By shortly after five we had chased out our last panicky I-can’t-believe-it’s-Christmas-Eve-already husband, and locked the big double plate-glass-and-brass doors, and yet there was no Mr. Popper. People needed to get to their own families. But not without those December commission checks and the Christmas bonuses. We knew Cindy had been calculating and printing them all day yesterday and today. Mr. Popper signed them and then sealed them in an envelope, each with its bonus, which was secret and in cash. We were not allowed to discuss our bonuses. But I knew Jim was expecting fifteen grand or better.
With all of us gathered idly around the showcases and wandering in and out of the back-of-the-house, at last Jim said, “I’ll go see what’s up,” assuming Popper was up in his office, but then Mr. Popper appeared at the front door. Outside the front door, I mean. We saw him through the glass. He had his keys in his hands and he opened the door. Then he stopped and opened the lock on the other door, the one we often did not bother to open, so that both doors could swing wide. He came into the middle of the showroom floor among the showcases. He was ringed with policemen and more serious-looking strangers, and then I knew with clarity what would happen next. They had lied to Jim about Rita to lure me back into the store. Or it might be, even, that Jim had lied. But no, that couldn’t be. They had tricked him because we were brothers and now I was caught. Lisa was right. She knew not to come back. Why hadn’t I listened to her? I thought I was so fucking clever. I outsmarted everybody. Now they would arrest me in front of everyone and take me to prison in cuffs. The doors were locked and there was no place to escape to. The salespeople and the rent-a-cops and the phone sales women and the Watchman and the other back-of-the-house guys and the Wizard and the gift-wrappers and the black-fingered jewelers in their aprons and the beautiful teenage hostesses and Jim all surged softly toward Popper, expecting. They didn’t understand what was about to happen. They could never feel sorry for me, not on Christmas Eve. It was like a pack. I tried to drift to the back. But they were thick around me. I did not know where to run. My eyes were starting to fill with tears. And Popper spoke.
“Well, Merry Christmas, everyone,” he said.
I thought perhaps I could feign fainting. Or faint for real, even.
“I have some bad news. Don’t want to keep you good folks waiting around on Christmas Eve any longer than necessary. I really hate to do what I’ve been given no choice but to do.” Run, Bobby. The doors are unlocked. Run! “Seems these fellas here”—and he waved his arm generally at the men around him, who moved in closer—“think we’ve — that is, I’ve — been up to some kind of wrongdoing. They aren’t too specific on the particulars, and you all don’t need to worry none. Don’t worry about any single little thing. Our lawyers will have this solved in no time, you can rest assured of that.” And he gave one of the men in particular a hard look. The man looked away at his shoes. “But they’re closing us down.” A wind went through the room. “And I’m afraid they won’t let me write you your Christmas checks. These boys won’t let me put a single damn dollar in your pockets for your families’ Christmases. And I know better than anyone how hard you’ve worked and how much you deserve it. I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry. And, for what it’s worth, Merry Christmas.”
He was tearing up. He smiled this strong smile.
“All right, fellas, let’s get this done.”
There was silence. Someone started to cry. Then a couple more joined in. Someone said, “Goodbye, Mr. Popper.” I expected a round of applause. They bundled him up and took him away. Three or four of the serious men in badly cut blue suits stayed behind to collect the store keys. They even collected case keys. The people who had safe combinations wrote them down. The men answered every question with a business card that had a lawyer’s phone number on it. They would not even respond to the questions of the rent-a-cops, who were important regular off-duty Fort Worth policemen.
Jim handed in his keys and we drove home.
“I wonder how long I’ll get to keep the Porsche,” he said as we stepped cautiously up the icy steps to his door.
The day after Christmas I went back to Wendy and Calgary. Lisa had taken the money, that morning, but I had my stash in the closet, and the other five grand was waiting for me at the Royal Bank of Canada. I used it to buy Wendy a car, a preowned Fiat Spider convertible. I gave it to her for Valentine’s Day. That was my first car. Then, a year or so later, Jim called and asked me to join him in his new business. We called it Clark’s Precious Jewels.
PART TWO
We were sitting in Jim’s office beneath the new Lalique crystal chandelier. “It will interfere with grading diamonds for color,” Jim had said while they were hanging it, “but I don’t give a damn. The thing is so expensive it will put people in the mood.”
“Speaking of money, how are we doing? Did you call Donnie today?” I asked him. Donnie was our principal Fort Worth banker. Not for our loans but for our operating accounts. The borrowing bankers were all in Dallas. We called Donnie every morning to find out our balances. “Did you make that deal with Alan?”
“He’ll be in before the weekend. You know Alan. He’s very reliable when it comes to business. Plus the bracelet is right here.” He shook a bulging job envelope on his desk. “He says he’s got a big party this weekend. He won’t show up without this bracelet on.”
It was an eighteen-karat yellow gold Rolex-style bracelet with round diamonds bezel-set on the small outside links, and baguette-cut diamonds bar-set all the way up the center link. The clasp was invisible so the diamonds went all the way around the wrist. An ugly thing, bulky, inelegant, but technically successful and sturdily made.
Jim would sell Alan and our other drug-dealer and celebrity clients crap like this because it was what they wanted and it was very profitable. I made the mistake of trying to sell them what I wanted to see them wearing. I still believed I could be proud of my customers. The ones I liked, I mean.
We were sorting a package of the tiny round diamonds called diamond melee at Jim’s desk. As he aged I noticed, more and more, how much Jim looked like our father. They carried their shoulders in the same way. Especially when he bent over the desk to inspect the diamond melee he might have been our father, viewed from behind, with a few extra pounds and with shorter hair.
“How did the sweeps come out?” I asked Jim. “Did you send Granddad his cut?”
“Great,” he said. “Yeah, I sent it to him. I had Sosa run it over. He said he seemed nervous. Probably should have brought it myself. I’ve got your envelope, too. It’s right here in my drawer.”
At the end of every month we gathered the gold sweeps from the benches and the casting area and sent it over to the smelters. Half of that cash went to me and Jim, and the other half went straight to Granddad, in the same courier package with the profit-and-loss statement and the ledger on his merchandise accounts. Initially our system had made Granddad anxious. Like most multimillionaires, over the years he had learned to avoid cash.
“What about the IRS?” Granddad had asked. “I can’t do a damn thing with this, Grandson. Can I deposit it in the bank?”
“Spend it! It’s pocket change for you. It’s the sweeps, Granddad,” we told him. For us these days he was like that rich duck who visits Huey, Dewey, and Louie.