The Argentina Rhodochrosite (18 page)

35

Nine o’clock am.

Slumped in her chair at Nadia’s office, Ainsley tried to stifle a yawn.

There was a mirror to her left, but she kept her eyes averted. Ainsley knew what she would see there. It would look like something that had been tied to an anchor, tossed overboard, and dragged across a hundred kilometers of coral reef.

Gabriel sat in the next chair. He hadn’t slept a wink either, but he had showered, changed into a different suit, and cheerfully acted as though he’d just enjoyed eight hours of uninterrupted beauty sleep. Ainsley was flabbergasted. These Argentines were unreal in the way they could disregard their body clocks.

Across the desk from both of them sat Nadia. She was drumming her pen against the desk again.

“That’s a very disturbing story,” she said.

“We never even met the woman,” said Ainsley. “But there was no doubt she was kidnapped.”

“Maybe it was staged.”

“Impossible. Nobody knew we were coming. I had Simón Fe’s phone. There wasn’t even time for him to arrange anything anyways.”

“It was real,” said Gabriel. “Those people were scared.”

Nadia blew air out of her mouth. “This is beyond our concern. It’s a tragedy, but now we forget the maid. We actually have an even bigger problem.”

Ainsley waited. She didn’t know what could be worse.

“Ovidio’s disaster of a political rally yesterday has caused major changes. He wants his necklace. Immediately.”

Both Gabriel and Nadia looked at her. Ainsley felt hemmed in. “What? I’m not superwoman.”

“I know that,” replied the manager. “But Ovidio is a child. And the child has decided that he wants to play in the sandbox again. It’s the best way to salvage his political reputation. To remind the Argentine people why they like him in the first place.”

Ainsley grew annoyed. “Tell him that I need more time.”

“We don’t have more time. There is an important match tonight. Boca is facing relegation to the second division. He’s demanding that you find the necklace by kickoff.”

Ainsley burst out laughing. This was utterly ludicrous, an act of monumental self-absorption. But she was surprised to see that Gabriel and Nadia were sharing none of her amusement. They looked mortified.

Then she realized that such an unreasonable demand was a joke to her, because she could walk away from the assignment, go back to her life in the United States. To them, however, failure carried serious consequences, such as their jobs.

“That’s a strong request,” Ainsley said, “but I’m out of ideas.”

Nadia sat back in her chair, oddly composed. “I’m not. There is one more option.”

“What’s that?”

“Bring him a Zorro rhodochrosite necklace.”

“But I can’t find it in twelve hours—”

Nadia shook her head. “Not
the
Zorro rhodochrosite necklace. Just
a
necklace.”

Ainsley understood. “So you want me to find a replacement?”

She nodded. Gabriel shifted uncomfortably.

“You disagree?” said his boss.

“Ovidio will see the difference,” he said. “He knows that stone like he knows his own feet.”

Nadia spun around in her chair. “What else can we do? We only have two choices: total failure, or failure with a slight chance of hope. Which way would you choose?”

The three of them grew quiet. Then Nadia broke the silence. “We would need to find a perfect replica. We would need to find a gemstone expert to vouch for it. That expert would need to be nearby, because we need it quickly. Mostly, we need that person to be able to keep a secret.”

Ainsley sucked the inside of her cheek. She caught Nadia’s eyes. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“You say it first.”

“It’s only a three-hour-ride on the Buquebus.”

Nadia smiled. So they did have the same idea.

“Who should call him?” said Nadia.

“I will,” said Ainsley.

Nadia tossed the headset towards her. Ainsley fumbled to put it on, while the woman tapped at her laptop and dialed a number.

A moment later, a familiar voice came on the line. “Hello?”

“Bernabé, it’s Ainsley.”

Ainsley was calling Bernabé Gradin, the rotund gemologist in Uruguay who’d helped her find the amethyst treasure, El Árbol Negro, on her last adventure. He was funny, cranky, clever, and a world-class flirt.

“I thought I had gotten rid of you,
Señorita
Walker,” he said.

“Likewise,” she retorted.

“Let me guess. You hate Argentina, and you’re coming back to Uruguay to be with me.”

