Stone 588 (34 page)

In 1979 Strand had every reason to feel secure and sanguine about his future.

On a midmorning in the autumn of that year a well-known actress and prodigal customer huffed into Townsend's. Townsend met with her in his office behind closed doors. After about a half hour Strand was summoned. He was shown a diamond bracelet and asked if recently he'd been responsible for seeing that it was cleaned and all its settings checked—something Townsend advised all his customers have done periodically with their important pieces.

Strand remembered the bracelet well. It was made up entirely of pear-shaped one-carat diamonds. He also recalled, as they were shown to him, two diamond necklaces, another channel-set bracelet, and several brooches and clips belonging to the actress that had been in for service at that same time a few months previous.

Townsend brusquely requested that Strand examine each piece closely. Did he see any discrepancies?

Strand couldn't say that he did. He was, naturally, looking more at the structure of the pieces than their stones. And the trouble was with the stones. Someone, the actress claimed, someone at Townsend's—it couldn't have been elsewhere because the only other places the pieces had been were in her bank strongbox and on her body—had replaced many of the stones with synthetics. She had discovered the fact quite by chance when a personal acquaintance who happened to be a wholesale diamond dealer remarked about them and, as a favor, checked them out. She'd never in her life been so taken aback as when she learned many of the stones were fakes. She'd never been so taken period, she said. She was furious, genuinely, not playing a scene.

Strand was allowed to take the pieces upstairs to the work floor where he could better examine them. He returned within a half hour to report that indeed quite a number of the stones that were supposed to be fine diamonds were cubic zirconium. Someone, one of the setters perhaps, must have switched those stones. Strand could offer no other explanation.

The actress threatened to sue.

But not only to sue.

She would, as she so graphically expressed it, drag Townsend's reputation through shit six feet deep. She would expose the entire affair to the press, appear on every news and talk show. She detested fakes of any kind, she said pointedly.

Townsend knew how to handle her. This was the man who had charmed treasured tiaras off imperial heads. He commiserated, as though he himself bore no blame. He soothed her with unctuous sympathies accompanied by perfectly timed compliant nods, shrugs, little distressed coos. He told her that of course he would personally see to it that her missing stones were promptly replaced.

Not enough, she told him.

And, he added, for her trouble she might want to choose any emerald bracelet from those he had in stock.

She was a lioness at feeding time.

He threw her Strand's head.

It didn't have to be Strand's. A lesser head would have pacified her, but Townsend wanted to give himself plenty of margin. It didn't matter that Strand had had nothing to do with the stone switching, Townsend let him go.

Ruined him.

Townsend saw to it that word of Strand's dishonesty was smeared throughout the trade, here and in Europe. He could have played it down, dismissed Strand quietly and squelched any rumors, but he must have been harboring a jealousy of Strand all along, felt his own spotlight threatened. Townsend even went so far as to invent the slander that other instances of such stone switching had been brought to light, that evidently it was something Strand had been doing for years. Thank God, Townsend said with an air of blessed relief, the rotten spot had now been pared from the fruit.

Strand's good standing was knocked flat. It made no difference how exceptional his work was, no one would hire him. It was said no stone was safe in his hands. That those in the trade so easily believed such things about him, that many were even smugly delighted by his fall, was additionally disillusioning for Strand.

He considered taking up a different line of business and floundered for a while trying to decide on what it might be. Jewelry was all he knew. There was no room in his head for anything else. An opportunity came up for him to get into the illicit underside of the trade.

Strand didn't jump at the chance, but he soon reasoned that he might as well live up to the unfairly imposed level of his reputation.

He bought the team of swifts. Scoot and the other two, from a fence with a suddenly bad heart who wanted to move to Fort Lauderdale. It was not an unusual transaction. Fences often sold their teams of thieves for one reason or another, as though they were chattel.

The arrangement between Strand and his newly acquired team was traditional. The swifts would sell whatever they stole only to Strand. In turn, Strand agreed not only to buy all their swag but also to look after the team in other ways. Advance them fucking-around money when there was a dry spell, see that they had a good lawyer on their case should they ever be caught, and, while they did time, provide for their dependents.

