Death by Diamonds

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

            Orly rushed around the bar.  He rolled the blonde onto her back.

            "What do I do?" Orly asked as he knelt beside the woman.

            "Is she breathing?" I asked.

            "Yes."

            "Leave her," I offered.

            "Can't let her lie on the floor."

            "Then call a cab--or an ambulance--or the cops."

            "Can't do that."

            "Waking up in a drunk tank might keep her sober for a day or two."

            Orly gave me a forlorn look, and I knew what he wanted.

            "Don't even think it," I said.  "My baby-sitting days ended when I closed the detective agency."

            "Don't be that way, Ryerson.  A cabby would lift her cash and dump her in an alley."

            "She deserves it."

            "I'd take her, but I can't leave the bar."

            Orly wanted to help, and I liked Orly.  He charged for half the beer I drank, and he would carry my tab for a year if I asked.  Orly was too good a friend to snub over some drunk woman who didn’t have the good grace to pass out in her own place.

            I finished my beer and slid off the stool.  Picking up the blonde’s purse, I fished out her matching wallet and car keys.  In her wallet were the hundred dollar bill's twins; they all looked alike.  Her Connecticut license labeled her Veronica E. Stephen, 26, too young to be a lush.  Inside her purse I discovered a Hyatt-Regency room key and a car rental agreement.  Veronica wasn't even local talent.

            "She's imported," I told Orly.  "Hyatt-Regency blood."

            I refilled Veronica's purse and slung her over my shoulder; she was heavier than I expected, more muscular.

            "Keep the beer cold," I told Orly.  "I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

            I hauled Veronica to her rental car, a red Volvo.  I had once priced Volvos in Los Angeles, but LA exploded before I settled on a model.  Volvos didn't invoke good memories.  I hated the square things.  I couldn't remember the color of the appliances in my California kitchen, but I remembered I had priced Volvos, damn Volvos.

            The people in the Hyatt-Regency concourse gawked as I carried Veronica to the elevator.  I smiled at the gawkers.  Let them think what they wanted.  I shared the elevator with an older couple in their Sunday best, convention hounds.  As thin as a street lamp, the husband studied Veronica's legs appreciatively.  The wife frowned dumpily like a frog.  They appeared as happily married as 75% of all wedded Americans--they tolerated each other.

            "Poor man," the woman whispered as I left the elevator.

            I didn't have the heart to ruin the old woman's impression, so I walked away.  Let the wife think she had one leg up on Veronica after all.

            My back was complaining by the time I dumped Veronica on her king sized bed.  Had I still been in the detective business, I would have fetched $20 from her wallet for my services.  Instead, I placed the room key and purse on the table and let myself out.  My luck was receding like the ebb tide.  In three days, two women had popped into my life.  One had died, the other had passed out.  I had experienced entire years of such luck in the past.

            I never knew if the frumpy wife in the elevator noticed me leave.  If she had, she would have whispered, "that poor woman."  And she would have been right.

            I walked the five blocks back to Klancy's, drank till my eyelids drooped, and drove home.  Sleeping without dreams brightened my spirits for the following day.

*****

            Good days began with sales.  The next morning a plumpish widow with four Yorkshire terriers yapping at the hem of her silk housecoat bought two complete sets of authentic, stainless steel, Japanese, gourmet, cooking pots.  She was buying them for her bed and breakfast in Zionsville.  The widow sported dyed black hair with a silver streak down the middle and a plastic surgeon's idea of beauty.  She asked me to stay for lunch.  I promised to return for dinner.

            The National City Bank around the corner cashed the widow's check without blinking, and I seriously considered returning for dinner.  Middle-aged men facing meager retirements search for silk-lined safety nets.  The terriers, however, doomed the widow.  I had never loved small dogs.  Small dogs didn’t seem worth the trouble.  If I was going to have a dog, I wanted one big enough to hurt me if things soured.

            I hustled to my apartment; I wanted to catch up my past-due rent before my commission transmuted into cold Budweiser.  I shouldn't have stopped, but salesmen are slaves to their phone answering machines, those damn message-waiting lights.

            The voice on the tape sounded worn and tired.

            "Mr. Caine, my name's Meryl Benning, Angel Leshing's sister.  I'd sure appreciate it if you'd meet me at DeGolyer Mortuary."

            I played the message twice, listening for a reason to ignore Meryl's request.  Maupin and Hogan had already soured me on Angel Leshing.  I didn't want to disillusion another diamond hunter.  Starting for DeGolyer Mortuary, I wished I had let the rent slide and drank my commission at Klancy's.

