Stone 588

by Gerald A. Browne

  Zimmer came out. He had small, chronically strained eyes, large ears, and the sort of beard that made him look in need of a shave an hour after he'd shaved.

  Springer told him, "I need a favor."

  "You're already two behind."

  "Payday's coming."

  "My wife needs studs."

  "Most guys wouldn't admit it. Anyway, studs are five favors."

  "So now I'll be on the second ear. What is it you want?"

  "A rundown on this." Springer handed his father's reminder stone to Zimmer, who hardly gave it a glance.

  "We don't do rough," Zimmer said.

  "You can do anything." It wasn't flattery. Zimmer was the GIA's best. Not only a thoroughly experienced gemologist but a serious crystallographer as well. Springer thought of him as his resident expert. Wlienever Springer wasn't sure about a diamond he relied on Zimmer's judgment. Zimmer could bare-eye a stone and be more right about it than most guys could with a loupe.

  "Want to wait?" Zimmer asked.

  "No hurry. Give me a call."

  Springer went up to his office on 24. Linda got him some coffee, made in a pour-through filter beaker no more than ten minutes ago. And a fresh prune Danish. Springer opened the safe. Linda brought the memorandum ledger and the stones Schiff had returned Friday afternoon. For her own ease she showed those stones to Springer before canceling the memo that pertained to them and putting them back into inventory. Linda dressed drably and wasn't talkative on Mondays.

  "Seggerman at the Parker Meridien at eleven," she said.

  "I know."

  "Want me to select for it?"

  "I'll do it."

  Linda took her sorting tray and work in progress from the safe and went into her own office.

  Springer sat at his desk, feeling that he could have used another hour or two of sleep. After driving back from Connecticut to her place, he and Audrey had watched a cassette of The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea for the sixth or seventh time, and it was close to two when they'd turned off the lights and she'd snuggled into the cave of his shoulder and it seemed they would fall to sleep like that. However, again their hands were like independent roaming animals.

  The strong coffee was helping. Springer tore the Danish apart and dunked it. A hunk of it fell off into the coffee, and he burned his mouth gulping to get it. He picked up the phone and dialed Jake. Gayle answered. He hung up without saying anything.

  Mal came in.

  It was early for Mal, way early for him on a Monday. Springer checked the impulse to offer a congratulatory handshake. Mal had on a fresh white shirt and a new Sulka tie. He looked relaxed, well-rested. Better than I feel, Springer thought. He told Mal that.

  "Got up this morning at six. Went for some steam, a rub, and a half hour under the lamp," Mal said.

  "Big weekend?"

  "Spent some of Saturday and all of Sunday alone. Pulled the phones out and didn't answer my buzzer." An achievement for Mal. "How are things going?" he asked.

  "You mean with the business?"

  "The business, you, whatever."

  "No problems." Springer thought perhaps Mal wanted an increase in his draw.

  "Would I be missed for a couple of weeks?" Mal asked.

  "Hell, yes." Rather than an unkind no.

  "I was told about a place down in Pennsylvania. Once you're in you can't get out, and while you're there nobody talks or anything."

  "A retreat."

  "I don't want to call it that."

  "When do you want to go?"

  "I made arrangements for being there starting Wednesday."

  Springer purposely clouded.

  "Does that conflict with something?"

  "No, that's all right."

  "Tell me."

  "Well, I was counting on you going over for the next sight."

  "When is it?"

  "We got notice from The System." Springer consulted his appointment calendar. "It's next Thursday. We're scheduled for three in the afternoon. I know it's my turn but—"

  "I'll handle it, forget it."

  "Are you sure?"

  Mal held his palm up to put an end to it.

  Springer had never seen his sixty-one-year-old uncle so relieved. No retreat.

  For the next half hour Springer centered his attention on choosing and organizing the various diamonds he would show to Seggerman. He inserted the coded briefkes that contained them into a leather zip-around case, made sure the briefkes were in a certain order. He put the smaller case into his attache case.

