The Tavernier Stones

Chapter 8

David met Sarah at a diner on Market Street, where she was nibbling on a plate of fries. He joined her in the booth.

"Did you get it?" she asked.

He removed a folded envelope and a small plastic bag from his shirt pocket. He unzipped the bag first and showed her a four-prong Tiffany ring mount. Stamped inside the shank were "18K" and the image of a lightning bolt.

"How much was it?" Sarah asked.

"Three hundred dollars."

"You could have gotten it from a jobber for less."

"True, but the jobber would come with a disconcertingly wide gap in his face known as a mouth."

David unfolded the envelope next, after first pressing it between his thumb and fingers to find the lump, and removed a colorless, amorphous stone from the soft blue tissues inside. It looked like an ordinary piece of abraded glass.

"We have until Sunday," he said. "That's the last day of the month."

"Don't put it off until the night before, like you always do. You know how you tend to underestimate these jobs."

The waitress arrived to take David's order. Sarah listened, blinking in disbelief, as he itemized a quarter chicken, coleslaw, potato salad, French fries, fluffy butter biscuits, a half-dozen zesty chicken morsels, and a cardboard envelope containing granny's apple pie—a pie that, when bit into, would release the thermal energy of an exploding star.

"That's enough food to make a starving fat man cry for mercy," Sarah complained. She pushed her own half-eaten plate of fries away. Then she watched as David's eyes followed the waitress back to the kitchen.

"Satisfying?" she asked.

"Oh, she could satisfy me, all right," he replied. "She could do it easily. In fact, I bet she could do it lying down."

"That's one of your traits I respect, David. You don't hide your crushes. If you did, I might have to get jealous."

"They don't call it a crush anymore, honey. Nowadays it's known as a hard-on. By the way, did you get the job?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, one of the photographers recognized me."

"Well, give it a few years. When you're old and ugly they won't recognize you, and maybe they'll want to take your picture again."

"You're sweet."

When the food arrived, David ploughed into it as though the platter were an open-pit mine.

"How can you stand gnawing on bones like that?" Sarah asked.

"I'm higher up the food chain than they are. I don't lose any sleep over it."

"If you saw what they do to it in the kitchen, you might."

"The thing about food is, the more hands that touch it, the better it seems to taste."

"At a five-star restaurant, maybe. But not at the Poultry Palace."

"Move over a little so I can watch the waitress while I eat. Hurry, she's about to bend over."

"You're disgusting." She picked up a French fry and nibbled on it halfheartedly. "Any progress on the ruby?"

"Not yet, but give me a couple of days. If other portions of the recut exist, and if they're as big as Bancroft says they are, there'll be photographs of them somewhere, you can be sure of that."

"Can I help in any way?"

David almost choked on his food.

"I guess that means no," Sarah said in mock resignation. "At least I could help look for maps."