Lost and Found (3 page)

He shrugs and stands up straight again, letting one arm drop to his side as the other rests on his chest. I notice he has a new pinkie ring, and I’m tempted to ask him which gumball machine he got it out of, but I resist.

“You’re the only one talkin’ about sex, not me. I said we could work somethin’ out. I was talking about … you know … a trade or whatevah.”

“A trade? For what, exactly?” I lift an eyebrow at him, daring him to try and explain himself out of this one.

His face contorts as his puny brain attempts to create a new story, but eventually, it proves to be too much. His expression turns sour and his arms start flapping around like he’s some kind of guido rapper.
 
If it weren’t so hilarious it would be disturbing, since it looks like he’s having a semi-conscious, standing-up seizure.

“Yeah, well, whatevah. You owe me eight hundred bucks rent and it was due last week. You need to pay or you’re gonna get evicted.”

“I can write you a check.”

“No, huh-uh, no checks. Cash only, you know that. Your checks are like rubber balls, bouncing all over the place.”

“Excuse me very much, but they are not. You’ve only taken one check from me in the year that I’ve lived here.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, “and it bounced from here to Jersey.”

He’s still laughing like a hyena at what he considers grade-A hilarity when the door slams shut in his face. Shut down. Hoo rah.

I walk back over to my couch and flop down, staring at the ring again, ignoring Larry’s muted threats coming through the door. This thing is probably worth so much money it could pay my rent for the next decade.

I try to do the math in my head but give up after the first sign of multiplication appears. I need paper and pen to do that stuff, and I’m too lazy to get up off the couch right now. And since I couldn’t afford to pay my cell phone bill as of three months ago, I let my phone die and the calculator app that’s on it went too. My thoughts move on to other issues.

How would I get money for it if I wanted to sell it? Bring it to a pawn shop?

I shake my head at that idea. No, pawn shops don’t give you jack doody for anything good like this. They’d probably offer me a grand, and this thing has to be worth at least fifty grand. Maybe more. It makes my blood heat up just to think of that kind of money. I’ve never made that much in a year, let alone found it in a fountain. I’d have to go to a real jewelry store and try to sell it, not a pawn shop.

My conscience starts to niggle at me. What was this thing doing in a fountain, anyway?

I attempt to picture the woman who would take such a valuable thing, a ring that signifies a man’s deep love and commitment to her, and toss it out at a naked concrete lady and her fishy friends. It had to be that she’d thrown it and not just dropped it, because it was too far up in the fountain to have just fallen off someone’s hand.

I try it on for size. It fits perfectly, but weighs way too much. If this thing left my finger, I’d notice the difference right away.
 
If she’d thrown in a wish-coin and the ring had flown off, she would have felt it leave her hand.

What kind of dumb chick throws a ring like this away? Probably a really angry one. She must have been
royally
pissed. It made me wonder what the guy had done to deserve such a blatant eff-you. I sure didn’t want to meet up with him, whoever he was. With my luck, I’d fall in love with him and he’d destroy me, just like my last three boyfriends had.

To say I’m bad at picking men would be like saying Larry is just a little gross … a massive understatement. I’m done trying to find Mr. Right. Belinda’s happy being single her whole life, so I can be too. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway, but it’s kind of hard to believe me when I’m lying in bed half the time wishing there was someone there beside me.

I put the ring next to my couch, on the stack of books that serves as my side table, and stand up. I’m going to take a shower, find some clean, dry clothes, and then decide what to do with my fountain treasure. And then I’ll have to figure out how I’m going to slip out of here without Larry catching me. Day planned. I’m so organized.

Chapter Five

THE FIRE ESCAPE LADDER MAKES a horrible screeching sound as it drops down to the street below, but thankfully there’s some construction going on in the building next door that covers it up.

I escape to the sidewalk without Larry catching me and take off at a brisk walk. It’s four in the afternoon and I’m going to do a little research before I decide what to do with the ring.

The entire time I was taking my shower I was thinking about what my life would be like if I had a nice savings account, and it started to make me feel high, like I’d literally taken drugs. Yet that high was a little off, because my conscience kept reminding me that the ring doesn’t really belong to me.

