“That’s how you knew he’d be at the San Diego airport with the loot, huh?”
“In the name of Arnold Creber. In a blond wig. Carrying a toy gun,” said Severn Thurston.
King’s X
“King’s X” grew out of a rumor that had wide circulation several years ago. According to the rumor — a sort of alligators-in-the-sewer-system allegation, presented as absolute documented fact — the con depicted in “King’s X” was successfully employed half a century ago by a veteran trickster to fleece Tiffany’s (some say Cartier) out of an enormous sum. It’s not a terribly elaborate scam, but there is appeal in its simplicity and daring, and satisfaction in the sting, and I hadn’t seen it elsewhere in fiction.
She found Breck on the garage floor, lying on his back with his knees up and his face hidden under the car. His striped coveralls were filthy. There was a dreadful din: he was banging on something with a tool. When there was a pause in the racket she said, “You look like a convict.”
“Not this year.” He slid out from under the car and blinked up at her. He looked as if he’d camouflaged his face for night maneuvers in a hostile jungle. He didn’t seem surprised to see her. All he said was, “You look better than I do.”
“Is that supposed to be some sort of compliment?”
“My dear, you look adorable. Beautiful. Magnificent. Ravishing.” He smiled; evidently he had no idea what effect the action had on his appearance. “That better?”
“I wasn’t fishing for reassurance. I need to talk to you.”
He sat up. The smile crumbled; he said, “If it’s anything like the last little talk we had, I’d just as soon—”
“I haven’t forgotten the things we said to each other. But today’s a truce. Time out, okay? King’s X?”
“I’m a little busy right now, Vicky. I’ve got to get this car ready.”
“It’s important. It’s serious.”
“In the cosmic scheme of things how do you know it’s any more important or serious than the exhaust system I’m fixing?”
She said, “It’s Daddy. They’ve ruined him.” She put her back to him and walked toward the sun. “Wash and come outside and talk. I can’t stand the smell of grease.”
The dusty yard was littered with odd-looking cars in varied conditions of disassembly. Some had numbers painted on their doors, and decal ads for automotive products. The garage was a cruddy cube of white stucco, uncompromisingly ugly.
Feeling the heat but not really minding it, she propped the rump of her jeans against the streetlight post and squinted into the California sunlight, watching pickups rattle past until Breck came out with half the oil smeared off his face. He was six four and hadn’t gained an ounce since she’d last seen him three years ago: an endless long rail of a man with an angular El Greco face and bright brittle wedges of sky-blue glass for eyes.
“Shouldn’t spend so much time in the sun,” he said. “You’ll get wrinkles.”
“It’s very kind of you to be concerned about my health.”
“Anybody tell you lately how smashing you look?”
“Is that your devious way of asking if I’m going with someone?”
“Forget it,” he said. “What do you want, then?”
“Daddy’s lost everything he had. He was going to retire on his savings and the pension — now he’s probably going to have to file bankruptcy. You know what that’ll do to him. His pride — his blood pressure. I’m afraid he might have another stroke.”
He didn’t speak; he only looked at her. The sun was in her eyes and she couldn’t make out his expression. Stirred by unease she blurted: “Hey — Breck, I’m not asking for myself.”
“How much does he need?”
“I don’t know. To pay the lawyers and get back on his feet? I don’t know. Maybe seventy-five thousand dollars.”
He said, “That’s a little bit of money.”
“Is it,” she said drily.
“I might have been more sympathetic once. But that would’ve been before your alimony lawyer got after me.”
“You always loved Daddy. I’m asking you to help him. Not me. Him.”
“What happened?”
“He was carrying diamonds and they arrested him. It was all set up. He was framed by his own boss: He’s sure it was an insurance scam. We can’t prove anything but we know. We just know.”
“Where is he?”
“Now? Here in town, at his place. The same old apartment.”
“Why don’t you give him the money yourself?”
“I could, of course. But then I’d just have to get it back from you, wouldn’t I?”
“You mean you haven’t got that much left? What did you spend it on — aircraft carriers?”
“You have an inflated opinion of your own generosity, Breck.”
She smiled prettily.
He said, “I can’t promise anything. But I’ll talk to him. I’ll finish up here about five. Tell him I’ll drop by.”
The old man blew his top. “I’m not some kind of charity case. I’ve been looking after myself for seventy-two years. Women. Can’t even trust my own daughter to keep her nose out of my business. Breck, listen to me because I mean it now. I appreciate your intentions. I’m glad you came — always glad to see you. But I won’t take a cent from you. Now that’s all I’ve got to say on the subject. Finish your drink and let’s talk about something less unpleasant.”
The old man didn’t look good. Sallow and dewlappy. His big hard voice was still vigorous but the shoulders drooped and there were sagging folds of flesh around his jaw. It had been what, two years since Breck had seen him? The old man looked a decade older. He’d always been blustery and stubborn but you could see now by the evasiveness in his eyes that his heart wasn’t in it.
Breck said, “I’m not offering you money out of my pocket. Maybe I can come up with an idea. Tell me about the man you think set you up. What’s his name? Cushing?”
“Cushman. Henry Cushman.”
“If he framed you for stealing the money, that suggests he’s the one who actually got the money.”
“Aagh,” the old man said in disgust, dismissing it.
“Come on,” Breck said. “Tell me about it.”
“Nothing to tell. Listen — it was going to be my last run. I was going to retire. Got myself a condo picked out right on the beach down at Huntington. Buy my own little twenty-two-foot inboard, play bridge, catch fish, behave like a normal human being my age instead of flying all over the airline route maps. I wanted a home to settle down in. What’ve I got? You see this place? Mortgage up to here and they’re going to take it away from me in six weeks if I can’t make the payments.”
“Come on,” Breck said. “Tell me about it.”
“I worked courier for that whole group of diamond merchants. I had a gun and a permit, all that stuff. No more. They took it all away. They never proved a damn thing against me but they took it all away. I carried stones for forty years and never lost a one. Not even a chip. Forty years!”
Breck coaxed him: “What happened?”
“Hell. I picked up the stones in Amsterdam. I counted them in the broker’s presence. They weren’t anything special. Half-karat, one-karat, some chips. Three or four bigger stones but nothing spectacular. You know. Neighborhood jewelry store stuff. The amount of hijacking and armed robbery lately, they don’t like to load up a courier with too much value on a single trip.”
“How much were the stones worth altogether?”
“Not much. Four hundred thousand, give or take.”
“To some people that’s a lot.”
The old man said, “It’s an unattainable dream to me right now but hell, there was a time I used to carry five million at a crack. You know how much five million in really good diamonds weighs? You could get it in your hip pocket.”