At this moment, that didn’t sound half-bad, Ainsley thought. “No, but I really need your help. It’s an emergency.”

“Talk to me.”

She outlined the situation for him: Ovidio, the theft of his necklace, his political ambitions, and the game tonight.

“So Nadia wants you to find a replacement.”

“Yes.”

“I recommended that when Nadia first called me. But she resisted. She is too ethical. She wanted to find the real rhodochrosite for her client. So I suggested you as an investigator.”

“I bet you’re regretting that.”

“Cheer up. It sounds like you’ve been doing as well as you possibly can in a country of forty million assholes.”

Ainsley tried not to laugh. Bernabé was unapologetically provincial, a Uruguay booster. “So,” she said, “can you help us?”

She could hear him rustling around, the sounds of cabinetry opening, drawers sliding. “I am looking in my storehouse. Any rhodochrosite will do?”

“It has an unusual marking.”

“Tell me.”

“It has a Z.”

There was a heavy pause. “The Zorro rhodochrosite?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on a moment.”

She could hear him talking to somebody, probably Hector, his droopy-faced silent assistant. Then Bernabé returned. “I have one. It’s quite old. They were suddenly taken out of circulation.”

Ainsley sighed with relief. She nodded to Nadia, who thumped her pen on the desk with satisfaction and sat back in her chair.

“So how can we get that piece here?”

“I can courier it.”

“Courier?” Ainsley looked up. Nadia was shaking her head no. She pointed to the phone and made a movement with her hand, like a ship floating on the water.

Oh. She wanted it personally delivered.

“Nadia says no,” she said. “Maybe Hector can bring it?”

The old man scoffed. “Hector couldn’t find his own ass in a hallway of mirrors. No, I will bring it personally.”

“Today?”

“On the next boat, if that’s what you want.”

Ainsley covered the phone. “He’ll be on the next boat.”

“Excellent,” said Nadia.

“I want you to know,” said Bernabé, “how great a sacrifice this is. I haven’t put a single toe in that filthy city in almost twenty years.”

“Your sacrifice will be greatly rewarded,” said Ainsley.

“It had better be,” he said. “The air is so bad, I’m going to have to bring an oxygen tank.”

“I’ll be waiting for you at the Buquebus terminal,” she said.

“Of course you will,” he said. “And tell Nadia hello. I remember selling pieces to her grandmother decades ago. She was a great lover of jewelry.”

“I will.”

They disconnected. Ainsley exhaled and dropped her head into her chest.

It appeared that the mystery of the missing rhodochrosite would be coming to an artificial end.

If Ovidio fell for the trick.

36

Ainsley was flat on her back,
staring at the ceiling. She could feel her limbs trembling.

By her calculation, she’d slept three hours in the last sixty. That was about the same amount as what Navy SEALS are allowed during their hell week.

But she wasn’t training to be an elite warrior. It was simply impossible to sleep, with daylight glowing through her tightly-drawn curtains, and her circadian rhythms at their highest point.

She didn’t need to be at the Buquebus terminal for almost seven hours. A quick web search had revealed that the next hydrofoil didn’t depart Montevideo until four pm, so after another quick phone call to Bernabé, she had left Nadia’s office and come back here, to her hotel.

To wait.

She felt as though she were in purgatory. As though she were a few hours from stepping up to St. Ovidio, who would accept her gift, peer into his big book of souls, and render judgment.

Hopefully Bernabé would bring a gemstone that would fool the soccer star. She didn’t know how observant Ovidio was. He was clearly very aware of body positioning on the field, but regarding details of jewelry, she just didn’t know.

She lifted one leg into the air and pointed her toe at the overhead light fixture. It was three glass clam shells, a bulb nestled in each. Quite a lovely design. Ainsley had become quite an expert on ceiling lights, having spent countless sleepless hours with eyes wide open, just the way she was now, while The Legal Weasel, her erstwhile husband, had begun pulling away from her.

Then one day she’d come home, dropped her purse on the table, and seen it. A note on the counter. The hairs had pricked on the back of her neck. She knew what that note had said before she’d even picked it up. She’d read through it once, twice, then balled up the note and hurled it into the kitchen garbage.