  From his bottom desk drawer he selected the less conservative of two ties, a small figured blue on brown. He was wearing a pale blue shirt, gold collar clip, and a double-breasted English wool worsted brown suit. Seggerman, he knew, was definitely a brown suit.

  Springer removed his suit jacket. From the same bottom desk drawer he brought out a Smith & Wesson 9mm automatic and a shoulder holster. He checked to see the gun was loaded and on safety. The sure way he handled it said how familiar to him it was. He inserted the gun into the holster and secured the Velcro flap around the heel of its grip. He put it on, flexed his shoulders to get it situated right. The holster's elastic straps were snug across his back but wouldn't inhibit his movements. The gun was close against his left side nearly up in under his armpit. He had a license to carry it. He put his jacket back on, tugged his shirt cuffs down, stretched his neck because of the tie, and left the office.

  Seggerman was in 3904A, a suite on the 39th floor. Springer used the house phone, and after a dozen rings Seggerman answered and told Springer to give him ten minutes.

  Springer gave him fifteen, sat at a tiny table off the pleasant lobby, and had a tomato juice and lime. He was feeling better now that he was more into the day. By late afternoon he'd probably be ready for whatever.

  Up at the suite Seggerman answered the door in yesterday's shirt and beltless suit trousers wrinkled across the crotch. The room smelled of Shalimar, cigar smoke, and spilled wine. Seggerman had cleared a low square table situated by the main window, which allowed north light. Springer wanted that northern exposure. With it Seggerman would be able to truly see what he was buying and have no excuses later. (A few years ago Springer had made a sale at the Sherry Netherland under inadequate light conditions. The customer had stopped payment and returned three fair-sized stones, claiming they were not as represented. Truth was the stones he returned were of inferior color, not the ones Springer had sold him.)

  Seggerman offered to order up anything. Springer declined. They sat at the table to get to business. Springer noticed that Seggerman wasn't wearing socks. His black conservative shoes made his bare ankle skin appear sickly.

  Seggerman was tall, with a paunch and a tired, prosperous face. Had a lot of obvious dental work. He was one of the leading jewelry manufacturers in the Northwest, came to New York to buy three or four times a year.

  Springer pretended not to hear the door to the adjoining bedroom being closed. He placed a tripod ten-power loupe on the table and unzipped the case that contained the briefkes that contained the stones. He started Seggerman off with some five-caraters of F/G color, WSl's and 2's. With a couple of exceptions they were the largest and best goods Springer had brought. There was a slim possibility that Seggerman might buy one, but more likely he would merely look. It never hurt to inflate a buyer with such overshow, Springer believed. He knew his man, knew Seggerman was there to buy seventy-five-pointers and one-caraters for rings and single-stone pendants. If larger-sized stones had been Seggerman's interest. Springer's approach would have been just the opposite—from the bottom up.

  To Springer's surprise Seggerman reacted strongly to several two-carat stones of very fine quality. He examined those for a long while with the loupe and when Springer asked should he put them away Seggerman told him no and set them off to one side, exposed in their unfolded briefkes. Implying that he would return to them later.

  Springer was right about Seggerman. When they got to the smaller stones
Seggerman started doing business. He had settled on twenty-some medium-quality one-carat stones and was getting into the seventy-five-pointers when the girl came from the bedroom.

  Seggerman didn't get up for her. He introduced her as Darlene. She could have been any age from eighteen to thirty. She'd done the best she could with her hair, had it held back from her face with a rolled and tied scarf. But that emphasized her hairline and the fact that she was at least one blond coloring appointment behind. She was brittle, her eyes and brows overdone, her lips too slick. She had on last night's dress: black fitted crepe from the waist down, loose, plunging black lame above. What also told Springer she was surely a working girl was her death grip on her little black evening purse.

  Darlene stood behind Seggerman's chair. She kissed the top of his head while she surveyed the diamonds on the table. "Look at all the goodies," she said, mainly to herself.

