West 47th (17 page)

“Well,” Mitch said, “I've got to hurry. Nice seeing you.”

“I'll tag along if you don't mind. Give us a chance to talk. I've been trying to reach you all day. Didn't you get my messages?”

“Yeah,” Mitch said, preferring not to waste a fib. He made for the revolving door, didn't wait for the doorman's assist, gave the door such a vigorous shove that Ruder had to let two compartments go by before he could confidently jump in and come out on Fifth. By then Mitch was a half dozen strides up the avenue.

Ruder jogged to catch up and then it wasn't easy for him to keep up because Mitch had about six inches of leg on him and was purposely using all of it.

“You're a strange one, Mitch. Really, I mean you have a twisted perception of how to deal with a client.”

“An attitude.”

“If I didn't like you so much I wouldn't put up with it.”

What was this, like Mitch day? First Visconti, now Ruder, Mitch thought. “You wanted to talk?”

“Maybe we could stop in some place and have an iced tea. How about in here?” They were on 60th with the north entrance of the Pierre just ahead.

“I've got to get back to Maddie with the antibiotic. Can't what you want to discuss hold until tomorrow?”

“Certainly, but tomorrow it might have to keep until Thursday and Thursday it might have to … well, you know. My better judgment tells me while I've got you I'd better take advantage.” Ruder did a smile that ended beseechingly. Both the smile and the beseeching were contrary to his nature and, knowing that, Mitch figured whatever Ruder had on his mind was of unusual importance.

“Okay,” Mitch said, stopping on the corner, “but make it fast.”

Ruder took out a bunched white handkerchief, found an unused section of it and blew his nose productively. He briefly examined what had been jettisoned from him before stuffing the cloth back into his rear trousers pocket.

It occurred to Mitch that some unfortunate had the task of laundering Ruder's daily hankies.

“I'd feel more at ease seated inside someplace,” Ruder said. “I really would.”

Mitch looked past those words to the drugstore located mid-block on the other side of the street. He hoped he didn't have to carry his pretense that far.

“I need you to save my ass,” Ruder blurted.

“Huh?”

“My standing in Columbia is in jeopardy.”

“I thought they loved you.”

“They should. No one at Columbia has written more business with less risk. Hell, I've sold coverage with exclusions others have never been able to slip in.” Ruder paused, blinked to show he was reflecting, swallowed to show he was distraught. Mitch let him go on. “We've had changes above my level. People have come aboard who don't know me. All they're seeing is where I've overstepped, those instances when I've had to put not only my toe but my whole foot over the line in order to write business. It makes no difference that I've often had to sacrifice my own ethics. No appreciation for that. The hard-hearted pricks. Losses are all that matter. Can't have losses, especially when they're sizable. One is too fucking many and I've had one right after another lately.”

Ruder sagged, hung his head, like a man looking over the edge of an imminent long fall.

Mitch couldn't bring himself to do a sympathetic comment.

“The Kalali claim,” Ruder said. “As it turns out the Kalali claim is the maker or breaker for me.”

That brought back to Mitch the phone conversation he'd had yesterday with Ruder regarding the Kalali claim. He'd been right about Ruder being under critical pressure.

“You can save me,” Ruder said.

“I don't see how.”

“I've sorted through my chances and you come out as my most likely hope. You're going to recover the Kalali goods.”

An amused scoff from Mitch.

“It's not just a hunch, more like a premonition, a foregone thing. You're going to make a total recovery, you're going to let no one, absolutely no one know that you have, you're going to hand the goods over to me and … I'm going to be off the hook.”

“And grateful.”

“Extremely.”

“To what extent would extremely be?” Mitch asked less amused.

“Yesterday I quibbled with you over a five percent bonus. That was just a reflex, my spontaneous inclination to look after Columbia's interest. I should have been putting myself first. Now I am. Now I'm willing to agree for a ten percent bonus. That would make your end about six hundred thousand.”

“Columbia won't go for that. Five would have been pressing them.”

“They've paid five.”

“Not to me.”

