Green Ice (10 page)

“I wasn’t.”

“Just reminding.”

Hunching was moving the hand forward over the edge of the ring. Being extra careful not to do it now hurt Wiley’s concentration. He shot and missed, way off.

She hunkered down again, both knees in the dirt, and with admirable accuracy proceeded to knock out three more hoodles, winning that game.

She was six ahead.

Did she want to collect now?

She said she could wait.

They played most of the afternoon. After the first four or five games the competition lost some of its edge, at least enough so that they talked of other things.

“What were you originally?” she asked. “Nearly everyone was something else originally.”

“I was into electronics.”

She seemed interested. “You got out because you weren’t good at it.”

“No.”

“Why then?”

He told her about it, briefly, the high and low points of MIT, Humes, Special Dynamics, Litting. For him it was like touching on old scarred-over wounds, didn’t hurt.

“What were
you
originally?” he asked.

“No fair asking the same question.”

“All right then, tell me, is Argenti really important to you?”

She thought a moment. “In one way yes, in another no.”

Wiley decided he’d better not try to corner her.

Three Mexican children watched from the bushes, curious. Two boys and a girl out to earn centavos by searching for lost golf balls. All about the same age, ten. Lillian called them over. They admired the marbles, handling them as though they were precious. Lillian showed them how to play and took pleasure in it. Her patience surprised Wiley. He decided she must have been from a poor family.

The children left.

Lillian lost her touch for the last few games. Wiley won big, closed the gap, ended up five ahead.

“I’ll pay off now,” she said.

She kissed him once on the forehead, once on the chin, once on each cheek—all brief pecks—saving the one on the mouth for last, good and long.

“I thought the winner was supposed to do the kissing,” he said.

“Nope. Otherwise I would have won.”

He kissed her anyway, and they held together after the kiss for a long while.

On their way back to the hotel he asked when he might see her again. She promised soon. Considering the circumstances, particularly Argenti, he thought it would be unfair to press her for more of a commitment. He told her he was staying in 114, in case of emergency … or anything. At her bungalow they didn’t say good-bye. She went up the stairs to the landing, turned for a last look. Both her knees were caked with dirt.

Wiley didn’t go directly to 114. He went down to the beach, to walk just above the reach of the water, where the sand was firmer. The sun was going down. Not much day left. Wiley bet himself he was the happiest sad man in the world. It occurred to him that he was still married to Jennifer.

After nearly an hour he returned to his bungalow. He still didn’t have a key and hadn’t wanted to leave the front door unlocked, so he’d been coming and going over the terrace wall, in and out through the bathroom window.

First thing he did inside was check to see if his twelve thousand was still in the base of the lamp. It was. He washed up, then lay on the bed. He was sunburned, and his back was slightly stiff from the marble playing. All that bending over. In great shape, he thought. He’d forgotten to smoke all afternoon. He opened the bedside table drawer for a fresh pack of cigarettes.

There was something else in the drawer.

A drawstring pouch. Similar to Lillian’s, except black chamois. Immediately, he thought she had put it there while he was out walking on the beach. How had she gotten in? Over the wall? He wouldn’t put it past her. No doubt it contained marbles, perhaps her precious black German shooter and maybe even a note.

He opened the pouch and emptied its contents onto the bed.

They were green.

They weren’t marbles.

Seven stones of various sizes, averaging about three quarters of an inch by a half inch. Six-sided, rough on the ends as though they were chunks broken from natural hexagonal columns. Not perfectly green, each stone variegated from a deep to a lighter, brighter shade, with traces of a silvery-black substance that seemed to be only on the surface.

Wiley thought he’d never seen anything like them. But then he recalled something: a school class afternoon, a sixth-grade visit to the Museum of Natural History on Central Park West. There had been glass-enclosed cases exhibiting examples of minerals and gems. He’d been most fascinated with the uncut diamonds, rubies, and emeralds.

