"My, my," he said, "that does sound mysterious. Then Turner doesn't know we're meeting?"
"No, he doesn't."
"Uh-huh," Sid said, and didn't speak while the dour, flat-footed waiter served their drinks, placing the glasses on little paper napkins that had a black Scottie printed on the front.
"Charming," Loftus said, holding up the napkin with his fingertips. "Real class. Well, whatever your motives, dearie, I'm happy to have a drink with you without Turner being present. Where is the lad tonight?"
"If you must know," she said, "he's out of town trying to raise fifty thousand bucks: your finder's fee."
Loftus sampled his drink. "Good," he pronounced. "Not quite chilled enough, but good. I can't believe raising fifty grand will be a problem. I'm sure the two of you have the funds available."
"I don't think you fully understand, Sid," Helene said earnestly. "Those 'mighty profits' you mentioned have yet to be realized. I admit the potential is there, but so far the actual receipts have been anemic. Clayton pays my rent and he's given me a few pinhead diamonds, but that's about it. The business at Starrett Fine Jewelry will pay off eventually-no doubt about it-but right now the returns are practically nil. Don't get me wrong, I'm not pleading poverty, but Turner will have to get a loan to come up with the fifty G's. And that means heavy vigorish, of course."
Sid took another sip of his drink and smiled bleakly. "Don't tell me you invited me to haggle over the price, Helene. Haggling is so demeaning, don't you think?"
"No," she said, "no haggling. Turner will come up with the fifty thousand. We don't have much choice, do we?"
"No choice at all," he agreed.
"But Turner expects some of that to come out of my take," she said stonily. "I don't like that. Which is why I wanted to talk to you privately."
"No disrespect intended, luv, but you don't mind if I have the teensiest-weensiest suspicion that Turner may have sent you to set me up."
"Listen to my proposition first," she advised, "and then make up your mind."
"I'm all ears," he said, smiling, and summoned the waiter for another round.
They waited silently while their fresh drinks were brought and the waiter left. Then Helene leaned across the table. She was wearing a V-necked sweater of heavy wool in periwinkle blue, and as she leaned forward the neckline gaped and he could see tawny skin, the softness of her unbound breasts.
"Tell me the truth, Sid," she said, "what do you really think of me?"
He tried a smile that failed. "Why, I think you're an extremely attractive young woman. Beautiful, in fact. With all the equipment to make an old man forget his years and dream of pawing up the pea patch."
"You're not an old man, Sid," she said impatiently, "and cut out the physical stuff. You've been around the block twice; what's your personal opinion of who I am and how I operate?"
He started slowly and carefully. "I think you're a very shrewd lady with more than your share of street smarts. I think you have a heavy need for the lush life. Ambitious. Money-hungry. With the morals of an alley cat."
She burst into laughter, tossed her head back; her long hair flung out in a swirl. "You've got me pegged," she said. "I plead guilty."
"There's nothing to feel guilty about," he told her. "You're the female equivalent of Turner, or me, or any other shark in the game. It's just a little unusual to find those characteristics in a woman. But I'm not condemning you. Au contraire, sweetie pie." "As long as you know," she said. "Know what?" he asked, puzzled. "What my motives are. I told you I resent the fact that some of your finder's fee is going to come out of my poke. I don't like that. I've worked too long on Clayton Starrett to turn over my take without trying to protect it. I also know you have eyes for me. You proved that in Kansas City."
"So I did," he admitted, "and you gave me the broom." "You still feel the same way?"
He looked at her approvingly. "Could be. What's on your mind, luv?"
"As long as you know it's not mad, carefree lust."
"That's a laugh," he said.
"It would be strictly a business deal," she said, looking steadily into his eyes. "My chance of getting back some of my contribution to your finder's fee. Shocked?"
"Hardly," he said, returning her stare. "It's in character. You're a tough lady, Helene."
"Tough?" she said. "You know any other way to survive?"
"No," he said, "I don't. So what you're getting at in your oblique way is that you'd like a kickback from what Turner pays me. For favors granted. Have I got it right?"
"You've got it right."
"And what size kickback were you planning to ask for?"
She leaned forward again. The sweater neckline widened. "I haven't even thought of it. I just wanted to try the concept with you. If you turned me down, that's it. If you're willing to play along, then we can work out the details. I'm a reasonable woman."
He laughed. "And I'm a reasonable man. We're two of a kind, we two. It's an interesting idea, Helene. Dangerous but interesting. If Turner ever finds out, we're both dead."
"You think I don't know that? But I'm willing to take the risk. Are you?"
He looked down at his drink, moved it in slow circles over the tabletop. He looked up again at the slim column of her bare throat and caught his breath.
"I might be willing to take a flier," he said. "But then we're faced with the problem of logistics. Specifically, where and when?"
"I can hardly see us checking into the Waldorf, can you?" she said. "Or any other Manhattan hotel or motel. Either of us might be seen and recognized. And it can't be my apartment. I think Clayton is paying off the concierge to keep track of my visitors. I just can't chance it. That only leaves your place."
"My place?" he protested. "It's an armpit."
"I'm sure I've seen worse," she said, then finished her drink. "Let's go there now and clinch the deal. This one will be a freebie to convince you that you're making a smart move."
"It's practically a monk's cell," he warned her.
"That might be fun," she said.
He surrendered completely. "It will be," he assured her.
Chapter 28
Arthur Rushkin had mentioned casually that after going over the computer printout, he had been "somewhat surprised" by the quantity of gold being traded by Starrett Fine Jewelry. Instead of being surprised, Dora thought grimly, he should have been shocked. But then the attorney hadn't spent a damp day doing research on gold in the public library, and he hadn't schmoozed with the shrewd jewelry merchants on West 47th Street.
The reaction of one of them, a tub of lard in a tight plaid suit, was typical. Dora inquired if the average jewelry store could use the weight of gold Starrett was allegedly selling, and he looked at her as if she had just landed in a flying saucer.
"Absolut imposs," he said in an accent she could not identify. "Total out of the ques, my lovely young miss. Never in a mill years or more."
He then went on to explain in his fractured English that the average jewelry shop made none of the items they stocked, but depended on distributors and wholesalers to keep them supplied. If they did repair work, they might keep a small inventory of gold wire, chains, clasps, settings, etc. But these would be 14- or 18-karat alloys, not the fine gold Dora was talking about.
"Then no jewelry store would need pounds or kilos of the stuff?" she asked.
"Ridic," he said. "Utter ridic. You want to build a Stat of Liber, God bless her soul, of pure gold? With that much you tell me, you could do it. But for a small store, not even grains or ounces of the fine. I speak the trut."
"I believe you," she said hastily, and other proprietors and salespersons she talked to told her the same thing.
So on a bright morning she sat in her hotel suite staring moodily at the mess stacked on the cocktail table: the computer printout, her library research, and her spiral notebooks.