“It’s an ill wind and all that,” Prescott said.
“That’s the truth,” Hobart agreed. “Ever since the temperature went up, I can barely keep the bar stocked, and we’ve had to keep customers waiting in the parking lot from about eight o’clock until closing.” He grinned. “I’d fit them in somehow, but the damned fire marshals come to see me more in this weather, too.” He leaned forward on the bar close to Prescott’s table and looked significantly at the sport coat Prescott had across his lap. “If you brought me something, I can look at it. I’m ready for a break, anyway.”
They walked to the unmarked door near the stage, along the concrete hallway, and into Hobart’s office, a converted storeroom with no windows. There was room only for a desk and two chairs, because Hobart’s filing system seemed to consist of papers thrown into empty liquor cartons and piled in rows along the wall. Hobart locked the door and turned up the air-conditioning while Prescott sat down. Prescott set the summer-weight sport coat on the desk and reached into the inner pocket. Inside was a small package wrapped and addressed to himself, so that in case of trouble he could drop it in a mailbox. He opened the brown paper and sat back.
Hobart looked at the three ladies’ watches, one by one.
“They all run good?”
“Yes,” said Prescott. “This Rolex retails for two thousand, two fifty. It’s about a year old. The Patek Philippe is thirty-five hundred new, but there’s a scratch on the crystal. The Omega is about fifteen hundred. The diamonds on the dial would be extra, but I’m pretty sure that was some kind of special order, so I’ll let that cancel them out.”
“What should we ask for them?”
Prescott squinted, then stared up at the ceiling. “Let’s say three thousand for the lot. If they have to get split, I’d like fifteen hundred for the Patek Philippe, and I’ll keep the others.” He was aware that Hobart was studiously keeping his eyes from resting on the antique brooch in the center of the open butcher paper.
Hobart lifted each of the watches, listened to it tick, and set it aside. “I’ll try.” He picked up a diamond engagement ring. “Looks like three-quarter carat.”
“That’s what I make it,” said Prescott.
“A thousand?”
“Done.”
He lifted a gold chain, tossed it up and down to feel the weight, examined the jeweler’s mark. “The workmanship is good, not too distinctive. A hundred an ounce?”
“Sounds okay,” Prescott said.
Hobart scrutinized each item, giving estimates and receiving Prescott’s approval. He never wrote down a price or notation of any kind, as though by tacit agreement there should be no evidence that the merchandise had passed into this little box of an office. He kept going until there was nothing left but the brooch.
He poked it with his finger, then picked it up and turned it around and around, examined the clasp, then set it on the desk.
“What do you want for it? Four or five thousand?”
“The center stone is an emerald, and it’s old, so there’s zero chance it’s been cracked and repaired with synthetic bond.”
“You’re sure?”
“The setting is Victorian.” He was silent for a moment. “I know it’ll have to be broken up, but the diamonds alone are worth about four. I’ll take eight for it, as is. If it doesn’t sell, I’ll split the stones myself and sell them off one at a time.”
Hobart shrugged. “Eight it is.” He looked at the jewelry he had moved to the side. “Three for the watches if they sell together, a thousand each for the six, seven, eight rings. Eight thousand for the brooch, I make it seven hundred for the chain. What’s that?”
“Nineteen thousand, seven hundred.”
Hobart stared at the merchandise. “If you’ll let me give you your money tomorrow, I’ll make it twenty even,” he offered.
“Okay,” said Prescott. He pulled his coat off the desk, but Hobart didn’t move.
“Bobby,” he said quietly, “if this is none of my business, I’ll drop it, but I don’t get the feeling you’re a happy man.”
Prescott stared at him thoughtfully, then shrugged.
“Is it Jeanie? Look, I’m your friend and I’m her friend, too. I know that if there’s something wrong, you’ll be able to work it out. She’s—”
“She’s great,” said Prescott. “We get along fine.” His reticence seemed to collapse as he met Hobart’s eyes. “I know you’re a friend, Dick, so I won’t bullshit you. It’s not a permanent thing. I’m too old for her, too old to have that kind of relationship with a woman who’s young enough to think about houses and kids.” He smiled sadly. “I’m a hell of a boyfriend, but pretty soon she’s going to have to put on her clothes and look for a husband. She knows it, and she knows that I know it.”
“Is that what’s bothering you?” asked Hobart. “I don’t want to sound like I’m not taking it seriously, because I am. I’m sixty next May, and I’ve been having these thoughts for longer than you have. But I’ll tell you, life is short, and there’s time enough to be dead after the doctor says you’re dead.” He frowned. “There’s more to this, isn’t there?”
Prescott was silent for a few seconds. “There is. I guess maybe Jeanie set it off, made me think about it again.” He transfixed Hobart with his eyes. “You already know I’ve been away.”
Hobart nodded, slightly, as though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know more.
“I keep thinking about all that time. Not just the time I spent inside, but the years it cost me to get to where I was doing okay before that, and then losing it all and having to start over.” He took a deep breath and blew it out. “I made a mistake once. It made me a graduate of Corcoran State. Ever hear of it?”
“No.”
“It’s an ugly place. The guards used to set up these fights, just let two prisoners go at it until one of them couldn’t get up. Like gladiators.”
“You?”
Prescott shook his head. “No. Not me.” He sighed. “They saved that for guys they thought were troublemakers, and I never got their attention. I was in for four and a half years.”
“What for?”
Prescott smiled. “You didn’t believe it when I told you about the car washes, did you?”
“Hell no. Would you?”
Prescott said, “It was true. What I did was put most of my profits into things like that, so that no matter what I did, I would have a visible means of support that was dull enough to be real.”
“What were the profits from?”
“I had a crew. I would pick the place and case it, then breeze through, taking out the locks and alarms. Five minutes later, I’d send in the crew with a truck. I’d have one guy in a security uniform like a rent-a-cop. He’d drive up, open the gate, and then stand by it. The rest would load the truck and pull out. He’d lock the gate, go to his car, and drive off. We did construction sites, warehouses. Once we did a grocery store that was closed for the night. I paid my guys, made money. I bought the car-wash places.” He paused. “The mistake I made was branching out.”
“Into what?”
“I met a guy. His name was Mike Kelleher. He was a luggage thief.”
“You mean like in airports?”
“Yeah. He was the sneakiest bastard I ever saw. When he first talked to me, I went to watch him work one night. It was like he was invisible. People would be on the pay phones, he’d walk past, and their carry-on bags would practically get up and follow him. He would go to the baggage pickup, and if some idiot would stop on the way there to take a piss, Mike would have claimed his bags and be gone before he got there. He knew every trick. So I talked to him, and found that he was a great thief, but no businessman.”