West 47th (10 page)

Nor was the famous Peacock Throne given so much as a glance. Never mind that it was gleaming all-over gold studded with twenty-seven thousand precious gems. It might as well have been a commonplace chair the way Roudabeth and Abbas passed it by to be deeper in the vault.

The vault was large, about twenty feet wide and twice that long. It had built-in drawers all around and glass cases containing solid gold goblets and bowls, swords and daggers with gem-encrusted scabbards and hilts. One long island of shelves held trays of polished uncut emeralds. Emeralds piled haphazardly like so many ordinary river pebbles. Emeralds, emeralds, loose emeralds by the thousands. They'd been so long undisturbed a fine dust had coated them.

Roudabeth took one up, just any one from the top of a pile. She rubbed it on the sleeve of her chador before appraising it. A beauty! The most desirable emerald color, a vivid, eloquent green. She dropped that one in her pocket and went on from tray to tray, selecting a few emeralds here, more there, more and more. She was a finicky shopper. Only the finest would do

Next she put to pocket two strands of priceless ruby prayer beads. Fulfilling one of Princess Shams' and Shaharazad's stipulations. Then there were pearls in a large gold casket. Such an abundance of pearls they overflowed, cascaded and swagged over the casket's edge. Cream and white and pinkish strands of huge, incredible pearls. Roudabeth looped her neck with strand after strand. She was lost in the Persian plunder, the booty, the hoard. A thief with permission.

She slid open one of the large cabinet drawers. It was lined with black velour to softly accommodate a thick layer of faceted emeralds. So thick a layer that when Roudabeth scooped up a handful the remaining plenty filled in the loss.

From another such drawer she took a handful of rubies. Then came a heaping handful of sapphires, double handfuls of diamonds of two carats, three carats and larger. Now her every move caused clicks in her pockets and she could feel left and right the heft and bulge against her thighs.

Abbas had been similarly busy. He too was laden.

They went as they'd come, locked as they went, and soon enough were again under way in the Peykan, again having to run the gamut of the incited black-hooded packs on Kheyabun-Vall-ye-Asr. If they'd been stopped with their precious cargo they would have surely been killed.

At Princess Shams' house the contents of their pockets were emptied onto a sheet. The Princess and her daughter were delighted. They eagerly picked through the spread of gems, were entirely caught up in them until Princess Shams remembered to reward Roudabeth with a few pieces, casually tossed them to her.

A few also went to Abbas. He had to feign his gratitude, did so excessively. Because secreted within the sleeve of his poor jacket, between its outer material and its lining, was a veritable fortune.

Hospital room 1118.

The duty nurse entered. She checked the intravenous infusion Mrs. Kalali was receiving, its drip rate and connection. All was well. The unconscious Mrs. Kalali lay unchanged, absolutely still, and, as far as the nurse could tell, not having a thought.

Chapter 7

Mitch had Hurley leave him off on 50th Street at one of those
while you wait
places that did graphic reproductions. He ordered six copies of the Kalali photographs. The clerk there, a paper-faced young fellow whose lips looked as though they were shedding, told Mitch it would take an hour.

Mitch didn't see why inasmuch as he was the only customer, asked why.

The clerk did the New York thing, deliberately crumpled up and discarded Mitch's work order invoice.

Mitch handled it, did a smile from his New York repertoire, the one that begged pardon and asked for leniency.

The clerk filled out another work order.

While you wait is right, Mitch thought on the way out.

He went to the corner. Bought two pounds of big black grapes from a street vendor. Sat in the mid-morning sun on the bank of the stream of Avenue of the Americas, that is, on the raised ledge that bordered the pool and fountain of the IBC Building. Come noon, office people would be on this ledge, having their brought lunches. Tuna salad and marijuana would be in the air.

At the moment Mitch was alone there, digging rather automatically into the brown bag for grape after grape, storing their seeds in his cheek until they were many and then, careful of passersby, jettisoning them with maximum force.

It occurred to him that despite his well-dressed appearance, his loitering there at this hour might cause people to take him as one of the recently unemployed, a guy whose clothes hadn't yet gone shabby or out of style, a jobless guy who was still shaving every day.

