleys with head down, eyes scanning the gravelly ground. It would be tropical, sweltering. He would have on suitable boots, fang-proof leather fortresses. His shirt would be ten times its weight with sweat. Rivulets of sweat would roll down his torso and pool at his beltline. He’d have on his Glock in a holster rig. And an old, good-enough hat.

  How sure-eyed he’d be! Any ruby or sapphire in his path would end up in his pouch. Here and there as he ambled along he would suddenly stop and squat and poke at the alluvial gravel where the merest bit of red or pink had peeked up at him. It would turn out to be much more than a hint when it was in his fingers and he spat on it and held it up to the sun.

  The next article he got into was entitled “Gem Wealth of Tanzania” and off he went to a diamond-bearing stream bed a few miles south of Mwadui. Africa! Natural pink diamonds! Worth a fortune.

  Dawn intruded.

  Mitch went into the bedroom and lay next to Maddie, drew her to him.

  A complaining moan from her. She shucked off his arm and wiggled away. She was having her own pleasant mind trip, wasn’t ready for realities. “Go to work,” she grumbled sleepily.

  Might as well, Mitch thought. He got up and dressed and left a loving note Scotch-taped to the flushing lever of the toilet commode where she would surely find it. He’d read the note to her when he got home.

  He arrived at Columbia Beneficial at twenty to ten. Self-imposed wait was a lot more bearable. The thirty-first floor reception area was unchanged, same gray atmosphere, same auntie receptionist, same magazines.

  Mitch yawned.

  He felt like stretching out on the sofa. He could say he was having a dizzy spell. His right foot was keeping time to some internal composition.

  At precisely ten Ruder’s secretary came out to fetch him. Today her prodigious rump was worse off in black and white plaid. She escorted him into Ruder’s office. Ruder wasn’t there. “Mr. Ruder will be with you shortly,” she assured and, before going out to her desk, suggested that Mitch sit.

  He remained standing. Sitting might imply that this was a meeting. He was there only to pick up his check. Ruder, being Ruder, wouldn’t let it go at that, Mitch thought. There’d be small talk, cordial bullshit.

  He glanced around the office. The wall safe was closed. The Kalali jewelry was in the dark, unable to scintillate, impotent. One of the framed photos on the cabinet behind Ruder’s desk was of ex-president Gerald Ford. It bore Ford’s hurried signature, just the signature, no best wishes. Possibly Ruder had forged the signature, Mitch thought. He decided that was what he’d believe.

  The brass nautical-looking clock next to Ford’s photo said it was ten after ten.

  This was the most inflicting kind of wait, Ruder-caused.

  At quarter after Ruder showed up. He closed the door, went directly to his tufted leather desk chair. He acknowledged Mitch with a curt good morning, the good barely audible. He put on his reading glasses. They were strong, made his eyes appear hyperthyroidic. He gave routine attention to some papers on his desk.

  Mitch had expected Ruder would be all grin and gratitude. Not that it mattered.

  Finally, Ruder removed his glasses and focused on Mitch. A hard, contemplative stare. “You’re a slick son of a bitch, Laughton,” he said.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I expected more of you.”

  “You shouldn’t have,” Mitch quipped just to keep up. He guessed perhaps the recovery of the Kalali jewels hadn’t been enough to save Ruder’s ass. What else could account for his being so sour-tempered?

  “As of now, neither I nor this company want anything more to do with you,” Ruder said. “I dictated our notice first thing this morning. You’ll receive it in the mail.”

  “What the hell did I do?”

  “You’re not to be trusted.”

  “Evidently there’s some misunderstanding.”

  “No misunderstanding. You’ve defined yourself quite clearly. Underhanded greed is something we won’t put up with.”

  Mitch wasn’t about to beg for an explanation. If Ruder had a bug up his ass he hoped it stung him. “Okay,” Mitch said, “just give me my check and I’ll be out of here.”

  “You’ll get your check on the first of the month. According to our agreement with you we’re required to give you thirty days’ notice of termination. Our retainer check on the first will more than cover that thirty days. However, we’re through with you as of now, is that understood?”

  “I’ll be getting my retainer fee on the first as usual.”

  “Yes.”

  “And a check for ten percent of the appraised value of the Kalali recovery.”

  “Five percent,” Ruder corrected.

  “We agreed on ten.”

  “Ten if you made a full recovery, five if you made only a partial.”

  “There was no such stipulation.”

  “Perhaps you failed to hear it. Your mind is usually elsewhere.”

  “Not when it comes to a six-hundred-thousand deal.”

  “I distinctly recall the condition,” Ruder insisted, “you would receive an extra five percent for making a full recovery.” He took up a copy of the Kalali loss list. He didn’t need to refer to it, did so only for effect. “Item thirty-two was not included in the goods you left here yesterday.”

