Stone 588 (17 page)

"What's so unusual about it?" Wintersgill inquired.

The lump of melting truffle in Audrey's cheek was made more pronounced by her smug smile.

Springer sighed and sipped cognac. This was all old ground to him.

Libby allowed some silence for emphasis before she replied, "It heals."

"What do you mean, heals?"

"Exactly that," said Libby.

Townsend scoffed. He glanced at the stone again. "What are you trying to pull off, another crazy thing like those copper bracelets? Remember, back a way how everyone believed wearing a copper bracelet would ward off rheumatism and all sorts of problems? Is that what you're trying to get going?" Townsend's tone shaded Springer as a small-time promoter.

Libby silenced Townsend by holding up her hand. She held up her other hand and displayed them both, gracefully. "It heals," she contended. She backed up her statement by relating in detail what had happened: her two-hour nap with the stone inside her sleeping glove, her delight when she awakened to find her hands rectified.

Wintersgill had become so used to making it a point not to notice Libby's hands that now he found it difficult to remember them as they'd been. They certainly weren't unsightly now, so some sort of transformation must have occurred.

Townsend had been more observant. He'd noticed the change in her hands right off, at the start of dinner. Those two large diamond rings had drawn his attention to them, of course. He had sold numerous expensive rings to Libby in the past before her hands became ugly. None since. In certain ways, Townsend believed, he knew Libby better than anyone else. He had developed a special sense about her, a sort of barometer that measured her receptivity, told him when her wants outweighed her resistance. It made no difference what had caused the change in her hands. Perhaps next week or next month they would be uglier than ever. What did matter was that this dirty diamond had his premier client completely convinced. He doubted that Springer had the good business sense to realize the advantage. "Interesting," Townsend commented. He placed the stone on the table, told Springer, "Why don't you drop around tomorrow and we'fl talk about it."

Audrey picked up the stone, sealed it in its plastic envelope, and shoved it into Springer's jacket pocket, 'it's not for sale," she said.

"Would you care for a cigar?" Libby asked Springer, signaling a servant before he'd had a chance to reply. Offered in a sterling replica of a cigar box were Monte Cristo Habanas, the finest from Cuba by way of London. They smelled better unlighted, was Springer's opinion, as he, Wintersgill, and Townsend puffed up individual clouds.

The conversation hopped along from a recent auction of old masters at Sotheby's to what we had to do to recapture the America's Cup to the truth behind a recent Palm Beach Murder. Ernestine in her Prussian way was telling a joke that to be funny required the word cunt to be said. Libby came to her rescue.

"It's been ages since I've bought a piece of jewelry."

"Last week," Audrey quipped.

"I mean an important piece." Libby frowned. "I've never owned an original piece that was truly important."

Springer would have bet against that.

"Always it's some necklace that once belonged to Empress Marie-Louise or a bracelet that was made for Catherine the Great," Libby complained.

Townsend studied her for a moment, sat back confidently.

"What I want is a piece that  I'll be remembered for, one that someday a few hundred years from now someone will buy knowing it was once mine." Libby looked to Audrey for concurrence. "That's a reasonable desire, isn't it?"

A why-not? shrug from Audrey.

"That's what I want and that's what I shall have," Libby decided.

"Describe the piece you have in mind," Townsend suggested, assuming he would be the source.

After a thought Libby said, "A necklace. Contemporary, simple. The sort of thing Bulgari might do except with diamonds only. I can't bear what so many jewelers are doing with semiprecious stones these days—with topaz and tourmaline and the like, setting them large as goose eggs as though that somehow compensates for their commonness." She turned to Springer. "Don't you agree?"

He agreed.

Libby asked him, "Could you find for me perhaps ten or a dozen diamonds that are perfectly matched?"

"What size?"

"Say, twenty-five carats each."

Springer hid the expression he thought must surely be on his face with his brandy glass. A large sip put his stomach back where it belonged. His eyes avoided Townsend.

"D color," Libby stipulated, "and flawless inside and out."

"It'll take some looking to come up with perfectly matched stones of that quality and size," Springer said.