These stones reminded him of those emeralds, had all the characteristics he vaguely remembered. Of course, they could be something else entirely, something not valuable, only semiprecious. But then, why in a pouch so finely made, soft and expensive? Anyway, emeralds or not, how had they gotten there in the drawer? He doubted Lillian had anything to do with it. Evidently it was meant that he should find them. Why him? Perhaps not him. But if not, then who?

Prentiss came to mind. Prentiss, the man who had been assigned this suite. The mild-mannered American. Now that Wiley thought of it, Prentiss had looked more as though he was there to do business than to vacation.

Wiley examined the stones more closely. He noticed clear patches on the end of each stone, like little windows. Not natural, but made by polishing away that much of the surface. He switched on the lamp, held one of the stones up and sighted into it. He saw in through one window and out the other.

In between, a blazing green.

He wished he had a magnifying glass or, better, the kind of glass jewelers put to an eye, a loupe, he believed they called it. Not that that would have enabled him to know more. He’d never had anything out of the ordinary to do with gems.

The phone rang.

This time, after he said hello twice, a voice on the other end asked, “Did you receive the samples?”

“Yes,” Wiley said without thinking.

“Yes what?”

“I … I’m looking at them now.”

“Your recommendations are impressive, Prentiss. However, because we have never met you or done business with you before, we prefer to deal on a reasonably modest basis. We offer you six thousand carats at five hundred a carat—the quality, of course, equal to that of the samples.”

Wiley thought he’d better set things straight. But he didn’t have a chance. The caller clicked off. No matter. Whoever it was would realize the mistake soon enough. The stones were definitely emeralds. He put them in the bag and back into the drawer.

A nap. He rolled over onto his right side and dropped off deep. He slept for nearly an hour. The last forty-five minutes were shallow while he did arithmetic. Simple multiplication but, in semiconsciousness, difficult. Five hundred times six thousand. The zeros were confusing, too many wouldn’t stay in place. The sum came to him just before he awoke.

Three million dollars.

His sunburn was worse now. His face felt tight enough to crack. He hoped it wouldn’t blister. There was nothing among his toilet articles to do it any good. He poured a drink, Stolichnaya on the rocks. On impulse he dabbed some vodka on his forehead and fanned himself. It was cooling. He opened the double windows of the living room front and back so there was cross ventilation. Gave himself a vodka rub, splashed it on. The breeze delivered blessed relief.

He had dinner alone in his suite.

He managed to resist calling Lillian until ten o’clock. He would hang up if Argenti answered.

She answered. She didn’t sound surprised or put off.

Could he see her?

When?

Tonight.

No.

For only a few minutes. One drink.

Perhaps tomorrow.

He hated
perhaps
.

“You’re a hell of a shooter,” he said.

“Know what a snooger is now?” she asked.

“No.”

“A near-miss.”

“Would you care for me more if I were rich?” He realized how sophomoric that sounded.

“Who said I cared for you at all?”

“You don’t.”

“I do, but I didn’t say so. Lots of things are left unsaid.”

“Well, would you?”

“Rich?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. I suppose I should say I wouldn’t care more if you had money … but then again, honestly, neither would I care less.”

He was just as ambivalent about how to take that.

“Anyway,” she told him, “you’re hunching.”

He backed off, made sure before he signed off the impression was casual, carefree. Again she didn’t say good-bye, and he said, “See you.”

Three million dollars.

Three million would change a lot of things.

Could he cut himself in for even a slice of that? Possibly. From what he’d gathered, the cryptic phone calls and all, this was an underhanded deal. They, whoever they were, had mistaken him for Prentiss because he’d taken Prentiss’ suite. By their own words, they had never met Prentiss. On the other hand, Wiley had. What would happen if he went on posing as Prentiss? They’d expect him to hand over three million for the six thousand carats. But it might not be out of line, perhaps even more credible, if he asked to examine all the emeralds before closing the deal. Most likely they’d permit it. All he’d need was three or four hours, time enough to locate Prentiss. Assuming the seller’s identity, he could offer the emeralds to Prentiss at, say six hundred instead of five hundred a carat. If Prentiss didn’t go for it, Wiley could merely return the emeralds to the sellers, stall on some excuse or other and disappear. But if Prentiss went for it … Wiley would pay the sellers their three-million asking price and keep the difference: six hundred thousand.

