West 47th (33 page)

“So, where's the jewelry?”

“I have it.”

“Bring it down.”

“You'll cut me a check.”

“First of the month.”

“Okay, first of the month I'll bring it down. That's only ten days.”

“Be reasonable Laughton [now it was Laughton]. This is a large, structured organization. A check of that size takes some doing. Certain people have to approve, certain signatures are required. You understand.”

“Certainly.”

“Bring it down.”

“Cut a check.”

In the silence Mitch could hear capitulation. “I'll do my best,” Ruder told him.

Mitch hastily gathered up the pieces of jewelry from the floor.

Shirley helped.

She also supplied an Henri Bendel shopping bag with another of the same inside it for Mitch to carry the jewelry in. It would be safer than his attaché case. There had been a rash of snatch-and-run robberies lately involving 47th Street dealers. Thieves waited around the district, spotted a likely-looking dealer with his case in hand, followed him and, at his least wary moment, sideswiped him full speed.

Just another variation in the perpetual foray between West 47 dealers and stealers.

No one, however, went about with six million worth of jewels in a shopping bag. Shirley topped the jewelry with layers of tissue paper, tucked the paper in well around the edges.

Mitch was in high spirit during the taxi ride downtown. The shopping bag on his lap. He forgave the cramped, cage-like back seat and the suicidal Israeli driver. He forgave the buses for their bullying and sooty exhausts. A happy hello to that mix of marvelous New Yorkers crossing at 39th. The same for the well-off obscured by the dark-tinted windows of the chauffeured Rolls-Royce equivalently stopped for the light.

He gave the taxi driver an undeserved two-dollar tip and entered the thirty-two-story gray fortress that was the Columbia Beneficial building.

The elevator was like a pneumatic box with its soft, long stops. The reception area had nothing on its gray walls except the company name. The receptionist, a prototypical older aunt, once married forever divorced, didn't have even a New York smile for Mitch, told him it would be only a minute. He believed her and remained standing.

At the five-minute mark he opted for one of the gray leather sofas. It wheezed as he sat. The magazines on the low table were only
Sports Afield, Reader's Digest
and
Life
.

At the seven-minute mark Mitch realized this qualified as a wait and at twenty minutes his needle was nearing the red.

Ruder's secretary saved the moment, came out to lead Mitch in. She was professionally pleasant. Mitch didn't know her by name, just by sight. She had a wide, humpy ass, and, to make it worse, it was in a tight, white flannel skirt.

Mitch followed it down the corridor past executive offices to the one that was Ruder's.

“Mr. Ruder has been called into an emergency meeting,” the secretary said. “You're to leave what you've brought with me.” She extended her hand to receive the shopping bag.

“Nothing doing,” Mitch told her. “I need to see Ruder.”

“That's impossible.”

“Call him out of the meeting.”

“It's not being held here. It's an outside meeting.”

“When will he be back?”

“Not this afternoon.”

The dickhead knew about this when I spoke to him, Mitch thought. Or else Miss all-ass here is fibbing for him while he hides in the executive toilet.

“My instructions are to put what you've brought into Mr. Ruder's safe, to give you a receipt and an appointment for ten tomorrow morning.”

She said it straight, it sounded straight.

Mitch glanced at the safe inset in the wall to the left. It was open, empty. He didn't relish the prospect of having this six million in a shopping bag on the end of his arm any longer. Besides, rush hour was about to occur and he'd have a problem getting a taxi uptown. He pictured himself on the subway with the shopping bag.

“What kind of receipt?” he asked.

“The loss list.”

Mitch's reluctance had its say: “I don't think so. Are you absolutely sure Ruder isn't coming back? Is he where I might reach him by phone?”

“I've already revised Mr. Ruder's schedule to accommodate you at ten tomorrow morning.”

Mitch's compliance had its say: “May I please see that loss list?” The secretary handed it to him. He saw it was identical with the one he had, in fact, the original. That each page was separately signed and dated as received by Ruder was reassuring. Ten tomorrow morning wasn't unreasonable.

“Who knows the combination to that safe?” Mitch asked. “Do you?”

“No, only Mr. Ruder knows the combination. He had it changed only a few weeks ago.”

Mitch's trust was not total. He wouldn't permit the secretary to put the jewelry into the safe. Saw to it himself, inserted the shopping bag and all into that steel hole. It was a tight fit. He closed the safe door, twisted the handle which slid the bolts into place and locked it by rotating the combination dial four times around.

For a while that night was a sensational night for Mitch. Despite his less-than-satisfactory trip to Ruder's office, he climbed back up to the altitude of his high of that day and stayed up throughout dinner and afterwards.

Maddie soared with him.

In keeping she chose to wear a next-to-nothing, a red silk satin number by Alberta Ferretti that was bare on top and bottomed out mid-thigh.

“It calls for a strong mouth, don't you think?” she said while getting ready.

“By all means a strong mouth,” Mitch insinuated.

“Oh, you,” she admonished archly.

The center drawer of her dressing table was fitted with a slotted rack for her tubes of lipstick. About a dozen tubes arranged according to shade left to right from nearly naive to saturnalism. This night she went straightaway to the extreme right for Yves St. Laurent's
Mischievous Rose
, spun it up and began applying.

She paused from that effort to ask: “Do you think it's absolutely essential that I wear panties?”

“Yeah.”

“Were I eighteen and going out to a rock club I wouldn't. It's okay, though, isn't it, that my titties are on their own?”

“Yeah.”

“This fabric shows off my nips.”

“You're treacherous. I don't think you realize how treacherous you are. Want a refill?”

They were having some blanc de blanc as an overture. The bottle was only about two drinks from empty. Mitch poured and Maddie started on her lips again. She paused again. “Did I mention that Straw phoned today? From Kennedy. He and Wally are off to London to give the Cleremont a try. Something tells me they'll come back married. That would really scorch Marian.”

“How long will they be gone, did he say?”

“I suppose as long as it takes.”

“It,” Mitch thought aloud.

Maddie stared at the mirror, intensely, as though she could see her image. “Tell me true, precious,” she said, “am I beginning to look as though I've been around the garden a few times. All I have to go on is what you tell me. Do I? And don't fib.”

Mitch leaned and delivered a mere touch of a kiss to the round of her bare shoulder. “You look like you've just found the path and are still amazed by the blossoms.”

“What a sweetie you are.”

They were slightly sloshed by the time Billy dropped them off at Le Cirque. Everything was pleasant to amusing. Even things that ordinarily weren't so pleasant or amusing. The dinner was superb. They shared some
moules
. Couldn't decide on dessert so they ordered six of the offerings and took only nibbles of each.

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.”