"He'll find them," Audrey quickly assured her.

"How much would you be willing to spend for this necklace?" Springer asked.

"Ten to fifteen million. How does that sound?"

"About right," Springer said nonchalantly.

"You, Springer, will supply the diamonds, and you, Townsend, will make the piece." Libby looked to Townsend for agreement.

He managed a believable smile and said, "No problem."

Springer knew Libby was throwing Townsend a bone. Most of the profit would be in the diamonds, the headaches would be in the design and the mounting.

"No objections from the Foundation, I take it," Libby said to Wintersgill, who bulldogged his lips to convey it was a minor matter and shook his head no.

Springer was already wondering how he was going to finance such an order. He didn't have that kind of capital or credit. He was no Townsend.

As though reading his concern Libby told him, "Although this is more or less in the family and trust is not a question, to help smooth the way Wintersgill will arrange with one of our banks for a letter of credit for up to fifteen million. You may draw from it as you need."

Wintersgill said he would take care of that tomorrow. He jotted it down on a little pad that he took from his inside jacket pocket, as though fifteen-million-dollar expenditures were so commonplace they required such reminding.

Springer thanked Libby.

"No," she said, holding up her hands, admiring them and smiling softly. "Thank you."

Springer and Audrey said their good nights and departed for the city at eleven thirty.

Townsend left shortly thereafter. He left alone.

As soon as Townsend was gone, Libby and Wintersgill went upstairs.

The young woman, Ernestine, did exactly as she'd been instructed. She remained in the ground floor reception for fifteen minutes before going up, to that extent hyphenating the evening and making this part of it seem more voluntary.

Ernestine's shoes made subtle gritty sounds on the stairs. She'd been told not to try to be quiet; in fact, to exaggerate each step. So, when she reached the upper landing and proceeded along it, the clicking of her high heels was cadent, the stride of a woman not to be denied her destination. All the way down the landing to the wide hallway of a wing: she counted off four doors on the left.

She entered.

The room was large, with a high ceiling, done romantically in pale brocades and gilt. It was strategically lighted so there would be no hard edges or obvious realities: a flattering magenta tint. The bed had no spread or top sheet on it. Its pale linen covering was fitted, stretched so tight it appeared a surface incapable of being disturbed.

Wintersgill was on the far side of the bed. He was nude, standing stock still. Ernestine did not acknowledge him. Her eyes gave him no more than they gave the furnishings. She moved apparently aimlessly about the room, though actually it was a bit choreographed. Pausing to study a Degas, running her hand over the flower heads carved on the crest of the backrest of a Louis Quinze fauteuil, touching, as though mildly interested in, the hard intricate ormulu mount on the corner of a commode.

She had been told not to hurry. To allow the setting to accept her. She lighted a cigarette and sat at a mirrored dressing table. Studied her reflection, was successful as she could be in conveying the impression that she truly appreciated herself. The minuscule gold flecks on her eyelids shimmered.

A nearly imperceptible ringing sound was heard. It faded.

Ernestine undressed. As though she were alone and impatient to be free of her clothes, she took off everything except her shoes. She had a long body, thin but not unsubstantial. Only the studs of her hipbones were a bit too pronounced. Her navel looked like a vertical knife puncture. Her breasts were circular rises not full enough for even slight pendancy. Aroused-looking nipples.

She stood with most of her weight on one leg, making her buttocks asymmetrical, a widened space between her thighs. As though mindless of what her hands were doing she reached down and tugged at her pubic hair, left and right of herself. It seemed a secondary consideration that she went over to Wintersgill.

She stood off from him a way and looked him up and down, walked around him, examined him. He remained unmoved. It was up to her how she would arouse him. She would not, she told herself, get caught up in it. No matter what. She cared nothing for this man. He was to her as much of an object as he was pretending to be. The money when it was over was the only thing. She would keep the money in mind when she did anything.

She took his genitals in her hands, as though her hands were a serving bowl, lifted the flaccid mass and was a bit surprised by their weight. She squeezed them gently and every so often purposely let them know one or the other of her fingernails. He didn't respond.