As deviative as the underlife was for Strand, in some ways he was well suited for it. He was an expert at removing stones from settings without damaging them, could pop them out in seconds. He was also experienced at handling precious metals. For a few hundred dollars he set up a portable electric smelter in the kitchen of his apartment. After he stripped a piece of all its stones he tossed the setting into a crucible and melted it down. A setting was identifiable, incriminating, but transformed into a lump of gold or platinum it was salable by the pennyweight without risk.

Other aspects of the underlife were not so easy. It took quite a while for Strand to learn the people and how they expected him to deal with them. There were codes held as inviolable as federal statutes, and certain cautionary measures it was assumed for everyone's sake he would adhere to. On the whole, in Strand's opinion the underlife people were no worse than many of the straights he'd formerly dealt with, particularly Townsend.

The hours were another thing.

The team made their hits at night, but at any time of night. Usually around 3 a.m. they would call from a pay phone and say they were on their way to him. When they arrived they dumped their flash in a pile on his kitchen table. Their part done, it was up to him to say what it was worth. They wanted the swag gone and cash in their hands as quickly as possible. Sometimes they were in such a hurry they accepted his approximate estimate of the entire package. Other times they weren't satisfied until he'd weighed every tiny gold chain, calculated every five-pointer, listed and gone over the package with them piece by piece. It could take several hours.

There were times when in their eyes a piece was worth more than he'd quoted. For instance, a single-stone diamond ring.

"How the fuck much did you say?"

"Three five."

"No fucking way, man. Not this time."

"Three five is fair."

"Any asshole can see it's the pick of the package."

"It's a spread."

"The stone will go five carats."

"It's just cut to look five. Thin table, large crown. A spread."

"We don't need you teaching us about stones, man. We know stones."

"A dealer down on Canal will give seven for it."

"You shopped it?"

"We think you're fucking us, man. You been fucking us an inch at a time."

"Yeah, and it's starting to hurt."

Such friction was more dramatic than crucial. Eventually it was always Scoot who leveled off first and brought the others around to being reasonable. Strand realized it was merely their way of confirming that he was sharp and strong enough to keep them in line, but at four or five or six in the morning it was nonsense.

Month after month of such indeterminate routine took its toll on Strand. His circadian clock refused to be reset. He never adjusted to having to sleep during the day, and a night when he got four undisturbed hours was an event. He was so run down that every flu bug passing through New York called on his body.

Well, he'd certainly caught up on his rest while in Danbury prison.

Now, on the morning of his release day, he returned to sit on the concrete bench by the side of Route 37. An engine began growling: a trusty was power-mowing the grass of the prison's slopes. Strand couldn't make out who the trusty was at that distance. Most likely, Strand thought, it was one of those politicians doing a token year for what would be a hundred years for anyone else, and whose grass at home was being tended by a well-paid gardener. Strand ignored the noise. If there was one thing he'd taught himself while inside, it was how to cut out noise.

He held up the tomato he'd bought.

Not to admire it but to determine where he would bite into it.

He wet the tomato with his tongue so some of the pinch of salt he sprinkled on it stuck. He felt the taut, tissuey skin puncture under the pressure of his front teeth. Like some not entirely helpless creature retaliating, it squirted juice and seeds, spoiled the taste of Strand's first bite by staining his shirt cuff.

At that moment a BMW 745i pulled up.

Strand assumed it was the one but he waited until he heard his name asked by the man on the passenger's side. He placed the mortally wounded tomato on the bench where birds were sure to see it. Did a quick study of the man in the car while he wiped his hands on the paper towel. Taking up his satchel from beneath the bench, he got into the rear seat.

When the car was under way Springer introduced himself and Audrey. The situation was awkward. There was common ground for conversation, actually a lot to be said, but Springer felt it would be wrong to get so quickly to it. What should he say? How was it in prison? How does it feel to be out after three years? What?