“But they've paid it, believe me. You needn't worry. Anyway, whatever part they won't pay I'll personally come up with. It'll be worth it to me.”

Mitch acted as though he was considering the proposal. He did a covered gaze, aimed it at the traffic contest out on Madison, particularly noticing the black messengers on bicycles, admiring how creatively they won out over the crams and pincering between bumpers and side panels. What was it that compelled those guys to give such flair to the menial?

Really there wasn't much for Mitch to think over. The extra that Ruder was offering him was pure windfall, inasmuch as he'd already decided to give the Kalali claim no less than his best effort. The only difference seemed to be Ruder's stipulation that if recovery was made he not mention it to anyone, hand the goods over and let Ruder take the bows.

That struck Mitch as a bit odd but not unreasonable. Ruder probably wanted to put a little extra drama into his vindication, perhaps wanted to choose the perfect moment to scatter the Kalali recovery across the desk of whoever it was at Columbia who was kneeing his neck. Shit, for three hundred thousand on top of three hundred thousand Ruder could bow until it got to be aerobic, and curtsy too.

“Can I count on you Mitch?”

“Yeah, start counting.”

Chapter 11

For the rest of the week Mitch worked the district. Not just 47th but, as well, where the concentration had spilled the gem trade over onto 46th and 48th.

He didn't give away his purpose. He never did. There was no discernible eagerness or degree of prowl to him. He kept in apparent neutral, circulated casually in and out of places, as though he had time on his hands.

Of course there were those of the street who knew him so well they knew better. At the very least they could guess he was around with some interest. That was especially so in the major exchanges where many of the more established dealers had concessions.

“Simon.”

“Mitch.”

A meaningful handshake.

“What's new with you?”

“Nothing to sing about.”

“You're looking well.”

“I've got trouble with my eyes. A cataract or something the doctor says. Don't tell anybody.”

“I won't.”

“What would I do if I lost my eyes, even a little.”

“You won't.”

“One can't feel how good or bad a stone is. You ever know a half-blind gem dealer? My bones will be picked.” A moan.

“Simon, my good friend, you'll be finding flaws bare-eyed when you're ninety.”

“I should have such luck.”

Thus, person to person, Mitch worked the labyrinths of the major exchanges in both Visconti's and Riccio's territories. He made his way from booth to booth, not expecting to come across the Kalali goods, or even a part of them. It hadn't ever been that easy, wouldn't be this time.

The most he hoped for was a shred of a lead, some little thing that might start an unraveling. It could be as subtle as a divulging quality in the eyes of someone who wouldn't inform outright but wanted to let him know there was currently an important swag deal going down.

He had at least that much coming from Miriam Birkus, who did business out of booth 32 in the Manhattan Exchange. Five years ago Miriam and her husband, Sid, were stuck in a losing streak. It got so bad they were forced to sell many of the special, better pieces of jewelry they'd put aside over the years to fall back on later on.

As so often happens, what Miriam and Sid's plight eventually came to was a week with a turnaround deal in it. Not a totally rectifying deal but one that might start things going the other way for them. A prosperous acquaintance of Sid's was opening a retail store in a large mall outside Chicago. He needed stock, particularly engagement and wedding ring sets in the three to five thousand dollar wholesale range. A New York manufacturer that Sid knew specialized in such a line. He allowed Sid to have thirty-five sets on memo. That is, Sid signed for them, assuming responsibility for their value.

What could go wrong? It was a sweet, quick deal. All Sid had to do was fly the goods to Chicago. His end would be eighteen thousand.

He took an early morning flight. At O'Hare he needed to use a men's room, found one and had his pick of vacant stalls. He covered the seat with a tissue and sat with his briefcase between his bare knees.

He was in the middle of defecating when they came over the top from the adjacent stalls, struck him once behind the ear with something hard and grabbed up the briefcase.

Later, Sid said dolefully that he must have looked too much the gem dealer. He didn't think there was such a look but what else would explain his having been spotted? Fingered by someone at the manufacturer's? Whoever, whatever, suspicions weren't going to change that he had to come up with $122,500 to cover the memo.