            DeGolyer Mortuary had been fashionable in the 50's, before Interstate highways placed suburbia within a poor man's reach.  The big, wooden house wanted painting; the bushes needed trimming.  Had the owners rectified the mortuary's deficiencies, the building would have been as out of place as the Taj Mahal in the South Bronx.  Repairs ignored, the mortuary blended into the seedy landscape of a nice neighborhood sliding toward ghetto.  Architects called it "harmony."  The government classified the neighborhood as "substandard" and qualified the property owners for block grants.

            A sole mourner sat in the first row of chairs facing the open, flowerless casket of Angel Leshing.  When a dead person doesn't lie beneath a mountain of gardenias, you know the person either wasn't worth spit or had lived in an institution.  I stepped forward feeling guilty.  I hadn't sent flowers either.

            "Mrs. Benning?"

            The mourner stood and faced me.

            "Ryerson Caine," I added.

            Meryl Benning was a colorless woman in her forties.  No eye lashes or nail color or makeup or dye or jewelry decorated the essential flesh.  She stood thin and hard,

bereft of the soft curves of well-fed society.  Her washed-out blue eyes found mine, and she smiled the best she could. She might have been pretty before austerity sucked her dry.

            "Thank you for coming," she said.

            "The dead deserve mourners."

            "I'm afraid Angel didn't keep up her friendships."

            I knew what Meryl wanted, and I felt sorry for her.  Everyone should feel sorry for a woman who can't afford the burying she's forced to do.

            "Angel didn't talk about the diamonds," I began.  "But I'll tell you everything that happened."

            And I did, from Angel running barefoot down Meridian Street to DOA at St. Vincent's.  "Angel mentioned you," I finished.  "Just before she passed out.  She asked me to take her to you, but I insisted on the hospital."

            I lied clumsily, but Meryl smiled in appreciation.  The right word softens even the hardest blow.

            "It'd be nice to find the diamonds," Meryl mused.  "Sure could use the money, with funeral expenses and all."

            "There isn't any more," I said.  "I've told you everything."

            "Ain't that Sy, my husband, ain't a good farmer," Meryl added.  "Bad weather.  Low prices.  Mortgage payments squeeze out everything else."

            I nodded.  I was finished.  I wanted to escape.

            A mourner entered, and Meryl seized the opportunity to move away.  I waited as I had met the mourner during my police days.  His name was Burnam Cole, a one-time pawn broker who had graduated to numbers and loan sharking and eventually to legitimate lending.  Cole had been a fence in his early years.  His connection to Angel Leshing seemed improbable.  Yet, the world regularly surprised me.  I moved to the back of the small, dimly lit room and watched.

            In a silky black suit, Burnam Cole stood next to the casket for over a minute.  He didn't smile or cry or whisper a prayer.  He simply stared at what had become of Angel.  If Cole harbored a pleasant image amidst the loan sharking baggage of his mind, the body in the casket didn't reinforce Cole's memory.  I thought of a green light at the end of a dock in the darkness of Long Island Sound, but then, ex-English professors thrive on dreams.

            I left Cole in front of the casket, Meryl sitting in a chair, her visions of sparkly diamonds befogged by my lack of clues and Angel's demise.

            Cole caught up with me at my car.

            "Mr. Caine?!" he called.

            I closed the Thunderbird's door and waited.  I was surprised Cole remembered me, or maybe he had quizzed Meryl about the other "mourner."  Cole limped across the lot.  A big man, his tanned complexion testified to good care; no doubt he wintered in Florida.

            "Mr. Caine, if you have a minute, I'd like to talk."

            "About Angel?"

            He nodded.  That Cole wore his silver hair in a flattop surprised me, as if he lived in the "good, old days".  His light brown eyes seemed tired.

            "I've told everyone the same thing.  She didn't talk about the diamonds."

            Cole frowned a moment.  "Oh, the diamonds."  He chuckled.  "I don't care about the diamonds.  I want to know if Angel said anything--about me."

            I hoped my surprise didn't show.  Why would Angel Leshing, institution escapee, say anything about loan shark Cole?

            "Don't be surprised," Cole added.  "Twelve years ago I was going to marry Angel."

            I waited because a good liar only begins a lie after he's heard the truth.

            "This doesn't mean anything to you," Cole continued.  "I saw Angel one night in Sparkles and fell for her.  I loved her for a year and planned to marry her.  Even bought a diamond.  Made honeymoon reservations in Niagara Falls.  I'm traditional, I guess."

            I wanted to ask if the diamond had been hot, but I minded my manners.

            "Angel left town before I could propose.  She left without saying good-bye, without giving me a reason.  I woke up one morning, and she was gone.  I thought I deserved...something.