  The two enscribed emeralds.

  Mitch realized now what Ruder was up to. He intended to pull the old insurance trick: invent a loophole and squirm out of paying by way of it.

  “Evidently you’ve taken quite a liking to item thirty-two,” Ruder remarked snidely.

  “Those emeralds are not in the recovery because they weren’t in the recovery. I’ve never seen them.” It was the second time he’d been accused of holding back. Hurley yesterday, today Ruder.

  “What gets me is here you are quibbling over a paltry three hundred thousand,” Ruder said.

  Why h
ad three hundred thousand suddenly become paltry? Mitch wondered. He told Ruder straight across and unequivocally: “I want what I’ve got coming, what you know fucking well we agreed to. Ten percent, ten. The loss list total is six million one hundred thirty thousand. The appraised value of the two emeralds according to the loss list was one hundred fifty thousand. Deduct that one fifty from the six million one thirty and the recovery total comes to five million nine eighty. At ten percent Columbia Beneficial owes me five hundred ninety-eight thousand. Now, why don’t you cut the insurance bullshit and go to whoever you need to in this penitentiary and cut me a check for five ninety eight.”

  Ruder just sat there with upper-hand complacency.

  “I’ll wait,” Mitch said.

  “I’ve a good mind to not pay you a damn cent.”

  “I’d sue.”

  “Sure you would. You’d run the gauntlet of our lawyers and end up bloodied and broke.” Even before those words were out Ruder was giving his attention to the paperwork of some other matter. As far as he was concerned Mitch was no longer there.

  “You’re a prick,” Mitch said.

  “You’re a thief,” Ruder retaliated without so much as a glance up.

  Mitch turned to leave. He took three steps in the direction of the way out. The fuse in him, already lighted, reached its detonation point. With an explosion of rage he spun around and went for Ruder. Dove across the desk.

  Ruder might have evaded if he’d seen it coming a second sooner or if Mitch hadn’t been so quick. Mitch didn’t get him with his hands as he intended. His shoulder caught Ruder beneath the chin.

  The desk chair toppled over, sending the two men sprawling behind the desk.

  Ruder landed on top. He tried to get off and get up.

  Mitch grabbed Ruder’s shirt front with his left hand. Such a furious, twisting grab that the placket of the shirt ripped and the buttons were torn off. Keeping that hold, Mitch punched with his right.

  One, two, three, straight jabbing punches.

  The first two were glancing, but the third landed solid on Ruder’s nose, and Mitch’s fist felt both the give of the fleshy part and the more resistant cartilage and bone.

  He let go.

  Ruder rolled off and scrambled to the nearby corner, where he remained down, his hand cupping his nose. Blood seeped from between his fingers. Most likely his nose was broken. “I’ll have you arrested,” he muttered and made a move to reach the telephone. Mitch feinted a lunge.

  Ruder flinched and drew back.

  Mitch wouldn’t hit him again. He didn’t need to. That one perfect punch on the nose was enough. He stood, took his time, straightened his jacket and tie and shot his cuffs. He felt great. His heart was zapping. There was a laugh in his chest. It was as though some sort of elation-causing body chemical had been released into his bloodstream.

  It had been in him for years, that punch in the nose.

  It had cost a fortune.

  Three hundred thousand.

  But it was worth it.

  Chapter 25

  It seemed to Mitch that the order of his life was immutable.

  Each moment called for a decision, and whenever he decided to act contrary to what appeared to be the expected, the unavoidable, that contrariness became what had really been inevitable.

  Fate was convenient to itself.

  Why not just boat the oars and ride the rapids?

  Thus, Mitch told himself he was only doing what had been predetermined, when, right after breaking Ruder’s nose, he phoned his office and told Shirley to close up, take what remained of that day off. And while she was at it, she might as well also take tomorrow, Friday, off. And Monday. He’d see her Tuesday morning.

  “You’re off center,” she said. “Did someone smack you on the head and make off with the shopping bag?”

  “No.”

  “You left it in a taxi?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you hyperventilating so? You ought to hear how hard you’re breathing. Like you’ve run a mile. I’ll wager your heart rate is up. Place the mouthpiece to your chest so I can have a listen. Better come back to the office and I’ll make tea. You’re in no condition to be out there in the wilds. Bring some shortbread cookies. You know the kind.”

  “Go layaway.”

  A four-and-a-half-day hiatus.

  He wouldn’t set foot on 47th, wouldn’t give it so much as a thought. To hell with it. He wasn’t addicted to the street. It didn’t have him psychologically tethered. He could take it or leave it. After all, do away with its glitter and what was it? A hive swarming with traffickers who were constantly trying to out-hondle one another.

  “To you, my friend, twenty-two a carat. I paid twenty.”

  “You have a receipt?”