She would, she told herself, have to suck him. Men always wanted her to suck them because of her full lips. She believed she was good at it and she usually enjoyed doing it, except when a man was large. And this one would be extremely large when he was hard. She had no choice.

She knelt, made sure of her position, and began. She expected that he would enlarge in her mouth, but he stayed the same. No matter what oral tricks she resorted to, he stayed the same. It was embarrassing for her. It angered her. She persisted, until . . .

Again, for a moment, there was that resonant ringing sound.

Ernestine wondered what she should do next. Should she masturbate? Should she go to the end of the bed and spread her legs and do herself? That seemed so obvious. These were complex people. No mere fingering, writhing, and moaning would satisfy them.

She sat on the side of the bed only to be off her feet. She crossed one leg over the other and bobbed her foot nervously. Let him think up something, she decided.

Again that resonant ringing sound.

Wintersgill came over to her, stood close before her, presenting his genitals to her.

Ernestine's hand lashed out at them.

Caught them with a sharp slap.

Struck them with two more slaps.

She was surprised by how swiftly he hardened. She was both infatuated and frightened by his enormousness.

On the wall opposite the foot of the bed was a recess flanked by silk brocade portieres. It accommodated a Regence daybed. The recess was in shadow. It was impossible to see Libby. She was fully clothed, seated on the daybed with her legs drawn up under her. The wine goblet in her hand was nearly empty. She had sipped some and spilled some, neither out of excitement.

It was boring for Libby tonight. She felt removed, unable to concentrate and use it. And this after she'd saved herself erotically for two whole weeks.

Wintersgill wasn't the problem. Nor could the girl be blamed. The girl was everything Townsend had said she would be. Actually, that cock-slapping business of hers was rather fresh.

Libby yawned.

She considered lying down, possibly curling up on her side with her back turned to them. Instead, she decided she would wait until Wintersgill put his cock into the girl. During the commotion that would cause, it would be easy for her to leave unnoticed. They would be players without an audience. Now, that was an entertaining thought.

Libby lifted her wine goblet, signaled them to get on with it by flicking her fingernail against its delicate, ringing rim.

The rest of that week went by swiftly for Springer. He sailed through it as though levitated.

He pridefully informed Mal of the big chunk of business he'd picked up from Libby. Never had Springer & Springer gotten a single order of such magnitude. In one swoop four times as much as the firm did over a normal year.

Springer figured the dozen twenty-five-carat stones Libby wanted would each cost anywhere from eight hundred thousand to a million two. Say a million, on average, twelve million altogether. That would leave three million, out of which Townsend would get his expenses and charges for the setting. How much could Townsend charge? A hundred thousand would be exorbitant, more than that unjustifiable. Thus, Springer & Springer stood to make close to three million on the deal. All those zeros kept going off like explosions in Springer's head.

How sudden the change, he thought. From the dregs of Seggerman to the quintessence of Libby in the same day. And to think he'd been avoiding meeting Libby all these many months. Her largesse notwithstanding, he still wasn't sure which Libby he should believe—the slasher or the charmer. He wasn't vain or foolish enough to accept that his winning ways had brought about the difference in her, as Audrey contended. Libby hadn't begun merely dubious of him and been won over. The lady might well be as engaging and hospitable and generous as she'd turned out to be, but Springer felt sure that between the slasher and the charmer was ... the stone.

He owed the stone.

He sat alone in his office Tuesday afternoon with it the only thing on his white sorting pad. It was, he thought, so damn inanimate. If it was so remarkable why didn't it do something, give him a sign of some sort, perhaps roll over on its own, not just lie there? He reviewed what he knew about it, what his father had chosen to tell him as one of his indoctrinating stories:

In February of 1958 Edwin Springer had, as he regularly did, attended the sights of the Consolidated Selling System in London. At his appointed time he showed up at 11 Harrowhouse Street and received his box of rough diamonds. Edwin was informed beforehand of the price The System had placed on his box. Two hundred and ten thousand dollars, a formidable sum for those days.