Tempting thought.

It could work.

There’d be danger all the way. If he got found out, they’d probably do more than just rough him up.

Wasn’t it worth the chance? Didn’t it suit his reckless new life-style? Lillian was only another reason in favor of it.

An absolute must would be that the sellers and Prentiss remain apart for the time being. Everything would depend on that. Where was Prentiss now? Probably waiting for
the
phone call. Or perhaps Prentiss wasn’t as straight-laced as he appeared, had, by now, dived headfirst into the erotic milieu.

Six hundred thousand …

7

Six o’clock the next morning.

Another phone call. Same voice.

“Are you ready for the goods?”

“Yes.” A part of Wiley warned him to stay out of it. He suppressed it.

“We will meet in two hours.”

“Where?”

A long pause. Wiley thought the man had rung off.

“Playa de Soledad.”

Solitude Beach.

Wiley asked a porter for directions, was told it was about seventeen kilometers to the north, he should watch for a dirt road on the left. Maybe there would be a sign, sometimes there was. Perhaps the
Señor
should take a taxi.

His better judgment told him to go alone. He drove the Volks. Along the way there were numerous dirt roads off to the left, one or two nearly every kilometer. But then, none at all at seventeen kilometers, or eighteen. Either the porter had been wrong, or Wiley had missed it. Fortunately he’d allowed himself some time. He turned around, drove back slowly, and there was a road, easily visible from that direction. That could be it.

It was only a quarter mile to the beach. He was ten minutes early. If this wasn’t Solitude Beach, it looked it. Not a sign of anyone, or of anyone’s ever having been there. Both ways, up and down the beach about two hundred yards, were rock formations, like craggy ramparts. Pelicans on them.

Wiley lighted a cigarette as he walked to the water’s edge. The tide was ebbing. He took a deep drag and, before exhaling half of it, took another. Five minutes went by. Ten. He would wait until eight-fifteen, no later. If he was on the wrong beach, perhaps that was how it was meant to be.

He was still there at eight-twenty.

A man came out of the foliage and stood just beyond the growth line, about fifty feet away. He observed Wiley for a long moment before starting toward him. A chunkily built man, overweight but powerful. He wasn’t dressed for there, had on a fresh white flannel suit, collarless white shirt. Pointy-toed white shoes. As he came nearer, Wiley realized from his features and the bluish-brown cast of his skin that he was an East Indian. What hair he had was black and dry, tufted left and right and around, making a bushy horseshoe shape on his skull. He carried a white Panama-type straw hat in his right hand.

“Mr. Prentiss?”

Tell him who you really are, smartass, Wiley thought, but responded with an indefinite nod.

“We wondered where you were.”

The same voice, same man as on the phone. He had a small gold bead, like a drop of dew, on the flare of his left nostril. Wiley told him, “I’ve been waiting.”

“In the wrong place.”

“These beaches all look alike.”

“No matter.” He smiled, but not with his eyes. “This is equally suitable.”

Another man appeared on the shoulder of the beach. It was Prentiss.

At that same moment the Indian revealed the gun he’d been holding hidden under his hat—a thirty-two automatic.

This was the first time Wiley had ever been up against a gun. He feinted a move left, stepped in and let go a right with all he had. It caught the Indian just in front of his left ear. Heavyweight that he was, he didn’t go down, but it did knock him off balance enough to give Wiley a chance to run.

A run for his life down the beach, darting from side to side to make himself a more difficult target. Two shots. Missed, but so close he heard them sing by. He kept running full out until no more shots. He glanced back. The Indian hadn’t pursued, was standing there with his gun lowered because Wiley was now out of range.

Wiley would go for cover.

But another man in white stepped out of the foliage at that point of the beach, raised his gun and fired. The bullet tore into Wiley’s right side a couple of inches above the hipbone. It was like someone with red-hot teeth had taken a bite of his flesh. He didn’t know how badly he was wounded. He’d run until he dropped.