  She went around and leaned over the table. The lame swagged. It was unbelievable the way her breasts were large enough to hang but didn't. She poked at the two-carat diamonds with the tip of an enameled fingernail. Without asking permission, she picked one up and placed it in the crease created by the junction of her second and third fingers. She held her hand out and cocked her head slightly as she considered the stone.

  The diamond caught some sun and flared as though angry.

  Darlene smiled at Springer. She had lipstick on her teeth. "You shouldn't have," Darlene affected broadly.

  "I haven't," Springer said to nip it early.

  "What do you think?" Darlene asked Seggerman.

  Springer expected Seggerman to tell her to stop interfering with business, but Seggerman told her, "You deserve it, baby, you deserve it."

  "You don't just taste sweet," Darlene said to him and went closer to the window with the diamond.

  "She should have it, shouldn't she?" Seggerman put to Springer.

  "You're the customer."

  "You'll throw it in, huh?"

  Springer didn't say anything.

  "As goodwill."

  Springer still didn't say anything.

  "For me and Darlene."

  "No."

  "What do you mean no?"

  "If you want to buy her the stone I'll do the best I can for you, but that's all."

  "I'm the customer," Seggerman reminded coolly.

  "And I'm not the Goodwill."

  "Tell you what. Springer, take all your fucking goods and get out."

  Darlene made an ugly mouth at Springer. She turned her hand over and the diamond fell to the glass surface of the table. It bounced off onto the carpet.

  Springer gathered up the briefkes and put them into the leather case. He had trouble finding the diamond in the deep pile of the carpet, but finally it winked at him. He snapped his attache case shut.

  "There are thousands of diamond dealers in this town," Seggerman said. "You just lost me."

  "Up your ass with your diamonds," Darlene threw at Springer as he went out the door.

  Springer walked east on 57th Street. The office workers were out. He could smell the pot. The scene he'd just been through kept repeating in his mind. If he had donated the diamond to Seggerman's hooker it would have taken the top off the transaction, at least twenty thousand of it. But what bothered him more was the way Seggerman had him measured, thinking he'd go for it, be that much of a bend-over. Springer told himself he'd done right, put it out of his mind.

  He went over to Madison and down to 50th Street to the Helmsley Palace. In the luxurious apricot and silver sanctuary of the Trianon dining room he was led to a table deep in a comer where Dante Sebastian Raggio was waiting.

  Danny Rags.

  Eighteen years had changed him, of course. Maturity, as it does with many men, had improved his looks. The little lines of years, especially those that webbed from the outer corners of his eyes, gave him the attractiveness of experience. He was undoubtedly a man who would be difficult, if not impossible, to fool. And from his apparent physical strength, one not to fool with.

  Those impressions were required. Ten years ago he had been moved into Just John's spot, operating out of the concession in the rear of the Empire Diamond Arcade. He did what his uncle had done, only more. The shylock-ing part alone now amounted to fifty million, and as a clearing house for swag twice that much came through him. The entire 47th Street area was his territory, and the only answering he had to do went into the ear of the top.

  Danny and Springer, despite their different circles, had kept in touch. They had preserved with care the camaraderie of their younger years. Not once had Danny, though often tempted, offered Springer the in on a really good thing. (Such as the breakdown of a stolen necklace of a hundred and twenty-five unidentifiable, absolutely D-flawless carats that he could let Springer have for half the going price.) Also, as mutually agreed, they never met on the street, always at places where anyone who might know them both was less likely to be. Such as there at the Helmsley Palace.

  No sooner was Springer seated at the table than a waiter placed a Dewar's and water in front of him, according to Danny's instructions.

  Springer inquired after Danny's wife and kids. "The kids are fine. Nothing new with Camilla," Danny told him. His kids were seven and eight, both boys. They were enrolled in a private school in Rhode Island. Camilla was a handsome and quiet Italian woman who had known beforehand what she was marrying into. She shopped a lot at the Westchester branches of the leading department stores, made her own tomato sauce, and refused to hire a housekeeper to help keep up their ten-room New Rochelle home.