If it had been anything else, like a pile of cash with no wallet, or a watch or something like that, I probably could have talked myself into just ignoring the owner and taking the money for my rent. But this ring is a different story. It’s not just that it’s so big and so obviously expensive; it’s that it was a gesture of love for someone, a promise of a future together for two people out there. I can’t get past that, and it’s making my high not as enjoyable as it could have been.

Stupid conscience. Hate you sometimes.

I stop at the doors of a jewelry store four blocks down from the fountain, figuring I might as well start here closest to my work subway stop and near the fountain. Grabbing the handle and pulling does me no good at all; the entire door rattles in the frame. I frown in confusion because there are people inside, both employees and a single customer.

They all look at me like I’m crazy.

I read the sign stating their hours and see that I’m here before closing. What the fudge?

A buzzing sound comes and I realize that this is the kind of place that doesn’t leave their door open for just anyone to waltz in. I’m relieved to know that I’m not considered a threat and pull the door out so I can enter.

The cool air washes over me and makes me shiver. I’m immediately intimated by the fact that I look like a homeless bumpkin in my gypsy skirt and that this place actually smells expensive. Is there a scented candle called money? Because if there is, they’re burning the shit out of it in here.

“Hello, how may I help you?” asks an older woman in a business suit.

I swear she looks like the lady who started eBay. I saw her on Yahoo once.

“Um, I … uh … have a ring I’d like to know what the value of it is?”

She looks at my hands and sees the chunky costume jewelry rings I wear pretty much all the time and smiles uncomfortably. “I see. And is this appraisal for insurance purposes, or…?”

“No, it’s just for me to have a general idea.” I reach down into my bag and pull out the wad of tissues I used to protect the ring. “I … uh … got this ring from my mother, and she said she didn’t know the value but that it was probably a lot and I just wanted to know.”

Since my mother passed away ten years ago, I don’t feel any guilt bringing her into the picture. Maybe it sounds weird, but it was actually nice to think that she was somehow doing this with me. I guess that’s what made me feel like elaborating so much. Or maybe it’s that when I panic, I kind of tend to lie a little. Here it comes. The lies. Oy.

“She was dating this guy for a long time, but he never wanted to get married, so she broke it off and then he showed up with this massive diamond and begged her to marry him, so she did, but then he cheated on her with a tranny and she left him and they got a divorce and he told her to keep the ring, but then every time she looked at it, she got angry and thought about a woman wearing size fourteen heels, so she gave it to me and told me to do whatever I wanted with it.” I smile at the woman, hoping my lie made any kind of sense. “So I was just wondering what the value might be. I don’t need anything official or anything.”

I scratch nervously at my neck. I should mention I also get lie-hives from time to time.

The woman says nothing, she just watches as I place the tissues on her glass display case and start unwrapping them.

When the first sign of the ring appears, she clears her throat. “Hold on a moment, let me get a loupe.”

She reaches under the cabinet in front of her and pulls out a black velvet tray, a white glove, and a metal thing shaped like a thick teardrop.

“You say your mother gave this to you?”

I nod. “Yep.”

“May I?” she asks, gesturing to my wad of tissue.

“Sure.” I move my hands away and let her do her thing.

She puts the white glove on and picks up the ring. In her other hand she picks up the metal thing she brought out, her loupe I guess, and slides part of it away. Holding the ring up with one hand, she puts the loupe up to her eye and uses it to look at the stone really close.

“This is a genuine diamond,” she says.

“Yeah, that’s what I figured. That’s what my mom said.” I can feel my face burning beet red. My neck hive is on fire. Lying is never my favorite form of communication, but now I’m lying and learning that I’ve found a ton of money in the form of a rock. I don’t feel quite as bad about my ridiculous story now. I curl my hands into fists to keep from scratching my skin off.

“Color is very clear, possibly even as good as colorless. Very, very slight inclusions. It’s a natural stone.”

“What does that mean? A natural stone?”