            "She called a year later after she returned.  I wasn't in, so she left a message.  I never returned the call.  Men with big egos don't forget easily.  So I was wondering..."

            Cole studied me hopefully.  He wanted to hear good things, and he didn't care if I lied.

            "Angel mentioned you," I lied.  "She asked to be taken to your house, but I insisted on the hospital.  Even then, it was too late.  Angel gasped your name as she died."

            Cole smiled.  If I ever get to the Pearly Gates and old Pete sends me to the boiler room for lying to Burnam Cole, I'll burn with a grin on my face.  Because Burnam was happy with the lie, far happier than he would have been with the truth.

            "I'm sure you did your best, Mr. Caine.  If I can do you a favor sometime..."

            "There's something you can do," I interrupted.

            "Oh?"  His eyes narrowed.  Burnam Cole had never signed a blank check.

            I nodded at the funeral home.  "There's a woman in there who can't afford the burying she's giving.  The farm isn't paying."

            Cole waved his hand.  "Yes, of course, I'll take care of it.  Anything else?"

            I shook my head.

            "Off the record," Cole continued.   "Did Angel mention the stones?"  His eyes glistened.  Cole wasn’t immune to diamond fever.

            "No.  That secret will be buried with her."

            He shook my hand and limped to his gold Mercedes.  That Cole drove himself surprised me.  Maybe the Mercedes was bullet proof.

            I climbed into my pile of scrap iron and left DeGolyer Mortuary.  I felt better than I had felt in a year.  I had folding money in my wallet, and Cole would settle Angel's funeral tab and relieve Meryl Benning of her burden.  The world still harbored a few generous souls.  Or maybe Cole felt mortal and wanted to grease his path into heaven.  Either way, Meryl wouldn't foot the bill for Angel's grave.  Either way, I felt good.

            I headed for Klancy's where I could share my good fortune.  I would tell Orly about Angel and Cole, and Orly would wallow in the romance of a 12-year-old love affair that ended at a wake.  Orly's wide-eyed faith would rub off.  We would both feel good.  I grinned with anticipation.

*****

            She waited in Klancy's for me.  She sat at the bar in a $300 tan silk suit and red leather high heels, like wearing a tuxedo to the baseball park.  The tavern rats nursing beers at the tables eyed her with unconcealed envy.  Her shoes cost more than their monthly welfare checks.  Her gold Rolex was a year’s rent.  With Orly around, she was perfectly safe, but if looks could steal, she would have been stripped and left for the buzzards.  She should have known better.

            "Here he is," Orly boomed and waved me over.

            She turned and smiled, and I found myself returning her smile despite my misgivings.

            "Remember her?" Orly asked.

            "Yesterday afternoon," I answered.  "She fainted."

            "I passed out."  She offered me a cool, dry hand.  "Veronica Stephen."

            "Ryerson Caine."

            "I want to thank you for helping me," she said.

            Veronica looked softer than moon glow, all blonde hair and big, smoky blue eyes.  "Forget it," I said.  Orly set a mug of Bud in front of me.

            "I'm not usually like that," she added.  "I'd had a...well...a particularly bad day.

            I shrugged and sipped.  Bad days were my norm, so I couldn’t sympathize.

            "Let me pay you for your trouble," she offered.

            "No trouble," Orly said quickly.  I loved the way Orly spoke for me.

            "At least let me treat you to dinner," Veronica said.

            My wallet contained hard cash; I could have refused.  Yet, pretty women didn't often offer to buy me dinner.  Ugly women didn’t offer either.

            "Sure," I said.  "As soon as I finish my beer."

            Orly grinned as if he had performed some magic trick.  Did he really think I needed a matchmaker?

            "Great," Veronica said.  "I've heard good things about a new restaurant on the north side called the Mystery Club."

            I hadn't heard of the Mystery Club, but I knew the location of every Wendy's in Indianapolis.  Salesmen eat on the run.  Poor salesmen eat poorly.  Wendy’s was a cut above something, and when I discovered that something, I’d start eating there. 

            Veronica chatted while I finished my beer.  She sipped soda water and examined me as she talked about coming to Indy.  Her scrutiny made me feel like a black widow's mate.  After the tra-la time she'd swallow me whole.

            “I’ll drive,” Veronica said as we weaved through the tables. 

            “Fine with me,” I answered, noting the envious stares chasing us out the door.

            “Why are they looking at us that way?” Veronica whispered.

            “I don’t know,” I lied.  “Guess they don’t see many women as pretty as you.”

            She smiled, and I knew I had scored some kind of point.  Charm had never been a staple in my personality pantry, so keeping track of points was essential.

