West 47th (37 page)

“No,” Djam told him. “Kalali was well-aware of what he was taking. Those emeralds were kept in a special glass case in the vault. He knew their religious history, how much they were valued. That was what he was counting on, how much we would be willing to pay to have them back.”

“How was it you knew Kalali had them?”

“We didn't at first. It could have been any one of the Shah's entourage who had swiped from the vault. There were dozens. It could even have been the Shah himself, considering it was such an audacious act. We learned that it was Kalali when he made an overture in a roundabout way to negotiate a price. That was early on during his California days. His trepidations must have gotten the best of him. He broke off contact and disappeared.”

“One would think with your resources …”

“This large country is inhabited by diverse people. It's much less difficult for someone to get lost than it is for someone to be found.”

True enough, Mitch thought. His curiosity asked Djam: “How much would you have paid Kalali for the emeralds?”

“Kalali was a condemned man.”

“Say he wasn't, how much?”

“The same amount we're now offering.”

Had Mitch heard right? “What do you mean offering?”

“I am authorized by the Committee of Cultural Reclamation to reward whoever recovers the emeralds for us with twenty-five million dollars.”

Wishful hearing, Mitch told himself, the guy hadn't really said twenty-five million. “How much did you say?”

“Twenty-five million.”

“American dollars.”

“Naturally.”

Oh how that would fit, Mitch thought. If true, his pessimism reminded. “To whom have you made this offer?” he asked.

“I would rather not say. To several people.” Djam did that smile again. Unfortunate teeth. “And now you,” he said.

Riccio, Mitch thought. It explained why Riccio had resorted to such extreme, old-mob violence with Ralph. Rather than wait for the Kalali swag to possibly come his way he'd gone after it. It also explained why Ruder had done such a quick change when he realized the emeralds weren't in the recovery. Item thirty-two, missing. Sure, Ruder was looking at a nice, fat twenty-five-million score. Out of which he was going to give Mitch, for doing all the work, a skinny extra three hundred thousand. Big-hearted Ruder, the prick. And since Mitch had seen Djam coming out of Visconti's office, no doubt Visconti was in on it. “Why didn't you come to me first?” Mitch asked.

“You were on my agenda,” Djam replied. “However, I was told you wouldn't be amenable to such a proposition.”

“Who told you that?”

“You were described as … I believe the way they put it was … too straight. Also, it was said you wouldn't be motivated, you didn't need the money because your wife was wealthy.”

A chuckle from Maddie. “Mitch was your best shot,” she told Djam. “He probably would have recovered your precious emeralds for nothing. Isn't that right, Mitch darling?”

Mitch turned partially away as though to deflect Maddie's words. The numbers got into him, took over and ran across the front of his mind like a repetitive electronic sign, starting with a two, then a five, then a comma and all those zeros.

He could handle that.

Chapter 26

He was in his office on the phone with Hurley.

“Is the guy real?” Hurley asked.

Mitch had just told him about Djam, the emeralds and the twenty-five million offer. “Hard to tell. It looks it, sounds it.” In the cooler light of Tuesday morning Mitch had allowed his skepticism to snap back into place like a filter.

“Could be he's a throwback,” Hurley said.

“What do you mean throwback?”

“The Arabs had their day. Was a time when any prototype Arab who could afford a good suit, impressive luggage and a suite for a week at the Pierre was someone who got his ass kissed. Remember? A lot of them were into it only for that reason.”

“Yeah.”

“Then came the Japs. Same thing. Next maybe the Chinks coming out of Hong Kong. So, could be your guy … what did he call himself?”

“Manonchehr Djam.” Mitch still had trouble with the name.

“Could be he's a throwback.”

“You're probably right. I'd prefer that you weren't but probably you are.” If so, Mitch thought, the Iranian was also fucking with Riccio's head, and Visconti's. Djam hadn't struck him as that foolish but who knows how far someone doing such an ego scam might dare to take it. “This morning,” he told Hurley, “just for the hell of it I was going over the chain of possession of the Kalali goods. The link that's missing is the swift, Floyd.”

