Joe Morgan wore a five-carat princess cut in a rose gold pinkie ring I had sold him a couple of years before. The stone was what is called top-light-brown, a kind of orangey-tan color, but set in rose gold with a rhodium plating beneath I had managed to make it look almost white. Cheap big diamonds like that are perfect for men’s rings, because men feel it is feminine to inquire too closely about the quality of a diamond once it is set in a piece of men’s jewelry. They are very particular about their wives’ diamonds. But they are insecure about wearing diamond jewelry themselves, and they suppose that if they ask too many questions about their own diamonds you will conclude they are gay.
“Where the hell is she going? Where are you going, girl? Well if you got to go, go. But hurry back.” He reached to pat the Polack on the bottom as she left, but she swung her hips and he missed.
“Man, that’s a fine piece of ass, Bobby,” he said. “You ever get yourself any of that action? Just a taste, maybe?”
We smiled that man’s smile at each other, but I did not say anything.
“I wanted us to have a chance to speak seriously about this bracelet, Joe. You know I always tell people that you buy jewelry for the pleasure of owning it, not as an investment. But that piece is something entirely different. That truly is investment quality. It’s like buying a Picasso. You don’t see emeralds like that anymore, not even loose. But a hundred-year-old platinum bracelet that was formerly owned by an Argentinean countess? Come on. Plus the circumstances. If we sent that bracelet to Sotheby’s or Christie’s it would bring four hundred grand. She knows it, too. But she doesn’t have the time. And the whole thing has to be cash. It has to be done with the greatest discretion. Margaret can’t even wear that bracelet around town for a year or two. I’m dead serious about that. It will be recognized. That’s one of the reasons I called you on this one, Joe. I know I can count on your discretion.”
“Hell, there ain’t nothing to worry about there. You know I can keep a damn secret. Code de macho. I sure as hell know you can, too.” He laughed. Morgan liked to tell me stories about his wild days in the border towns. They were good stories.
“You in any hurry today, Bobby? Hell, I got some time today. Let’s you and me relax a little bit, what do you say? Hit me again with that bourbon, would you?”
I poured him a cautious finger or two. I wanted him to want more than I was offering him.
“Keep going, keep going, there you go. That’ll do her.”
Well, well, I thought. This might be even easier than I thought. We might even wrap this one up today.
When I got home that night, still warm from the sale to Morgan, Wendy announced that she was going to fly down to St. Croix to seek my father’s assistance for us.
“Maybe he can help. You always listen to your dad. We should both go.”
“Wendy, you know how busy we are. If you are so determined, you can go, I guess. But you know I can’t get away. Not to mention that you are crazy to think my dad will be any good. Jim’s right. He’s insane, Wendy.”
“Crazy or not, I believe in your dad,” she said.
“What about the baby?” I said. “What about Claire?” I was frightened to be left alone with that little baby of ours.
“I knew you would say that,” she said. She looked so tired and even disappointed that I wished I had kept my mouth shut. But, really. “I already asked my mother to come watch her, Bobby.”
“I have to work, Wendy. That’s all I was saying. Somebody has to pay our bills.”
“Anyway I already bought the ticket.”
“Maybe it will be like a vacation,” I said. “You could use a vacation. Get a little sun. We could both use a vacation.” I had not meant to say that. I did not want her to think there was any possibility I could go or even consider going.
“It is not a vacation, Bobby. For crying out loud. Can you even hear yourself? Do you listen to what you say? I swear, what is wrong with you sometimes?”
Why don’t you go ahead and tell me? I thought. What’s wrong with me: if I am quiet for a few minutes you will be happy to instruct me.
“I am going to save this family,” she said.
For the past few years our dad had been bouncing around even more than usual. When his last church had failed, in Coral Gables, he had been certified as a minister and a missionary for the Unitarian Church of Palm Beach and Boca Raton. The U.S. Virgin Islands was his first assignment.
“It’s paradise, son,” he told me on the phone. “Grab your big brother and hop on a plane. Bring your scuba gear. You boys will love it.”
“We’re running a business here, Dad,” I said.
I sent a necklace with Wendy that our dad had ordered from us but never paid for. It had various esoteric Masonic insignia enameled on a large plate that went across the collarbone. I knew the necklace would roll on the neck and that plate would always wind up on the bottom. I could already hear my father complaining about it. But there was no other way to make the piece.
“Try to get the money,” I said when I gave it to her. “It’s just my cost.”
Before she even checked into her hotel she rented a car at the airport and drove out to his church. He had not known she was coming that week. I had promised her I would call and warn him, but it stayed on my to-do list until after she was already back. I meant to call. But with Wendy out of town the Polack kept me on the run.
She sat in a church pew with the Rastafarians. During Dad’s service the tall, bony man next to her stood in his pew, pulled down his sweatpants, and began to urinate into the aisle. He apologized to her.
“It is because of the Pope, ma’am,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
He took a very nice photograph of her, with her camera, standing and smiling with the open door of the church behind her and orange and purple bougainvillea beyond. It was a pleasant little chapel, from what I could see.
After my father finished his sermon, while the brass collection plate was going around, the Rastafarian invited Wendy to dinner. He was only being polite, she said. He was not making a pass.
“You can come and visit us,” he said. “You don’t have to stay for the meal. We have a nice farm. In the hills.
“I have to go now,” he told her then. “I have to wash my hands.”
When she met with my dad in his little trailer next to the church he wanted to do a reading on her.
“I have been watching him astrally,” he told her. “He’s fucking up. He has karma to work out with you. There may have to be a divorce.”
She wept while he put her on the plane. “Don’t give up,” he said. “Fate!” he said, and waved from the bottom of the stairs. She took a picture of him waving up to her. He looked much better than the last time I had seen him. His color had improved and I saw he had added muscle tone in his face. She also showed me pictures of him on the beach, smoking his pipe, with the shallow Caribbean Sea behind him and storm clouds in the sky.
A couple of weeks after she was back he phoned me. Our 800 lines didn’t cover the Virgin Islands, so he called collect.
“She just missed the hurricane. It’s hurricane season down here.”