            Veronica drove the rental Volvo as if it were a Porsche on a road rally.  As if an hour late for her own wedding, she swerved, speeded, tailgated, and cursed.  She drove as if getting ahead of the car in front wasn't enough.  She wanted something bad to happen to the other “stupid” driver.

            "Slow down," I said.

            She glanced at me and eased off the accelerator.

            "Sorry," she muttered.  "Force of habit.  I drive crazily.  Sometimes, when I have nothing to do, I follow cars.  Just pick one out and follow, to see if they notice.  They never do."

            I lit a cigarette.  Without women, smoking remained my main vice.  "Mind?" I asked.

            "No.  I'm trying to quit, and inhaling your smoke will smooth the edge."

            "What're you doing in town?" I asked.

            "Setting up factory reps for a line of computer accessories my company markets."

            "I'm a factory rep," I said.

            "Oh?"  She surveyed my worn suit, the wrinkles and creases in my mien.  My dearth of success covered me like a rash, as if I were allergic to money.  "Maybe you'd be interested," she said without conviction.

            "Maybe I would."  I didn’t like letting people off the hook.

            She settled back in her seat, preparing her presentation.  Sales people are basically actors; they make a pitch.  She braked for a stoplight, squealing her tires.

            "We offer every computer accessory imaginable, from fan-folded paper and floppy disks to furniture and cables," she said rotely.  "No hardware, no software, just accessories.  It's a growth market.  As computers conquer the world, computer accessories will march right behind.  People have to keep the machines running."

            "I've been thinking about adding computers to my other Japanese lines, but I'm awfully busy at the moment," I lied.

            "Maybe we can discuss business after dinner," she suggested.

            "Maybe."

            "In my room?" she asked.

            "Probably."

            She laughed.  "Are you always so sure of yourself?"

            "Force of habit."  I hadn’t been sure since I was married, and even then I lacked confidence.

            The Volvo leaped away from the light.  Veronica was on a mission.

            The Mystery Club occupied an old mansion remodeled into a restaurant.  Huge, stone, blue and purple spotlights streaking up the walls like stripes to form a blue halo at the roof, the Club nestled in a grove of huge oak trees set back from busy Allisonville Road.  Even on a clear night, the mansion looked spooky.  I wondered what clever designer conjured up the gothic cliché.  Expensive, foreign cars crowded the small parking lot, and I knew I had overstepped my fiscal bounds.  I wanted to tell Veronica to turn around and head for the nearest Wendy's--86th Street and College Avenue.  Instead, I followed her inside like a rat chasing the Pied Piper.

            The hostess wore a black fedora pulled low over one eye and a low-cut, red silk blouse that drew more stares than the fedora.  When she said we'd have a thirty minute wait, I suggested we return to Klancy's.  Orly could slap together a couple of Klancy Burgers, and we could pretend we were dining at Wendy’s.

            "We've come this far," Veronica said.  "The food's supposed to be excellent."

            I acquiesced, and we entered the lounge, a long, low room full of small tables and a bar at one end.  Guns, knives, swords, hangman's nooses, poison vials, and other murder paraphernalia covered the walls; the cocktail waitress sported a shoulder holster with a revolver, a double-billed Sherlock Holmes cap, a poison ring you could examine for free, and a deep cleavage.  The drink menu touted Dr. Watson Wallbangers and Miss Marple Madeira.  Veronica ordered a Remington Steele Sling; I wanted bourbon.  "Sam Spade drank bourbon," I told Veronica.  In the dim light, Veronica’s hair was as bright as spun gold.

            "They say a real murder happened here," Veronica said.

            "Real murder?"

            She smiled like a little girl confessing a crush on her eighth grade teacher.  "I had a hard time finding you."

            "Oh?"

            "Visited six bars before Orly recognized me."

            "Orly never forgets a pretty face."

            "Do you?" Veronica asked.

            "Not on a dare."

            "Me either."

            I chuckled.  Smart women were tough to find.  Smart, pretty women were as rare as perfect diamonds.  The bourbon tasted old, sharp, and the bartender didn't skimp.  I was beginning to like the Club.  I didn't care if we ever ate.

            "You could have robbed me yesterday," Veronica began.  "Why didn't you?"

            "Would've lost my Sir Lancelot button."

            "My, my, my, don't like personal questions, do you?"

            "Look, I'm not a great guy, and you probably won't have a good time.  As a matter of fact, I'm probably lousy in bed, but most women are too polite to say so."

            "Do you want me to leave?"  Her face showed a pain I was sorry I caused.

            "No," I said honestly.  "And that by itself is suspect.  I've lived a long time denying myself everything I wanted."

            "Isn't it time to change?"

