Authors: Gerald A Browne
"Anyway," Audrey said, "you saw the answer."
"It's by no means new that a stone should have such influence. The Incas strapped chunks of jade to their backs to dissolve kidney stones."
"Topaz prevents epilepsy."
Springer watched a pair of barn swallows playing jet fighter around the barn.
"Some garnets can stop hemorrhaging. During the Crusades the Saracens rubbed them on their wounds."
"Rubies are also good for that."
"And spinels."
Springer watched a dragonfly come in for a landing on the porch railing. Along the flagstone bordering the steps, a single file of ants was bound for some task or treat.
"They say a sapphire held under the tongue will act like a tonic when someone's run down."
"In India the Ayurvedic doctors use gems to cure everything from hiccups to leprosy. They bum the stones and mix the ashes into ointments and powders."
"This very moment in India one could walk into any Ayurvedic pharmacy and buy ashes of pearls or rubies or whatever."
"They call the ashes bhasmas. I remember because when Edwin and I were in New Delhi, he came down with terrible runs. An Ayurvedic doctor prescribed a tincture made from the bhasma of a five-carat emerald, and a pretty stone it was, I must add. After just two doses Edwin felt fit enough to go out for a huge curry dinner. From then on he swore by it. Never traveled anywhere without it. We used to send to New Delhi for it."
Springer headed for the barn, a familiar red-peeling sanctuary. He thought he'd give the old tractor a try, not do any work with it, just take a ride on it to the lower meadow, see if the stream that ran through the property was right for fishing. He couldn't imagine his father gulping down a five-carat emerald no matter how bad he had the shits. Springer inserted a stick into the gas tank of the tractor. It came out dry. He wasn't about to go back to the porch for more of Mattie and Audrey's ridiculous volleying.
Those swallows came swooping through the barn.
Springer was hugged from behind. A long tight hug.
It was Janet. She pressed her cheek against his back. Finally she loosened the hug and he turned to her. Her eyes asked to be looked into, wanting him to realize her equilibrium. She smiled to lighten the moment.
"I know it must have sounded crazy to you, what I said about the stone."
"Sometimes just believing enough in something can work wonders."
"I was going to keep it to myself."
"Why didn't you?"
"It kept pushing at me to be told."
"Well, whatever happened, Jan, I'm grateful to it and happy for you."
"So am I," she said cheerfully, emphatically. "But I don't think it was merely a matter of believing. Maybe it was and I don't want to accept that because it's too tenuous. Anyway, do something for me?"
"Sure. Anything."
"Take a closer look?"
She tucked their father's reminder stone into the pocket of Springer's jeans.
A diamond can have a pedigree.
Like some horses and dogs.
In fact, getting a pedigree is much easier for a diamond. No concern, of course, with lineage and breeding. The only requirements are that the diamond be cut and polished, unmounted, and weigh at least one carat.
Since 1952 the Gemological Institute of America has done a tidy business testing and grading diamonds for the trade and issuing pedigrees in the form of its own official-like certificates. Each certificate states what the GIA found — bad, good, or better — about a particular stone. Any diamond, especially one of importance, unaccompanied by such a GIA certificate is viewed with qualms. "Where are its papers?" a cautious buyer wants to know, suspicious that the stone may not be as fine as his personal appreciation says it is—or that the certificate is being held back because the rating the GIA put on the stone does not justify the price being asked for it. The GIA didn't invent the standards, but it defined them and took over as the authority. Its gemologists have more than good eyes and opinions. The most advanced testing and evaluating devices are used to put a diamond through its paces.
At nine-thirty Monday morning it was only an elevator stop out of the way for Springer to go to the GIA. Its gem-testing laboratory was located on the second floor at 580 Fifth Avenue, in the same building where Springer & Springer had its offices. Springer was a longtime regular customer and therefore known by the receptionist on the other side of the eleven-sixteenths-inch laminated polycarbon-glass bulletproof window. A .357 magnum pistol fired point-blank at her might make her flinch but not bleed. As a concession to Springer, the receptionist relaxed her eyebrows. He asked to see Joel Zimmer.
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.