Three hundred thousand and some.

That, Mitch reminded himself, was how much he stood to make if he recovered the Kalali jewelry. Possibly those goods had already been sucked up and taken apart by the street. Maybe not. Maybe the street wouldn't ever get a look at them because they had gone to Los Angeles and on to Hong Kong. No, that wasn't how it would go, his optimism predicted, he'd be lucky, the stuff would practically fall in his hands.

His pager beeped.

He went to the pay phone down the way and dialed his office.

Shirley was in her strictly business mode, recited his messages without gripe or comment. There'd been another
please return my call
from Visconti and Ruder had phoned twice suggesting lunch or, if not lunch, at least drinks later. Ruder hadn't believed when told Mitch wasn't in.

Mitch wondered why Ruder was reverting. He'd thought he had Ruder conditioned. As for Visconti, now that could prove to be timely.

He'd left the bag of grapes on the ledge. It was gone. He returned to the graphics place. His photos were ready, had been for half an hour. He'd specified that they be collated in sets and placed in individual gray envelopes, and that was how they were.

He walked down Avenue of the Americas to 47th. He felt suddenly changed, more assertive. It was as though the sight of the street and its prospects had injected him. He crossed over against the belligerent traffic and turned in at the entrance second from the corner.

The Capital Jewelry Exchange.

A deep, narrow place strongly lighted by spotlights on tracks. Typical of 47th. There were identical, contiguous counters with display cases that ran its entire length on the left and on the right. Each section of counter was a booth-like space occupied by a separate business.

No major dealers here. The seller of pearls on one side offered mainly
biwas
. Opposite, the merchandise was 14k gold chains sold by weight. Next, wristwatches, various makes of inexpensive digitals. Then came gold charms: French poodles, tennis racquets, names such as MaryLou and Rosalie.

Nothing better.

The counter-to-counter carpet of the center aisle wasn't living up to the claim that its geometric pattern wouldn't show dirt.

Mitch walked on it, went straight to the back, ignoring the verbal hooks that were cast at him.
Let me show you something. How about a nice pendant? I need the money. Take your pick at half price
. He resented that in their practiced eyes he was being taken as a chump.

A door in the back gave to a steep, narrow stairway up. Lighted by a bare hundred watts. The vinyl-covered steps of the stairs were gritty and edged with nailed-on metal stripping that in places had come loose enough to trip. Fifteen steps up was halfway up. At that point was a landing with a shallow alcove.

Snugged into the alcove was a daybed covered in red Naugahyde. The guy who got up from the daybed was one of Joe Riccio's have-around guys. He wasn't tall but he was big, with such a gut his trousers in profile were triangular.

Mitch took it all in: cigarettes grounded out on the floor, a bag of Cheetos on the daybed along with an overhandled porno magazine that had on its cover a hard-faced blonde grinning around her foreshortened buttocks. On the wall above the daybed an intercom. The have-around in a pink, short-sleeve shirt wasn't wearing a piece, although no doubt there was one within easy reach beneath the daybed.

The have-around blocked the way. “What do you want?”

“I'm here to see Riccio.”

“Sure you are. Got an appointment?”

“Yeah, Mitch Laughton.”

“For this morning?”

“Yeah.”

“I think not. Riccio ain't seeing nobody this morning. He told me.”

“Look on his agenda.”

“Okay, asshole, down you go.” The have-around crowded Mitch with his belly.

Mitch avoided it. “Don't contaminate me.”

“I'll break your fucking face, that's what I'll contaminate.”

Mitch did a take that stopped everything. He focused his interest on the guy's eyes, craned forward a bit, scrutinizing more closely.

“You wearing eye shadow?”

“Huh?”

“It's smudged. Your eye shadow. The left eye.”

“You calling me a fagala?”

“You're also quick.” Mitch indicated the intercom. “Call up and tell Riccio I'm here. You're bad for business. When I see Riccio I'm going to tell him you cost him.”

“Fuck you. All I got to do is press that red buzzer and three cowboys will come down and rip your head off.”

“And all you'd do is watch, right? What is it, you afraid you'll break a fingernail or something?”