            She sounded sympathetic, and for a moment I thought I might tell her about Elizabeth and Sean in California, or Juan Martinez and the Pay-Less Liquor store, or Phineas T. Combs and a Great Dane named Chum.  Maybe I would share the burden of my sins with her.  Maybe.

            "I'm pretty boring some nights," I said

            "We don't have to stay," she offered.

            "Of course we do," I answered.  "I promise to do better."

            By the time the hostess called us, the conversation had turned to brighter topics.  Veronica claimed computers would sooner or later rule the world.  I countered by saying that as long as computers required outside power they remained vulnerable.  Pull the plug and computers were high-priced doorstops.

            The hostess seated us in a square room on the second floor where better-dressed men and women chuckled and chatted in low voices.  A small piano occupied one corner.  Framed murder headlines, weapons, and mementos decked the walls.  Heavy drapes covered the windows.  The forks were silver, the goblets crystal.  In the low light, I thought I was locked inside a Hollywood movie set.  I was glad Veronica was buying.

            "Look!" Veronica exclaimed as she glanced at the menu.  "There was a murder."

            The article on the back of the black menu began, Angel Leshing won the Miss Indianapolis beauty pageant by parading around in a swimming suit two sizes too small and singing like a lark.  She could sing, dance, and play classical piano.  No one ever guessed she was capable of murder.

            I stared at the menu.  The story, Angel's story, was there, every detail, from Gentle Tim to the loony bin.  Dramatized, stylized, told better than Hogan's spiel, the murder jumped off the page.  I watched Veronica.  Diamonds, love, lust, and death captured Veronica's attention as she feasted on every word.  She bit her thumb nail, what was left of her nail.  She glanced up, caught me looking, and pulled her thumb away from her mouth.

            "I used to chew them all," Veronica explained.

            "What?"

            "My nails.  I used to chew all of them down to where they bled.  Now, I chew only my thumbs.  I have eight good nails."  She flashed them at me, bright red nails that matched her shoes.  She kept her thumbs hidden out of long practice.  "It's a compromise."

            "Go back to the story."

            She smiled and continued to read.  Why was murder such a popular topic?  I didn’t have an answer.  I wondered how people could stop chewing eight nails but not ten.

            "My god," Veronica gasped when she finished with the menu.  "What a story."

            Our waiter appeared, a stylized version of Charlie Chan, waxed mustache, wrinkled, two piece suit, ribbon tie, and straw hat.  If he had had Mongolian eyes, he would have been perfect.

            "Honorable guests," the waiter began.  "May I get you something from honorable bar?"

            Veronica giggled.

            "A sling and a bourbon," I answered.

            "Allow me to direct your attention to honorable menu board," the waiter sing-songed.  "On board is clue to the location of tonight's free dinner token.  Somewhere in room token hidden.  Discover token, and meal is free.  However," he shook his finger, "honorable guests allowed only one guess at end of meal.  No token, no free meal.  So solly."  He laughed and shuffled away.

            "Oh good," Veronica bubbled.  "A chance at a free dinner."

            The daily specials had been printed in chalk on the menu board.

                        NANCY DREW DAIQUIRI

                        MIKE HAMMER HALIBUT

                        CHARLIE CHAN CHICKEN

                        POIROT PEANUT BUTTER PIE

            "Let's figure it out," Veronica urged.  "I love puzzles, even crossword puzzles."

            Veronica sounded so enthusiastic I couldn't tell her I had come to hate puzzles.  Puzzles were a luxury of the well-do-do.  The poor faced real life dilemmas like where they were going to eat.

            "Nancy Drew," she mused.  "Drew is past tense for draw.  How about behind a picture?"

            "Look around," I answered.  "The management isn't going to spot a hundred dollar meal to every Bozo who knows the past tense of draw."

            "A little tougher, huh?"  Veronica asked.

            "Just my guess."

            "How about the deck of cards?" she asked.  "Don't you draw cards?"

            "Also water, wire, and guns."

            She laughed.  "Let's try another.  What's Poirot?  Anything French on the walls?"

            "Belgian."

            "What?"

            "Hercule Poirot was Belgian," I said.

            "Belgian?"  She frowned.  "Of course, the bell over there."  She pointed across the room.

            "Or maybe the oriental print on the wall," I added.  "'Murder on the Orient Express'."

            "Oh no," she said.  "That's Charlie Chan's clue."

            I laughed.  "Maybe Nancy Drew's."

            She punched my arm.  "Be serious.  Hammer, hammer, I don't see any hammers."

            "Try the revolver.  Part of the c*****g mechanism is called the hammer."

            "I can't see anything else for Charlie Chan," Veronica replied.

            "The skylight," I offered.

            She looked up.