The next morning, a hangover drilling inside her skull like a demonic construction worker, she’d pawed through the trash, fished out the paper, unfolded it, then sat at the kitchen table and read it a third time.

He hadn’t offered many details, just the broadest outline. He’d been unhappy, had felt too pursued by Ainsley, had needed more “space”. Beyond that, there wasn’t much, just some vague non-explanations, comments that had demonstrated, to Ainsley, just how unreflective he’d truly been.

Ainsley had pursued the relationship. That much was true. She had cared about the marriage more than he had.

Maybe that was her fault.

There’d been a few lost months after that, during which time Ainsley had struggled to erase him from her mind, but the memories had kept rising to the front of her mind, like a bloated corpse that had surfaced on the river.

Deep down, however, she knew that these memories would disappear. She just needed more layers of new experience, which is precisely what these gemstone assignments were offering.

In other words, if life was a shit sandwich, Ainsley was trying to slice the bread as thickly as possible.

She nodded to herself. That was a good metaphor. Slicing thick hunks of lifebread, that’s what she was doing on this madcap mission here in Argentina. So that she wouldn’t ever have to suffer the shitty taste of hopelessness again.

Ainsley was still thinking about that when exhaustion finally overtook her.

37

She heard the horn signaling the
arrival of the hydrofoil and shot up from her chair.

It was evening now, and Ainsley was in the bar at the arrivals area of the Buquebus terminal, the same room in which she had arrived only two and a half days ago. She stood on her tiptoes and peered out the bottom edge of the high window. She could just make out the dockhands tossing thick ropes onto the ship and lassoing them around stanchions.

Bernabé had gotten on the four o’clock boat from Montevideo. Her watch read seven o’clock now. The gemologist was arriving.

She went back to her small table, swirled her rum cocktail, and glanced around the bar. The decor was modern. Yellow walls, clear fiberglass tables, weird podlike chairs. Suspended above her table was a single globe lamp; there were several matching ones suspended in the adjoining lobby.

Ainsley knew that the disembarking process would take a few minutes, as would getting through customs. She could add a few more minutes for Bernabé because he walked slower than most. He was eighty-four years old.

She had big plans for him tonight, however. After the business of the rhodochrosite was concluded, after Ovidio was satisfied with his necklace, she was going to take the old jeweler out to dinner at Las Lilias. That restaurant had been mentioned by Gabriel as the best
parrilla
in Buenos Aires. It was also the most expensive. She could expect to drop four hundred pesos, minimum, per person.

But Bernabé was worth it. She owed him for his recommendation. Plus, she really liked the amiable old gemologist. Ainsley’s life had been chronically short of decent male company, and she appreciated all worthwhile men, no matter what their age.

He appeared on the ramp sooner than she’d thought. Ainsley couldn’t help smiling. Bernabé was wearing his usual porkpie hat and long fur-trimmed coat. Behind him trailed his droopy-faced assistant, Hector, carrying a brown leather satchel.

“Bernabé,” she shouted, waving.

Hector caught his arm and pointed at Ainsley. Bernabé nodded. The pair came across the lobby.

“You look the same,” he said, exchanging cheek kisses with Ainsley.

She noticed that his face was drawn and tight. “You look upset.”

He looked around uncomfortably. “What do you think? I’m in fucking Argentina.”

Ainsley couldn’t help laughing. “Come over here.”

They followed her back to her table at the bar. The old man glanced around skeptically at the mod decor. “It looks like a child decorated this place.”

Ainsley signaled for three cocktails, and the bartender brought them over quickly.

“I didn’t order this,” said Bernabé.

“I thought we could have a social drink.”

He shook his head and pushed it across the table towards her. “You can have it. I’m not putting anything to my lips in this goddamn city.”

She had to stifle another laugh. “Then I guess we should get down to business.”

“Oh no,” he said loudly, “please, by all means, let’s waste my few remaining months of life sitting in a nation of drama queens and financial disasters.”

The other patrons were staring daggers at him now. Bernabé was straddling the line between being a “character” and being a misanthrope. She guessed that he suffered from plantation syndrome, the intense anxiety some people feel when away from home, something that grows stronger with age. She’d always had trouble understanding that mentality, seeing as how it was basically the opposite of her own compulsive wanderlust.