  "How's Jake?" Danny asked.

  "He's fine."

  "And Audrey?" Danny put the tips of his fingers to his lips and threw Audrey a kiss wherever she might be. He had told Springer lightly that she was the only thing that could ever come between them.

  "Audrey's okay," Springer said, understating.

  "Marry her," Danny advised for at least the twentieth time. He raised his glass to drink to that and Springer noticed his meticulously manicured fingernails.

  Danny Rags was living up to his name. A far cry from the raw youngster trying to be well dressed, he was now tastefully attired by Paul Stuart and F. R. Tripler & Co. That wasn't what he wore when on the job at the concession. There he was always in inexpensive black gabardine slacks that were a bit shiny and a white shirt with roUed-up sleeves. After this lunch he would go to the apartment he had on East 50th Street and change.

  They ordered.

  Springer should have been hungrier than the seafood salad he decided on. He hadn't had a substantial meal since Friday, the steak in New Milford.

  "How about starting with some pate?"

  "You go ahead."

  "What's the matter?" Danny asked.

  "Nothing." Springer didn't feel like recounting the Seggerman episode.

  "Somebody giving you some shit?"

  "No."

  "Anybody gives you any shit let me know."

  Springer nodded. For years he'd been hearing that from Danny.

  Their table was isolated enough so they could talk easily without being overheard.

  "What do you say we go down to AC," Danny said, "maybe some day next week. Play some dice. We'll take the chopper down. Bring Audrey."

  "I'd like that."

  Danny thought perhaps some inside street talk might bring Springer up out of it. He confided to Springer that the recent five million robbery of a dealer in colored stones had been a give-up: that is, the goods had been stolen with the dealer's knowledge and cooperation so he could collect insurance. The five million figure was inflated. What had been taken was closer to three. Some nice rubies, Danny said, evidently having seen.

  He also told Springer in a conversational way that swifts—thieves — were now using the Social Register for their leads. It listed not only the names of the wealthy but their addresses and telephone numbers as well. A swift merely phoned in advance to determine if anyone was at home.

  It seemed the time of r
andom break-ins was over. Fences were now providing their teams of swifts with positive leads.

  For instance, a doorman at a restaurant or hotel spots a woman loaded with "heavy flash." She's feeling secure, considering the circumstances, the public place, maybe her husband and others with her, a driver. The doorman, satisfied that the situation is right, jots down the license plate number of the car the woman departs in. He gives it to a fence. The fence gives it to a cop. The cop runs it through the Motor Vehicle Bureau and comes up with the name and address. For every such address the fence pays the cop a hundred dollars.

  The fence gives the address to one of his teams. They keep watch on it until the time is right — like the next time the wealthy couple goes out and again she's wearing all that flash. When they come home they're met in the driveway or in the garage by the swifts. With guns. Sometimes, if she's wearing enough goods, the swifts just take that. Other times everyone goes into the house and the couple is offered a choice: Reveal where the goods are stashed, and nothing more will happen. The swifts will just take the goods and leave. Or, if the couple insists there are no goods and the swifts shake down the house and find there is, the couple will be killed for the lie. Naturally, the swifts impress the couple with how thoroughly they can turn a house inside out. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred the couple, begrudgingly and gratefully, lead the way to the safe, the freezer compartment of the refrigerator, a Kotex box, or wherever.

  Danny's talkativeness, lurid as it was, worked.

  By the time dessert was presented. Springer had forgotten about Seggerman and was undecided on whether to go for the hot lemon mousse or the eight-layer bittersweet chocolate cake.

  "He'll have both," Danny told the waiter.

  At three o'clock Springer arrived back at his office. Five messages were on his desk. The top one was from Audrey. The receptionist had put quotes around it: "My place at four. "