            "The big dipper is called Charles's Wain."  She stared at me as if I were crazy.  "I'm full of worthless knowledge," I said.

            Veronica gazed around the room.  The bourbon had warmed me; Veronica became prettier, fuller.  I thought maybe I could satisfy her--maybe.  Alcohol engenders a certain courage.

            "There are so many clues," she moaned.  "I'll never figure it out."

            I laughed.  "Charlie Chan" arrived with our drinks, and we ordered dinner.  Veronica tried to wheedle a clue out of the waiter, but he "honorably" demurred.  I watched Veronica and felt the bourbon work.  The room collapsed around us, blocking out the other diners.  A bright aura surrounded her.  We became two people thoroughly enjoying each other, focused on the possibilities of the evening.  I forgot Angel Leshing.

            The food was halfway decent too.  Not Wendy's quality but passable.

            By the time the check arrived, I had discovered much about Veronica.  A Connecticut girl born and bred, she had spent her life in the East.  She liked sloop sailing and snow skiing and shopping for expensive clothes in New York.  Her life had always been easy, and I guessed she could quit her job any time she wanted.  I was probably wrong.  People who acted as if they could quit usually couldn't.  Neither could I.  I couldn't ever quit.  I had the worst pension plan imaginable--none.  Indianapolis bookies covered even money I would never reach pension age.

            A young man, low 30's, arrived at our table as Veronica reached for her purse.  Flashy in black tuxedo, gold ID bracelet, and slick, dark hair swept off his forehead, he rocked slightly, as if drunk or on drugs.  He snatched the check off our table and held it between manicured nails.

            "I'm your host, Nelson Pergot," he began.  "Welcome to the Mystery Club."

            Nelson's dark eyes played over Veronica as if he felt pretty women belonged to him.

            "One check, one guess," Nelson continued.  "Do I rip up this bill or hand it back?"

            Veronica looked to me for help.

            The stranger entered the room, strided directly to our table, grabbed Nelson's arm, and leaned close.  The stranger was thirty-fivish with long straw blonde hair and a flushed face.  He wore designer jeans and a soft leather jacket.

            "I need to talk," the stranger whispered.

            Nelson smiled.  "Not here," he answered.

            The stranger's eyes darted around the room.  His smile flashed on and off like a neon sign, as if his face couldn't decide how it wanted to appear.  His hands danced up Nelson's arm, lightly touching.  Children played the same touching game when they saw a new pair of Michael Jordan Nikes on the rack.

            "I have to have some," the stranger whispered.

            "Not now!" Nelson insisted.

            The stranger stepped back, but he wasn't satisfied.  His hands shook.  His face kept morphing.

            "Please?"  The stranger pleaded like a child wanting a candy cane five minutes before dinner.

            Nelson smirked.  Nelson could smirk with the best of them.  "My office," Nelson said.

            The stranger hesitated; he danced at the end of a thousand watts.

            "Now!" Nelson ordered.  "Don't try me."

            The stranger grinned then frowned and backed out of the room, never taking his eyes off Nelson.

            "Sorry for the delay," Nelson apologized to Veronica.  "Some people have no respect."  He smiled.  "What will the answer be?"

            "Shoot the moon," I told Veronica.

            "But I don't know!" she wailed.

            Nelson chuckled; he enjoyed his little puzzle, his advantage over his patrons.  He probably had concocted some pithy phrase to irritate his guests and prove he was brighter than them.  Some people were always proving how smart they are.

            "Take a wild guess."  Nelson grinned.

            "The piano," I said.

            Nelson's smiled faded.  He eyed me with cold fury.

            Veronica laughed.

            Nelson recovered his smile, but his eyes blazed with anger.  He ripped apart our check dramatically.  "I congratulate you, sir.  You're the first this evening.  May I ask which clue?"

            "Hammer," I answered.  "Little hammers strike the wires."

            "Absolutely.  If you'll excuse me, I'll try my luck next door."

            Nelson didn't wait for an answer but spun and hurried from the room.  The blonde stranger would have to wait until Nelson had proved his superiority to a few more tables--if the stranger could wait that long.

            "You spoiled his game," Veronica said.

            "Nelson doesn't like to lose," I observed

            "How did you know it wasn't the revolver?"

            "Too easy.  Everyone would guess the revolver."

            "Now I'm sorry I didn't have dessert."

            I laughed.  I had come to savor even small victories.

            "What was wrong with that man?" Veronica asked.

            "Nelson?"

            She shook her head.  "The blonde."

            "Drugs," I said.  "He needed a hit of something, something he has been using long enough to miss.”

            "From Nelson?"

            "The guy wasn't taking a survey."

            "Nelson sells drugs?"