“Well, Nadia is paying you,” she said, “so it’s not a total waste of your time.”

“I don’t need money at this point in my life,” he said. “I’m here because you asked me for help.”

“You’re very sweet.”

Magnified behind his lenses, his eyes were dancing with playfulness. “Don’t tell anybody. They won’t believe you anyways.”

He nodded to Hector, who opened the leather satchel and withdrew a small box that was wrapped in newspapers. He slid it across the table.

“The rhodochrosite,” said the jeweler.

“May I?” said Ainsley.

He nodded.

She unwrapped the newspaper and opened the box. A bezel-set rhodochrosite cabochon was resting on a bed of black velvet. A simple black cord was looped through the setting.

She peered more closely. A distinct Z could be seen among the swirls and squiggles of the cabochon.

“I think the velvet is worth more than the stone,” he said.

“It looks pretty to me.”

The Uruguayan laughed. “Did you ever really think about that? Argentina’s most identifiable gemstone is nearly worthless. How appropriate.”

“I hope it fools Ovidio,” she said.

“Of course it will. He couldn’t string together a sentence without three different asshole friends to help him.”

Ainsley shrugged. Bernabé was more right than he knew.

“Can I ask you something?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“How did you happen to have a Zorro rhodochrosite?”

Bernabé looked at Hector. He stabbed a finger towards Ainsley. “What did I tell you? Always curious, this one.”

The glum-faced assistant sipped his drink and stared straight ahead. Nothing could move him.

“See, I knew you would ask that,” said the gemologist. “So I made some phone calls this afternoon.”

“And?”

He took off his glasses, serious now, and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Most rhodochrosite is from Capillitas, and most of it is unremarkable. But there was one mine that was very small, but unique, because the entire vein was shot through with the same Z formation. I don’t know the geology of the site well enough to explain why, but that’s where this stone came from. So did Ovidio’s.”

Ainsley set down her drink and studied the stone. That was interesting.

Bernabé continued: “Most importantly, I know the person who owned that particular mine. We used to be professional acquaintances. Until today, I hadn’t thought of him for a long, long time.”

“Who is he?”

“Marcelo Carrazo. He’s retired in Patagonia now. I don’t know why, but he got out of the mining business very suddenly. He might be able to help you find out what happened to the original.” Bernabé paused. “If you’re still going to pursue the case.”

He nodded to Hector, who produced a piece of paper from the brown leather satchel and handed it to Ainsley.

“This is his contact information. I had to search through all my old telephone records.”

Ainsley was grateful but didn’t know what to do with this information. She certainly wasn’t planning to contact the original miner. She failed to see how it would help her mission.

Bernabé saw the confusion in her eyes. “Trust me. Just keep it. A gemstone detective needs all the information she can find.”

That was true. “Thank you,” she said, then stuffed the paper and the rhodochrosite necklace into her purse.

The old jeweler checked his watch. “Only ten minutes. We have to catch the last boat.”

Ainsley was confused. “To where?”

“Back to Montevideo.”

She grew agitated. “But you just
got
here.”

“Yes, and now we’re leaving.”

“Please, stay. I was going to ask you to a
parrilla
.”

Bernabé patted her hand. “You are sweeter than kitten milk, but you should know something about me.” He looked serious for a moment. “I would rather grill one of my own children than eat the crap they serve here.”

Ainsley laughed, despite her diappointment. The old man stood and stretched out his arms in a rock-star Christ pose. Hector slipped his full-length coat onto the old man’s frame, then placed the porkpie hat onto his head.

“You’ve been a great help,” said Ainsley.

“I know,” he said. “That’s how I like people to remember me.” He kissed her on the cheek. “And that’s for your persistence. It’s the best quality any person can have.”

He caught her eye to make sure that she knew that he meant it. Then Hector picked up the bag, the pair turned around, and left.

Ainsley watched them trudge back up the ramp towards the same hydrofoil. She suddenly felt abandoned again. But that feeling didn’t last long.

She had less than an hour to get to the stadium.