  “Am I not entitled to make? Let me make two a carat.”

  “I’m short at the moment.”

  “Who isn’t? I should be asking twenty-four and getting it, even twenty-five. Look at the goods.”

  “I have already.”

  “Another look.”

  “I know the goods.”

  “Tell me they’re not worth twenty-five.”

  “They’re nice goods. Not for twenty-five but nice goods.”

  “All I’m asking is twenty-two.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m ashamed to tell.”

  “So don’t tell.”

  “Truthfully, I went in on something that went bad. I need cash to cover. You know how it is. My reputation is at stake, everything.”

  “I told you, I’m short right now. I’d help maybe if I could but …”

  “Tomorrow maybe. I have been given until tomorrow.”

  “I offer twenty-one today.”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “You’re taking advantage.”

  For instance.

  Mitch was reasonably true to his pledge. He stayed away from 47th, and each time it threatened to enter his mind he barricaded as best he could with distraction.

  Friday night he and Maddie were on their way down to Chinatown to alleviate her craving for dim sum. Billy was driving them. Mitch was seated in back on the left. They were at 50th. Mitch felt 47th coming up. He would demonstrate his irreverence by closing his eyes.

  However, when they were stopped by a light at that intersection, Mitch leaned forward in order to look past Maddie and out the window.

  Forty-seventh was in its dormancy. The city streetlights along that chasm illuminated its inactivity. Every upper window of its outdated, shoulder-to-shoulder buildings was dark, every street-level window was barren. The sidewalks were vacant. Only a few cars were using the way for passage to the theater district. Forty-seventh had the appearance of a street stricken, commercially forsaken.

  Perhaps a day would come when it would be, Mitch thought. As for now its impoverishment was an illusion. Within its numerous safes, vaults and strong rooms lay a collective hoard of gems worth millions upon millions. Precious stones that begged for light, required it. In the darkness now but not sleeping. They never slept. They with their facets, their tables and pavilions, girdles and cutlets. It was as though they were being punished for their brilliance.

  “What is it precious?” Maddie was asking.

  “Hmmm?”

  “You’re being awfully quiet.”

  “Just thinking.”

  When they were first married Mitch believed, because Maddie couldn’t see his eyes or his facial expression, the only way she could discern his disposition was by the tone of his voice. In time he learned that silence didn’t always conceal, that she was often able to sense what was brewing in him.

  “Just thinking ahead to some sweet and sour soup,” he told her.

  “It’s the three hundred thousand, isn’t it?”

  “Not really.”

  “I must say you’re being courageous about it. Any number of men have leaped from very high floors after losing a lot less.”

  �
��Not me.”

  “Just checking.”

  Saturday they went to the park and sat on a rock. Listened to Borodin’s Symphony No. 1 in E Flat Major and some old Fleetwood Mac.

  Sunday he read her most of the Times and they then took a growling ride around town on the Harley.

  Monday he met Hurley for a drink at Harry Cipriani’s, the intimate restaurant situated off the lobby of the Sherry. Their table next to the window was about the size of a Frisbee. By craning up Mitch had a clear view of the passersby out on Fifth. When he sat relaxed the sheer café-type curtains transformed those into transitory ghosts.

  Harry’s was crowded as it usually was from four on. Show people, cheaters, wives in pairs putting off having to go home from shopping, business sorts who’d given only an hour to the office since the last drink at lunch.

  Mitch had a scotch and water.

  He was down to the cubes before Hurley told him too coincidentally, just dropped it on him: “Ruder is missing.”

  “What do you mean missing?”

  “Just that. He hasn’t been seen or heard from since last Thursday.”

  “You know what happened Thursday?”

  “Yeah, you gave him a nose job. You heard from him?”

  “No.”

  “Around noon last Thursday he got an emergency appointment with his doctor on 65th to have his nose set. According to the doctor Ruder said he was going to sue you. After the doctor’s he disappeared.”

  “I need an alibi?”

  “He fucked you out of how much?”

  “Three hundred for sure, maybe six.”

  “You need an alibi.” Hurley did a serious expression, then nullified it with a grin. “Ruder had a slight concussion. He was advised to go home and rest. He didn’t. Anyway, he didn’t get there.”

  “Maybe he went blank, you know, got amnesia.”

  “Yeah, at this moment he could be shuffling in and out of the men’s toilet at Grand Central.”

  “What a break for him not knowing himself.”

  They ordered another and drank to that.

  When Hurley was gone, Mitch went out onto Fifth. He decided against a walk over to Lex. Instead he just stood out of the way to the left of the Sherry’s canopied entrance. The late afternoon sun was yellowing the city. Soon it would go to orange. The air was thick and unsettled, redolent with hurry. Across the way, runners were funneling into the park by way of its southeast corner. They seemed to be people with less-complicated lives.