            "Someone has to."

            She smiled coyly.  "Tell me," she whispered.  "Are the diamonds still in the mansion?"

            "They remodeled this place to open the restaurant," I answered.  "If the diamonds were here, they would've found them."

            "Oh, boo," she pouted.  "I wanted you to find them."

            "No such luck.  Ready?"  I stood.

            "For what?"

            "Let's find out."

            "Yes, let's."  She smiled and poked my belly.

            We did.

*****

            When I trudged into my apartment the next morning, my answering machine's red light returned my bloodshot gaze.  The male voice on the tape asked me to stop by the Mystery Club.  I hoped the head chef needed Japanese cooking pots to create Chow Mein Marlowe or Sherlock Sushi or some other equally squeamish dish.  A tiny fear whispered that Angel Leshing paved my path into the expansive, private office of Nelson Pergot.  On the phone, Nelson had his back to me.

            The office looked as if it was the library of a man who didn’t read.  Two walls were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with volumes that had never been cracked.  The wall behind Nelson Pergot's desk consisted of leaded windows providing a view of the brightly hued woods behind the house.  A brown leather couch and two green chairs framed an oriental rug.  A neat ladder of magazines lay on top the coffee table.  It was a man's room, woody and large and smelling of tobacco and leather, and the reading material was all show.

            In the middle of the fourth wall gaped an open safe once hidden behind a painting.  The painting, on hinges, was swung to one side permitting full view of the safe.  The safe must have been where Claude Pergot had once stashed his famous diamonds.  On a table in the far corner was a machine I didn't recognize.  Before I could snoop out the machine, Nelson cradled the receiver and began to speak.

            "Mr. Caine."  Nelson stood.  His navy blue Nike jogging suit displayed his casualness.  Surprise dashed across Nelson's face, closely followed by suspicion.  "You!" he gasped.

            "Did anyone else win a free meal?" I asked.

            He chuckled mirthlessly.  "Only you.  Congratulations."

            "Lucky guess."  I sat down.

            "There are few lucky guesses in this business."  Nelson sat.  "Perhaps you know that."

            "Let's not waste time.  Do you want Japanese woks or Angel Leshing?"

            Nelson laughed, a laugh tinged with bitterness.  "Nicely put.  I have no intention of purchasing cooking pots."  He paused.  "My father owned those diamonds.  I'm the logical heir."  Nelson was thirty-something with gray sneaking into dark brown hair now combed fashionably to one side.  Tan skin stretched across his cheeks; brown eyes darted around the room like caged rats.  Although Nelson no longer wore his "gangster" costume, he still looked like a small boy on his first roller coaster ride.

            "And your mother?" I asked.

            A flush crept above Nelson's collar.  "My mother doesn't need the money.  I do."

            "Didn't the insurance company pay off on the diamonds?"

            Anger twisted Nelson's features.  I had a vision of a teenager setting fire to a cat.

            "To my mother," Nelson growled.  "Let me be blunt.  My mother has turned off the tap, and I've depleted my funds creating the Mystery Club."

            "And searching for the rocks," I interjected.

            "And looking for the rocks."  Nelson grinned without enjoyment.  "I intend to recover the stones use."  He stopped and squeezed his desk top, shorting out his anger.  "Let's make a deal," he said.  "We both need money.  We'll split the stones."

            "I don't know where they are."

            Nelson's face said he didn't believe me.  I might as well have told him I was pregnant with his child.  He leaned back in his chair.

            "Mr. Caine, when I was a kid, I read 'Treasure Island' and 'Captain's Courageous' and 'The Sea Wolf', and I could smell the ocean.  I’ve dreamed of the sea ever since.  In school, my teachers would whip me for not paying attention, but I didn’t care.  I sailed ships around the world.  I weathered storms, avoided icebergs, fought jungle natives, loved hula girls--all in my mind.  I can close my eyes and see twinkling stars over black waves, hear thunderous surf on a distant reef.  I smell fish and brine, feel taut rope in my fingers."

            Nelson's hands closed on invisible halyards.

            "I spent a summer in Sandwich, Massachusetts and crewed for three months on a schooner.  The happiest three months of my life.  I want to return to the ocean.  I want adventure.  The diamonds will buy me the boat I need, an around-the-world sail boat.  Can you understand, Mr. Caine?  I need the stones for the boat, to flee from land-locked Indianapolis, to find the sea, a life."

            Nelson's dream lit his face.  He had fantasized about the boat so often, planned his escape so carefully.  He had spent the diamond money a thousand times.  He reminded me of a student I once taught.  Billy Strug handed me his first novel the day before Christmas vacation, his face brighter than a Christmas tree.  He was going to win awards, live the triumph of a literary king.  All I had to do was tell him he could write.  He couldn’t.  Billy wrote like a slug.  The day Christmas vacation ended, I shattered Billy Strug’s dream.  I didn’t want to kill Nelson’s fantasy, but I didn’t have a choice.

