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  “This is an absurd way to examine a gem,” said Dr. Martins, signaling he wanted a different tilt to the piece. “All right. Back,” he said.

  He circled the ruby, like a bee considering a petal, and then he moved to the sapphire. On the sapphire he only nodded, and then moved down to the diamonds, signaling for the big trunk of gold to be turned for each one.

  “Well,” said Dr. Martins, “we certainly can’t sell all these wonderful gems like this. Can’t be done.”

  “I told him that. I told him it couldn’t be done that way,” said Battissen.

  Vern Andrews placed a hand on the dish at the top.

  “I’ll tell you again what I told Geoff here. When you bring three million dollars, this here piece goes with you and the three million goes in this box. That’s it. No deals.”

  “Where did you get it?” asked Dr. Martins.

  “You tell me, I’ll give you a thousand dollars.”

  “I’m sure it’s genuine and legitimate. We just haven’t located its general area or form,” said Battissen.

  “It’s a saltcellar,” said Dr. Martins.

  Andrews nodded. He had thought it was some kind of royal pedestal for something.

  “Yes, now that you mention it,” said Battissen. “And most real.”

  “I’ll buy the diamonds if you wish. I might give you some sort of price on the sapphire, but what am I going to do with that ruby?”

  “That’s your problem,” said Andrews.

  “No, it’s not. It’s yours. That is a major gem. I believe that is a pigeon’s blood ruby, but I can’t tell you its quality. I can only guess.”

  “Then what’s going on here?” asked Andrews. “Are you buying, yes or no?”

  “You don’t understand the market you’re trying to reach. This is not like some Hollywood movie with a chest of colored stones as a treasure. People don’t buy gems that way, a half dozen large rubies and a dozen emeralds. You’ll never sell this.”

  “I told him there was a way it was done,” said Battissen. “Now maybe he’ll listen to you. Of course it has to be broken up.”

  “No,” said Vern Andrews.

  “Then I can’t do anything for you. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I,” said Andrews, pulling up the sack. More dried dirt sprayed out onto the table. This time Dr. Martins did not back away but reached for Andrews’s hand. He had seen the sapphire, well over a hundred karats and even in this fluorescent light screaming its greatness from its bowels. He couldn’t let this bumpkin play these games with such a gem. It offended him that a man who talked like that, wore those sorts of suits, and had that outrageous haircut, would own such a valuable piece, so many valuable pieces.

  “Look. I think I know someone who could buy the ruby. I’d like to bring him.”

  “He better not be six foot five and carry a knife,” said Andrews.

  “What do you think we are?” asked Dr. Martins. “This is ridiculous. This is no way to sell major gems, under a fluorescent light of a vault. Are you some sort of criminal?”

  “Three million dollars cash is a great way to get yourself killed. When someone gives me my three million, I will just have it transferred from down here in this box to a teller upstairs and wired to my home,” said Andrews. “And that’s the way it’s gonna be, especially with people who sign their names in as Smith.”

  “Battissen Galleries will give you a receipt,” said Battissen. Andrews laughed and pushed away the hand Dr. Martins had on the burlap sack.

  “Mr. Andrews, the only man I know who could purchase the ruby correctly would not tolerate doing business in a vault,” said Dr. Martins. “He is known to museum curators throughout the world. Anyone who deals in major rubies knows of him, and he probably is one of fewer than five people who could properly sell that ruby you have. Please.”

  “If he sees it, he sees it here,” said Andrews.

  An hour later, a man who didn’t look as though he had the price of a pair of shoes showed up in a suit that had to be twenty years old and was worn around the sleeves. He had a face like a collapsed rubber bag with lines that formed a perpetual scowl. He could have been called elderly except he was too spry.

  He did not say hello. He did not sit down. He said: “Where is it?”

  His name was Norman Feldman. He had signed in as such. Dr. Martins watched the older man’s face the way Battissen watched Dr. Martins. So there was a hierarchy among these people, thought Vern Andrews.