The guy fisted his fat right hand and swung.

Mitch easily sidestepped it.

The momentum of the miss carried the guy forward in a sort of clumsy lunge, spun him on his fat legs so now his back was to the stairwell. While he was trying to recover his balance Mitch brought his foot up to the guy's gut and shoved.

The guy grabbed at the air as he went over backwards, pitched down the steep stairway, caromed from wall to wall with the sharp edges of each of the fifteen steps hurting grunts out of him all the way to the bottom. He lay there face up.

Mitch peered down at him, thought the fat of the guy should have cushioned and prevented serious injury. Maybe not, though. The guy wasn't moving.

But then suddenly he was up and coming up, awkwardly clambering on all fours, gorilla-like.

Mitch had time to think how much he disliked this kind of guy, how this sort seemed to always bring out a mean part of him. It wasn't anything personal.

The guy's hands got to the landing. He tried to grab Mitch's leg.

Out of sympathy Mitch didn't kick him. A kick was in order and would have been easy, but, instead, Mitch merely gave the guy's face a push.

The fall the guy took this time was about the same, looked and sounded just as painful. He lay sprawled in a contorted position at the bottom of the stairs and, from the sounds of his moans, it was doubtful he'd attempt another climb.

Although the way was cleared now, Mitch had second thoughts about continuing on up to see Riccio. Before getting to Riccio there'd be more have-arounds to contend with and if he managed to get past those there would be Riccio's routine.

All Mitch had wanted was to exchange a few words with the man and leave with him a set of the Kalali photographs. But Riccio would never allow only that. He was an advocate of old-mob ways, slow, snaky, respect and all that. He'd insist on having espresso poured into merely rinsed cups and a couple of petrified anisette cookies placed on the saucers along with tiny stainless steel spoons.

Riccio would conversationally circle the reason for Mitch's unscheduled visit with irrelevant observations and opinions and throw in a mob anecdote here and there. As though he had all the time in the world and Mitch wasn't suffering the place with its cheap, tasteless furnishings. Black synthetic carpet with such a high pile it looked like a million writhing worms and no telling what might be hiding in it.

At times Mitch had given thought to that carpet and how many loose diamonds and other precious stones must have been carelessly dropped to it out of the many thousands of carats Riccio took in and dealt out. Mitch could imagine Riccio down on his knees searching the deep black for several D flawless caraters he'd accidentally sent flying from their unfolded briefke paper diamond containers when he put his feet up on his desk. An agitated, grumbling Riccio digging around in the tendrils, not finding, finally giving up and trying his best to put the loss out of mind. In that carpet a fortune lost.

Mitch looked up the stairs and knew what would be imminent. Riccio would sit there, backgrounded by a repaired wall enameled an avocado shade and punctuated by the faded prints of the Virgin and a De Beers magazine advertisement, and Mitch would have to endure Riccio's invitation of congeniality, his latter-day version of all the spaghetti suckers and mustache Petes he'd ever seen portrayed. Not for an instant admitting how anachronistic he was, he in his pointed, black, cap-toed shoes and white silk socks and over-starched shirt. A one-of-a-kind pinkie ring. Paved ruby, diamond, emerald version of the Italian flag.

Mitch had been up there in Riccio's lair maybe a half dozen times.

If he went up now he'd again have to stifle how amused he was by Riccio's voice. A voice too small, too thin, too high-pitched for any mobster, especially one who took such effort to come off as one. It was as though at age thirteen his pubes had refused to drop.

Riccio was well aware of this shortcoming, tried to overcome it by speaking breathily with as little throat as possible. So, Mitch, if he went up, would have to strain to hear him, would miss words and have a hard time keeping from laughing when Riccio's temper took over and he cocksuckered and scumbagged someone in his natural upper range.

Joseph Riccio.

He'd come quite a ways since back when he was an all-around, have-around guy for Nick Russo, when Russo was running the diamond district for the people who got answered to. For nineteen years Russo was the man those in the trade went to when the bank said no way. There was hardly a dealer on the street who at one time or another hadn't strung out what he owed the bank beyond the bank's tolerance. Many dealers were excommunicated for eternity by the bank's computer.