            "I don't know where the diamonds are," I repeated.

            "Then why were you here last night?!" Nelson yelled and leaned across the desk.

            For an instant, I thought Nelson might cross the desk and challenge a man on the flabby side of forty.

            "To win a free dinner from a sucker," I answered.

            Anger and fear twisted Nelson's face into an ugly collage of colors.  Nelson was walking nitro, one jiggle and he'd explode into a million fragments.  I understood how some men relished handling high explosives.  I had never volunteered for the bomb squad, but I didn't mind priming people like Nelson.  I wondered about Claude Pergot.  Had Nelson's father angered so easily?  Had Nelson's father been an overloaded reactor cruising toward a meltdown?

            Nelson fought for control.  He grabbed a crystal paperweight off his desk and settled into his chair.  Inside the crystal was a three masted sailing ship, perhaps an old whaling vessel, a memento of Sandwich.  The crystal calmed Nelson.  He leaned as a tight smile sneered across his face.

            "I don't believe you."  He fondled the spherical crystal.  "But no matter.  If we can't cut a deal, I'll take it all."

            I stood.  "Don't waste your time.  The stones were cashed in years ago."

            "Get out, and stay out."

            "This is a public restaurant.  You have to serve me."

            "You're not a minority," Nelson laughed.  "You're not good enough to be a minority."

            I turned and started toward the door.  I stopped by the machine I didn't recognize.  "What is this?" I asked.

            "A microfilm reader," Nelson answered.  "My father sold them."

            "This room is exactly as he left it, isn't it?"

            "Did Angel Leshing mention the reader?" Nelson asked anxiously.

            "The best thing about a secret," I said over my shoulder, "is you can choose the time to reveal it.  This dump will fold in six months.  That's not so long to wait."

            The paperweight slammed into the wall next to me and shattered into a thousand pieces.  I faced Nelson.

            "Goddamn you!!" Nelson yelled.

            Baiting Nelson was stupid, but I didn't care.  I wanted the bastard to stew.  I was about to issue another Caine witticism when the door opened and Canada George Dunne limped into the room.

            I knew Canada George from my police days, when he hustled pills on 30th Street for the Johnson brothers.  Canada was brighter than the Johnsons and inherited the whole East side when the Johnsons' Cadillac Seville exploded like a Roman candle one Saturday night.  The Johnsons fried, and Canada suddenly owned the most fertile drug territory in Indianapolis.  I had been on duty that night.  The Cadillac stank of burnt flesh.  A rookie patrolman had gagged and tossed his cookies by the side of the charred wreck.  I wished I could have joined him.

            Canada stopped short and stared.  Thin, dressed casually in polo shirt and slacks, Canada looked ready for a round of golf, not business.  His gray mustache and permed gray hair made him look older than he was.

            "Hello, Canada," I said.

            "Caine," Canada said.  "What're you doing here?"

            "Not to worry.  I'm not in the business any more."

            "I heard."

            "I won't tell the blue boys you're boosting Nelson.  Is Nelson snorting the snow or just peddling?"

            Canada shook his head.  "We're partners."

            I looked from Canada to Nelson.  "Canada, I gave you too much credit.  This place will die inside a year."

            "Caine!!" Nelson screamed.

            Canada's smile didn't fade.  "Wrong.  Like you were about the Johnson brothers."

            "When you die and enter the boiler room, the Johnsons will be waiting," I told Canada.  "They won't smell too good, or look too good, but they'll remember how they fried, how you bombed them.  I don't think God could devise a more fitting hell."

            "There is no God," Canada answered.

            "Only the diamonds," I said.  "Those big beautiful diamonds."

            Canada frowned, as if not understanding.

            "Get OUT!" Nelson yelled.

            Canada earned his nickname by running off to Toronto during the Viet Nam War.  While starching shirts in a Toronto laundry, George heard a rumor that Canada was going to evict draft dodgers.  George bought a revolver and aimed the business end at his big toe--shot away half his foot.  George didn't know much about firearms, but he wasn't stupid.  He returned from Toronto to connect with the Johnson Brothers.  Then, Canada George bombed the Johnsons who had survived a long time.

            "Diamonds?" Canada asked.

            I smiled at Nelson.  "You've been holding out on old Canada."

            "I warned you."  Nelson jerked open his desk drawer and fished out a black, large caliber automatic.  Nelson pointed the pistol at me.  "You deserve to die."