  Andrews stripped the burlap from the golden shoulders, quickly down to the diamond feet.

  “What am I supposed to look at?” asked Feldman.

  “That’s not a real ruby?” asked Battissen.

  “Who’s he?” asked Feldman, glancing at Battissen.

  “He introduced me to the seller,” said Dr. Martins. Andrews leaned back against the wall of safety deposit boxes in a gesture more reminiscent of a farmer leaning against a fence, tucked a thumb under his belt, and let them all know if he wasn’t going to be bowled over by the other two, he certainly wasn’t going to be moved by this man.

  “Of course that’s a real ruby,” said Feldman. “But I’m not going to look at it in this light. This is fluorescent light. You need north light. This is shit. What are we, a bunch of crooks? Meeting in a vault. Is it going to be midnight in an alley? What goes on here?”

  “Is that or is that not a magnificent ruby?” asked Dr. Martins.

  “Of course it is, and I’m not buying it in some basement with a fluorescent light.”

  “It ain’t moving, buddy,” said Andrews.

  “Any reason you want to keep it hidden?” asked Feldman.

  “I don’t want to be robbed,” said Andrews.

  “You think it’s stolen. You wouldn’t be selling it like this if you didn’t,” said Feldman. “Someone like you would be in Tiffany’s instead of with these gonifs. Don’t tell me you’re going to be robbed there.”

  “I have reasons that are my own,” said Andrews.

  “I’ve never seen that ruby. That’s a very big pigeon’s blood ruby. I’ve never heard of it,” said Feldman. His voice whined. So there really was a very narrow market for a ruby this size, thought Andrews, if this man could think it was odd he didn’t know of it.

  “It’s a saltcellar,” said Battissen.

  “Then why aren’t there scratches in the bowl on top?” asked Feldman, peering across the table and down at the bowl on top.

  “Perhaps they were careful,” said Battissen. “It’s a magnificent piece.”

  “If that’s gold it will scratch with salt and it has no scratches in it,” said Feldman.

  “Oh god, maybe it’s not gold?” gasped Battissen.

  “Of course it’s gold. You don’t set those stones in chopped liver,” said Feldman. “I’ll give you a half million dollars just to get that ruby out of this crowd and into good north light.”

  “Three million for the whole thing,” said Andrews.

  “I don’t want the whole thing. Six hundred thousand.”

  “Three million. You break it up.”

  “I don’t deal in diamonds. Seven hundred thousand.”

  “I’ll add three hundred thousand for the sapphire,” said Dr. Martins. “That’s a million dollars for the two gems alone. You’ve got fifty pounds of gold, diamonds, things you can sell more easily—”

  “Hold it,” said Feldman, nodding to Andrews. “I am dealing with this man. I will be happy to pay you a commission. But I am not going into business with you.”

  “Any way you people want to work it out. I’m not breaking her down,” said Andrews.

  “If you want to bring the ruby into the north light, I can go nine hundred thousand dollars. Maybe a million,” said Feldman. “I don’t know why you won’t show it in a legitimate setting unless you know something I don’t know.”

  “A quarter of a million dollars more just to look at it in a different light? Who are you kidding?” Andrews laughed.

  “Sonny, you ha
ve never seen the power inside a great ruby. And you can’t see that power in this light. Power is what the great gems are about. Holding it. Owning it. Here, I couldn’t tell you anything more than she is a big pigeon’s blood. In a north light I would know what I am buying.”

  “And I’m supposed to carry that thing on me to some place under the sun so’s you can look at it in a better light?” asked Andrews. He didn’t like being called “sonny” and he knew this New York Jew didn’t care whether he liked it or not.

  “Sonny. When and if you sell this thing, tell the buyer that if he brings it to Norman Feldman, he may get a million dollars for it if he is willing to deal like a human being. I don’t need this shit, not even for that.”

  “Then what’d you come in here for?” asked Andrews.