“We picked him up.”

“What's his version?”

“We picked him up in a body bag. He had a mouth-first hole in his head. Now, I ask you, when you want a guy to give up something how can he say what you want to hear when he's got a throat full of pistol?” A short inured laugh from Hurley.

“How about the other swifts?”

“We got the one called Tracy. He's about as stand-up as a paraplegic. We only sort of promised a plea and he laid the whole thing out for us. Says the girl Peaches popped Mr. Kalali.”

“Believe him?”

“Yeah.”

“He mention the emeralds?”

“Come to think of it I did ask him about them. He never saw them. Everything except Peaches' earrings went to Ralph.”

“How's Peaches getting along?” Mitch inquired.

“I should be such a lie artist. So far she's changed the scenario eight times. You heard from Ruder?”

“Why should I?”

“No reason. He just might get it in his head to call you … from the spot on the floor where he sleeps in the West Side bus terminal. How's Maddie?”

“The same, perfect.”

“Give her my best. No, give her
your
best.”

“I try.”

While Mitch was on line one with Hurley line two had started blinking, and Shirley had picked it up. She'd brought in a message slip. Mitch read it now. Originally her precise handwriting had said:
Riccio wants to talk with you
. She'd crossed out the
talk with
and replaced it with
see
and an exclamation point.

Twenty minutes later Mitch was climbing Riccio's gritty, vinyl-covered stairs. The same fat have-around was on duty on the landing halfway up. He wanted no part of Mitch this time. He backed aside awkwardly and sat on the edge of the daybed. “You got an appointment?” he asked.

Mitch ignored him, went on up to Riccio's rooms. He had to go through Bechetti to get in to Riccio but there was no problem: he was expected. Riccio was at a Formica-topped table against the wall, going over some swag that had come in from the preceding weekend. In a small adjacent room off to the right a couple of have-arounds were watching a television talk show.

Riccio didn't usually get up to greet someone but now he did. He came at Mitch with a big smile, a two-handed shake and flattery. “Nice to see you, Mitch. What is this with you? How come you're looking so good. You just get a haircut or something? Come on, sit. I was just going to have some coffee.”

“None for me, thanks,” Mitch said, mindful of the billions of bacteria there would be on the rim of one of Riccio's dirty cups.

“How come no coffee?”

“Doctor's orders.”

“What is it, the belly?”

“Nerves.”

“Nerves can lead to an early death,” Riccio recited as though it was sky-writing.

They were seated at the Formica-topped table, diagonally across from one another. Folding metal chairs that didn't match. Eight skinny black twists of cigars bound by a rubber band. The swag. Three separate lots. Mitch assumed one lot was that which would be broken up. Another was what would be kept, the third awaited Riccio's decision. Mitch tried to disregard it.

“What do you think of this?” Riccio asked, tossing Mitch a piece from the unsorted lot.

Mitch thought, for one thing, that it didn't deserve such rough handling, especially when he held it up and realized how fine it was. A
sautoir
consisting of natural seed pearls and tiny diamond rondelles suspending a frosted rock crystal hoop that was delicately bordered with bagettes of calibré onyx and tasseled with ruby heads. Mitch's appreciation was obvious.

“Like it?” Riccio asked.

“It's nice,” Mitch understated. Not to waste his expertise, he held back telling Riccio it was Mauboussin circa 1910.

“It's yours,” Riccio said.

Mitch placed the
sautoir
on the table. It didn't belong here, he thought, not in this ugly, smelly place being mishandled by coarse hands. It deserved to be around the neck of a lovely, high-fashioned lady, to give her fingers something to fuss with, during the public phase of a rendezvous at the bar of the Ritz in Paris.

“What's the matter?” Riccio asked.

“It's not my taste,” Mitch told him.

“That's not right. You don't like it you should still accept. If it was anybody but you I'd consider it an insult.” Riccio gathered up the
sautoir
and relegated it to the break-up lot.

To Mitch that was a kind of murder.

“Let's be more comfortable,” Riccio said.