She keeps examining the ring as she answers. “It means it wasn’t created in a lab. It was found in a mine.”

“That’s good, right?” Another hive pops up on my butt cheek. I reach around and give it a quick scratch. Hopefully I’ll never see these people again.

“Yes, it’s the best you can hope for.” She turns the ring around and looks at it from different angles. “And you say that your mother gave this to you?”

“Yes.” I turn kind of sideways and lean my butt on the counter, hoping the sharp edge will bring me some relief. It doesn’t. I just barely stop myself from indulging in a few deep-knee/butt-scratching bends.

She places the ring very carefully onto the velvet tray and takes her glove off. “It’s a beautiful stone. Are you interested in selling it?”

I shrug, my heart going a million miles an hour. “Maybe. I guess it would depend.” I go up on tiptoes and then lower myself back to my heels, using the corner of the counter to scratch my itch. I want to scream with the itchy torture that is my left buttcheek right now.

“On…?”

I try to act casual about the fact that I’m being a money-grubbing fiend right now, but it’s impossible. I’m sweating bullets and finding it impossible to look this woman in the eye. Instead, I focus on a small mole next to her nose.

“On how much it’s worth and how much I can get for it, I guess.” I wave my hands around. “I’m not even sure I want to sell it. I’m just gathering information right now.”

It feels better to say that, like I haven’t yet committed to selling something I don’t really own.

“Well, if you have the certificate for the diamond it would be a lot easier for me to tell you precisely what we could give you for it.”

“Certificate?” I ask, my tone going meek. What in the hell is that for? Are they born? Do they die?

“Yes. Does your mother have the certificate for the diamond?”

“I don’t think so.” I shrug, trying to look innocent. “I’m not sure she even knew it came with one.”

The woman puts her glove on again and picks up the ring, once more putting her loupe to it. “There is an identification number laser-etched into this stone, so we could look it up for you, follow the sales history on it.”

I almost have a heart attack at that little bit of information. Suddenly, I feel the extreme urge to get the hell out of there. More hives. Holy itch-fest.

“Okay, well, that’s great. I’ll take that into consideration and then decide what to do.”

I want her to put the damn ring down, but she keeps looking at it. I’m worried she’s memorizing the identification number.

“Oh, crap, sorry,” I say, as I not-accidentally use my purse to knock her velvet thing off the counter.

She pulls away from the diamond and looks at what I’ve done.

I hold my hand out for the ring. “I’m very clumsy sometimes. Sorry about that.”

She hands me the ring and bends over to pick up my mess. “No big deal, don’t worry about it.”

I quickly wrap the ring up in my tissues and shove it into my bag. “Thanks so much for your time. I have to get back to work, though, so I should be going.”

“Don’t you want to know what the ring’s worth? I thought that’s what you came in here for.” She’s staring at me with a challenge, like my real intention was to come in here and rob the place or something. Wench.

I put my purse strap over my shoulder and grip my bag with my elbow. “Sure, yeah. Do you know already? I thought maybe you’d have to do some calculating.”

“I did.” She gives me a tight smile. “The ring is approximately seven carats, and with the color, cut, and clarity I see there, assuming you can provide the certificate for it, I’d say it’s value is anywhere from five-hundred-thousand to six-hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

I can’t breathe. Nine-one-one. Somebody call nine-one-one.

“Since there is an identification number there, however, you should be able to get a copy of the certificate from the seller of the stone linking it to your mother’s husband and you’d be fine.” She pauses and stares me down. “But if you cannot get a copy of the certificate for whatever reason, you’ll have a hard time selling it for more than a hundred thousand, because diamonds like this are traceable and selling something that isn’t yours is a crime.”

If I thought my face was burning red before, that was nothing compared to what it’s doing now. I’m pretty sure I’m about to spontaneously combust. Fire engines. Me. We’re the same color.

I want to defend myself and tell her to go eff herself for suggesting I’m a thief, but since I did find this ring and my mother’s been gone from this earth for a really long time and she didn’t leave behind a jilted husband who secretly likes trannies, I keep my indignant response to myself.