  “To see a great ruby. And I’d still like to see it. Now, let me out of here. I don’t want to stay here. This isn’t for me,” said Feldman.

  “You’re pretty damned touchy,” said Andrews.

  “Just wrap up your toy, and let’s get out of here.”

  “Tell him he’s never going to sell that cellar whole,” said Dr. Martins.

  “You want to reason with a fool, you reason with a fool,” said Feldman.

  “Is it possible you don’t want to sell the cellar?” asked Battissen. “Maybe you have an attachment to it that’s emotional. I’ve seen it in art. Somebody wants to sell a piece but can’t give it up.”

  “You’re right. I do have an attachment. But I am going to sell it. I’ve got a buyer for the whole thing. And unless you fellas come up with my price, I’ll give it to him.”

  “You’re lying,” said Dr. Martins. He almost made a grab for the cellar.

  “Mr. Andrews, please be reasonable for once,” said Battissen.

  “Why are you two assholes wasting your time with another one?” asked Feldman.

  Outside, Geoffrey Battissen commented what a shame it was that such a hayseed should have something so valuable.

  “He doesn’t know what he has. He just knows a price,” said Dr. Martins.

  Norman Feldman trotted quickly across the street. He didn’t want to be on the same sidewalk with the other two. He was certain the dying was going to begin.

  “Dad, there’s a telephone call for you. Some very British gentleman wants to buy something of yours,” said Claire Andrews, getting up from the sofa of the parlor of their Waldorf suite. She put down her book and went to kiss her father. She wore a light pink bathrobe.

  “You didn’t go out, not for anything?” asked Vern Andrews, glancing at the book.

  “It’s New York, Dad. I’d rather go out with you,” said Claire. “You know how I feel about New York.”

  “You felt that way about Paris and Rome and London too.”

  “But not as bad as New York,” said Claire. She was a beautiful woman with striking sharp features and sheer blond hair; she looked like a movie actress Vern Andrews always considered the ideal, possibly because the actress looked like Claire: the late Grace Kelly, who died a princess. But unlike that Philadelphia beauty Claire did not consort with princes. She was twenty-eight years old, unmarried, and went out occasionally with a local fellow so mealy even she could push him around.

  The Andrewses had tried sending her to Radcliffe, but instead she chose Ohio State so she could come home weekends.

  Andrews had left her here in the suite that morning with an admonition to buy anything in New York City she wanted. From the leftovers on a plate yet to be removed by Waldorf room service, he could tell she had settled for a tuna fish sandwich.

  “I don’t know why I’m trying to earn all this money, Claire, if you’re not going to spend any of it.”

  “I don’t know why either, Dad.”

  “Peanuts, am I ever going to win an argument with you?”

  Claire Andrews smiled at her father, and he knew all of it, every bit of it, no matter what it was, was worth it for that smile he had loved since she was four months old.

  The British caller had not left a number but said he would get back. He did. And Andrews took the call in his own bedroom.

  “Mr. Andrews, I am interested in a piece you are selling out of an International Bank branch office. Is it still available?” came the voice, very clipped, very British, very dry. There were no unnecessary words.

  “Only if you have money,” said Andrews.

  “The asking price is three million dollars, yes?”

  “Cash. I’m not looking for talk. I’m looking for buyers.”

  “If it is what we want, I’ll pay on the spot.”

  Vern Andrews knew not to jump up and yell hot diggity dog. He also knew when he had a live one.

  “How did you hear about it?”

  “It’s late today. What about ten in the a.m. tomorrow when the bank opens.”

  “Sure. Will Battissen be there?”

  “I don’t know any Battissen.”

  “Wonderful, neither do I,” said Andrews and hung up, whistling. He wouldn’t even have to pay a commission. He composed himself before he went out to see Claire again. She didn’t have to know anything about business; all she had to know was to enjoy herself and let her father sometimes know how happy she was.

  “What’s so crucial? What’s so exciting? What’s so mysterious?” asked Claire as soon as he entered the parlor.

  “Just some business, peanuts.”