They moved to a nearby couch. It was new but cheap, the sort that would soon go lumpy. “I take a nap now and then,” Riccio explained. A regular foam rubber bed pillow had a pink and yellow floral case. A crucifix over the bed. “I hear you had some good luck,” he said.

“How's that?”

“The stuff you brought me the pictures of a couple of weeks back. You found it.”

“Who told you?”

“That insurance guy. What's his name?”

“Ruder.”

“That's it, Ruder. He said you found the whole package and made a nice score. I'm happy for you. You deserve.”

“When did you talk to Ruder?”

“Last week sometime. I think it was Wednesday. Yeah, Wednesday.” Riccio called out to Bechetti who immediately showed himself in the doorway of the television room. “Wasn't it Wednesday we talked with that insurance guy?”

“Yeah, Wednesday,” Bechetti corroborated.

If Riccio and Ruder knew each other it was news to Mitch. One thing for certain: if they had talked and Ruder had mentioned the recovery it couldn't have been Wednesday. Ruder didn't know about it until Thursday. “I heard that Ruder is missing,” Mitch said offhand.

“No shit. You mean he ain't been around anywhere?”

“Since Thursday afternoon.”

“So, who gives a fuck? Guy like that gets missed for a while, month or two it's like he fucking never was.” Riccio inserted a finger behind the top button of his shirt. He stretched his neck. The shirt was overstarched, the collar like a blade at his throat. “Tell the truth, I didn't like the guy. He was a piece of shit.”

Mitch noticed the past tense.

“Know what happens to a guy like that?” Riccio went on. “He fucks with the wrong people. They take exception. He keeps on fucking with them and they have to hurt him. They could pop a cap into him but that ain't satisfying enough, they don't want to just do that. Know what they do? They hold his mouth open and pour diamonds into him. Then they give him four or five shots in the belly, hard right hands right in there. He's an asshole. He's coughing blood but he's still fucking with these wrong people. What can they do? Throw him in the river? Not yet. First, to make sure he sinks, you know, that he doesn't gas up and bloat and come to the top someplace, they slit him up the front and rip his guts and everything out like he was a fish. That way they also get back the diamonds. Happens to a guy like that who fucks with the wrong people.”

Mitch had never disliked Ruder to the extent that he'd wish him such a fate. He knew, however, as sure as he'd just heard Riccio's horror story, it had probably happened. A shiver climbed the ladder of his spine. His facial expression remained unchanged.

“Anyway,” Riccio said, “Ruder told us when you handed over that swag to him you held out.”

“I turned in all there was.”

“Except a pair of emeralds.”

“I never had them.”

“Look, I don't blame you for putting those emeralds aside, not when there's this sand nigger moving around saying he'll give twenty-five extra large for them.”

Riccio's phone rang. He went over to his desk and answered it. A grunt instead of a hello. It wasn't a conversation, at least not from Riccio's end. Just a series of flat
yeahs
and
nos
. Mitch looked past him and saw Fratino in the television room, the doorway framing him. Like a tableau, Mitch thought. Have-around in a short-sleeve wrinkle-proof shirt with pistol rig on. Hyper reality. He should be exactly done in acrylic and exhibited at the Whitney.

Riccio returned to the couch. “I'll make you a deal for the two emeralds,” he said.

“I told you, I don't have them.”

“Sure you do.”

“What can I say?”

“You can say what kind of a deal like the sensible, straight guy I think you are and I'll tell you I'm willing to give you one extra large for them and you can think about it for five or ten seconds in order to look smart before you say okay, Riccio, that's what you can say.”

While those were Riccio's words, Mitch was asking himself why was he there? Breathing the same air as this man and the others. He wasn't one of them. He would never be one of them. No matter how the street shaped him. They happened to be inhabitants, an ingredient of the mix. They tolerated him. He tolerated them. The bubbling coo of pigeons in the eaves. Transmitted television voices. Precious stones lost in the high-pile weave of the wall-to-wall rug. Riccio farted without apology. What am I? Mitch asked himself, a social chameleon?

“I don't get it,” he told Riccio.

“What don't you get?”