Visconti knew enough to not lend.

Sid considered suicide.

Mitch heard of the situation.

He went to the exchange and stopped by booth 32. Just Miriam was there. He was commiserating with her when a young swift came up beside him wanting to sell a swag ring he'd held out from a recent night's work. He was obviously an inexperienced swift, didn't know what he had or the value of it or any better than to bring it out and place it on the counter in plain sight.

An oval-cut fancy pink diamond weighing 4.58 carats flanked by tapered baguettes in a platinum mount. Appraised value: two hundred eighty thousand.

That was the description as it appeared on the Empire Mutual Insurance Company's loss list that Mitch had been going over just that morning.

No mistaking it.

The ring lay there on the counter. To Miriam it was salvation. To the swift some fast money. To Mitch a pat on the back from a client for the partial recovery and a few thousand bonus.

Three times the swift asked too loudly how much Miriam would give him for it. To his knowledge all diamonds were white.

A figure low enough to not contradict that impression was in Miriam's mouth; however she deferred to Mitch.

It was up to him.

He weighed the circumstances for a long moment and then turned his back on the transaction. He heard Miriam say two thousand in a typical 47th take it or leave it tone. He thought what a steal and, after allowing ample time, he turned back around to the counter. The swift was gone, the ring was out of sight. He resumed with a nervous but unburdened Miriam as though the interruption had been imaginary.

Thus, on this day, had the Kalali swag or, for that matter, any other heavy, hot material been on the move within the exchange, Miriam would have informed Mitch with a telling look. However, he didn't discern even a hint of that flavor in her eyes.

Nor was Mitch able to glean anything helpful from Saul Heimel, the cutter whose workshop was located fourth-floor rear of a building on 46th. Heimel, normally a wag who delighted in fertilizing any rumor, was too preoccupied with parrying an insult to his expertise. With the painful-sounding screech of faceting under way on a nearby scaif, a horizontal wheel charged with oil and diamond powder spinning at about twenty-five hundred revolutions per minute, Heimel wanted corroboration:

“Here, you tell me the girdle is thick.” He handed Mitch a ten-power loupe and a four-carat brilliant-cut diamond locked in a pair of tweezers.

Mitch examined the diamond's widest part, that which divided its upper section from its base. “I wouldn't say so,” he said, which didn't necessarily mean it wasn't.

“The son of a bitch claims I've ruined his stone. No thanks for the inclusion I've managed to hide with the bezel facets.”

“Who?”

“Brings me an old miner piece of shit and expects me to recut it into the Star of India or something.” Heimel was close to frothing. “I know his trick. He wants to pay me not so much. Fuck him. He pays or I keep his goods.”

Mitch tried rerouting the topic but to no avail.

And that was how it went for him Wednesday and Thursday. For all his tactical nosing around, nothing. The less optimistic side of him suggested that what he had purely out of the torment suggested to Ruder was quite possibly the case. The Kalali goods were gone, out of the country perhaps, already sold off. He countered that thought with reminding himself how early it was, less than a week since the robbery.

Still, he knew from experience how brief was the expectancy of a recovery. Normally a couple of weeks at most. After that, kiss the goods goodbye.

Chapter 12

Friday morning.

Mitch first went to his office. He dictated a couple of letters, composing patiently to accommodate Shirley's sort-of-shorthand. He signed the checks she put before him and complimented her on the new silk blouse she'd recently liberated from layaway. He also called Visconti regarding the Watermill invitation.

“We have to go up to Maddie's uncle's place,” was his true excuse. “It's his birthday and he hasn't been too well lately.” Both fibs that when they'd been said Mitch knew they were overkill.

“Some other time then.”

“For sure.”

“You heard from Riccio?”

“As a matter of fact, yeah.”

“I heard you'd heard.”

Who was Visconti's wire at Riccio's? Mitch wondered. It had to be someone close in. What would be any have-around's good enough reason to take such a risk? If found out Riccio would tear him apart.