  “It’s not just business, Dad. What is it?” She put down her book again.

  “Nothing you have to know. But maybe something you should know,” he said. A hotel suite didn’t seem the right place, so he waited until dinner, at a good New York restaurant. Just before they ordered, with drinks in their hands so things would be calm, he explained to her the seriousness of his last heart attack, a year ago. He had not wanted her to know how bad it had been. It was the worst of them, and he realized he didn’t have all that much time. More than anything, he wanted to leave a fortune so immense, Claire would be one of the richest women in the country. He wanted to do this last thing for his baby.

  “I know you didn’t want that much. But I wanted it for you. Do you understand? I needed to leave you this great fortune.”

  “I do, Dad,” she said. She thought he was the most beautiful man in the restaurant. If she could find one like him, half like him, she would marry tomorrow.

  “I leveraged heavily. No risks, no gain. I ran into a cash-flow problem, and I couldn’t let any of my creditors know how badly I needed the money or all of them would have come down on me. We would have lost everything. So I came to New York and very quietly and very discreetly put something valuable up for sale. In fact, damned secretly.”

  “You’re valuable, Dad,” she said. “Things are just objects. People make them valuable because of what they think and feel. That you did it is the important thing to me. In my view.”

  Vern Andrews, a powerful man, with a strong face and strong hands stretching out of white cuffs with glistening gold links, felt his eyes water as his beautiful Claire touched his hands with hers. She would always be rich enough to believe such crap.

  II

  The Englishman was waiting for him with a suitcase the next day at the bank. He had no requests to see the cellar in a special light. He was a bland sort of fellow who seemed too pale for sunlight and too dour for private business. He introduced himself as James. He carried a valise.

  “What’s that?” asked Andrews.

  “Money, if you have what I want,” said the man. The vowels seemed to resonate in the back of his throat, that sort of superior British sound, but the man did not give any of those sorts of airs. He could have been waiting for a bus on some street corner.

  Inside the bank, he sat down at the gray-topped table, and as though going to work pulled out a notebook and a pair of callipers as Vern exposed the golden saltcellar with the luxurious gems. The man showed neither joy nor lust, but the sense of a burdensome job. He didn’t speak, and seemed to have places on the cellar to look at, c
hecking with his notebook every now and then. He measured the major gems like a clerk making sure a count was correct.

  When he was done, he opened the dark valise with a combination lock, exposing rows of orderly one-hundred-dollar bills.

  “Three million. Your asking price. Count it.”

  The valise had a nice fresh odor of cash. Vern Andrews looked at the money that he could infuse that very afternoon as lubrication into the dry joints of his investment empire. He looked at the man with the valise wide open. He was obviously just a messenger, but the messenger carried a note Vern Andrews had been able to read since he cadged nickles and dimes by helping drunks home from Carney bars when he was young. The message said, “There is more where this comes from.” It said: “Push me. We’re good for it.”

  He could have taken what was there in front of him, but if Vern Andrews had taken just what was there in his life, he would have ended up working for the McCaffertys in Carney, instead of marrying one of them. He would never have gotten this piece if he had been like most men, who only took what was there. He would have been afraid of the old American gold laws, of the U.S. Army, of losing it all. He would have been afraid to go for more.

  In the safety deposit vault, he could still remember how he had found it. He remembered the troop ship coming back from Europe, the smells of sweat and rotting pieces of food soldiers always kept by them for snacks, the quart of Scotch smuggled on board and selling for fifty dollars, a fortune at the time, more than a man could expect for a weekly salary. Because he had always been a good gambler, the sail home was like a three-week bonus to World War II.

  They were on a large, slow British tramp steamer converted for the duration to a troop ship, and they were boarded with several other companies. Before they sighted America, Vern had won eighteen thousand dollars, mostly at poker, none of which came from his own platoon, which he was really using for bodyguards. He knew that if a man didn’t have friends to protect him, that much money in cash could get him thrown overboard real easy.