Strand wasn't about to take the initiative. He gazed out at the Connecticut countryside, which along there wasn't all that attractive: split-level houses with moats of pine-bark chips.

"Ever been up this way?" Springer asked. They were headed north on 37.

"No," Strand replied conclusively.

Springer was at a disadvantage because Strand was seated directly behind him. There could be no eye contact unless Springer strained around and looked over his shoulder. Just as uncomfortable for Springer was having the eyes of this stranger fresh out of prison fixed on the back of his neck. No matter that Danny had thoroughly briefed him on Strand's background, Springer didn't believe anyone could spend that much time locked up and not come out angry.

Concerned with that he hadn't noticed that Audrey was driving, as usual, too fast. The blacktopped road was unshouldered and excessively patched where each winter had heaved it up. The BMW skittered on a curve and grazed the turbulence of an oncoming twenty-ton Mack truck loaded with gravel. Actually it wasn't as close a call as the whirled air made it seem. Springer gestured to Audrey and she let up some. The last thing they wanted was to give Strand the impression that they were foolishly reckless.

Going slower accentuated the lack of conversation, but after a mile or so they were passing through a town and that helped.

"What's this place called?" Strand asked.

"New Fairfield."

A one-stoplight town. Strand observed to himself. Takes a certain kind of person to settle for a one-stoplight town. A lot of people, like Patricia, who were wrong about themselves thought it was what they wanted. Half dying early was really what it was. Fuck that. But what did he want in the long run? The three years in limbo hadn't clarified that for him. If anything, all the thinking he'd done had depleted his possibilities.

One thing for certain. Strand thought, he wasn't ready for these people. Danny had said. Just listen to what they have in mind. As a special favor to me, Danny had said, special implying a due bill. Honest to himself, Strand doubted that he would have consented had he been getting out with someone to go to. In a way these people were surrogates, all he had, and that was a hell of a lonely thing to admit. A couple of straights with a scheme, that's what they were. They were a ride to the city.

Audrey glanced into the rearview mirror and into Strand's eyes. She smiled at him in a way that Springer couldn't.

Strand smoothed his cowlick.

Springer turned to Strand. "What I thought we might do is stop someplace for lunch. There are a couple of nice places over on New York Twenty-two."

"I want to get into the city." "Okay. We can talk on the way."

An hour and twenty minutes later the BMW pulled up where Strand said he wanted to be left off, a prewar apartment house on East 75th Street between First and Second Avenues.

"I'll give you a call," Strand said.

"You can reach me day or night at one or the other of those numbers," Springer told him.

"We'll be waiting to hear from you," Audrey promised.

Strand slammed the car door harder than necessary and entered the apartment house.

Audrey went east on 75th. As she approached the comer of Second Avenue, Springer had her pull over into a hydrant area. From there they looked back at the apartment house Strand had gone into.

"You were really selling," Audrey commented.

"I overdid it?"

"I don't know if you had to go into it as much as you did. Maybe to him it sounded like a sob story. Anyway, what do you think of him?"

"He's a good listener," Springer said sardonically.

"I'll pendulum him when we get home."

The two minutes they waited there at the curb seemed longer. Possibly even longer for Strand. He came out with his satchel still in hand, walked to the comer of First, and hailed a cab.

For the next five days Springer was as edgy as an actor waiting word about a part he'd auditioned for but wasn't entirely sure he wanted.

Audrey helped him cope with his ambivalence.

Drawing from her enthusiasm in favor of the robbery, she bolstered Springer's reasoning that it was the only choice left open to him. She neglected to say how much it appealed to her own penchant for putting everything on the line, as Springer had expressed it. In her mind there was not a grain of doubt that the robbery was possible, would be pulled off by them without a hitch. After all, the pendulum told her precisely that, every time she asked it. She looked forward to all the chancey moments, the stomach-hollowing, the adrenaline-rushing the robbery would involve. Surely it would put to shame such dabbling things as placing phony automatic pistols into the hands of store-window dummies.