Free 18mm Blues by Gerald A Browne Page A

adequate twelve by twelve. The view from its one window was the unattractive aspects of some nearby shorter buildings, their undoubtedly grimed black roofs, air-conditioning and elevator facilities, a great many standpipes. The savers were an oblique slice of the bay on certain clear days, the sky when it was blue or having a sunset, and that attitude Grady came to naturally.
    The office wasn’t merely superficially tidy. There was no dust on or under, and everything was in its place. Kept that way by Grady with more than just a little help from Doris, his secretary, who preferred to be known as his assistant. They weren’t affiliated compulsives. They just shared the belief that precious stones and pearls, asked to be as flawless as possible, were in turn deserving of cleanliness and order. It was something that had been impressed on Grady the very first day he went to work in the gem business on New York’s Forty-seventh Street.
    Grady removed his suit jacket, loosened his tie and collar and rolled his shirt sleeves up two cuffs’ width. Sat behind the gray metal desk in the vinyl upholstered chair that by now his 180 pounds had broken in to his fit—the chair that was at times a sanctuary, at other times a trap.
    He was in dire need of coffee before beginning anything, and his stomach had a right to complain of neglect. The last thing he’d put into it was a soggy airport tuna salad sandwich at Midway about eighteen hours ago.
    As though hooked up to his thoughts, Doris came in with a cup of steaming black and asking, “Would you like some of a bear claw? I only got one but I’ll share it. I would have gotten two but they only had one left and everything else looked like yesterday’s, even the glazed doughnuts if you can imagine.” Most work mornings she stopped in at a bakery several doors down from the Phelan and could tell what was stale by sight.
    Grady’s stomach threatened to refuse bear claw. An acidic growl.
    Doris must have heard it. “I’ll send down,” she said.
    â€œFried ham and egg.”
    â€œOn what?”
    â€œOn anything. Make it fried ham and egg and cheese.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t ever let your blood sugar level get this low.”
    He shooed her away with a couple of backhand flicks.
    She’d left her bear claw on a square of wax paper on his desk. He considered it, picked at it. Teasing nibbles of sugary chopped pecans. The coffee was bad, bitter, but it felt good.
    He snapped open his attaché, took from it several rubber-banded batches of three-and-a-quarter by two-inch briefkes, those special papers folded five times a certain way to form an inescapable pocket for gemstones. All gem dealers used them. Each of these briefkes bore a cryptic series of letters and numbers in Grady’s handprint on its upper right-hand corner, so Grady would know without opening whether the stones a certain breifke contained were rubies, emeralds, sapphires or what. The code also told him how many stones were in each lot, their size and quality. The price, top and bottom, was in his head.
    He placed the briefkes on his white, tear-off desk pad, along with a printout that listed individually the goods that he’d taken on his trip. He knew precisely what lots he’d sold, to whom he’d sold them and for what price and terms. He went down the list and made appropriate notations opposite each of those lots. He hadn’t yet summed up the amount of business he’d done but had an approximate idea how much it was. Found when he totaled it now he was only about twenty thousand off.
    What it came to was $695,800.
    On one trip last September he’d done over a million one.
    Doris returned with the sandwich. Unwrapped it dutifully and placed it in front of him. “Your eyes look glazey,” she commented.
    â€œThis is shitty coffee.”
    â€œEunice made it.” Inferring that anything this Eunice person touched would turn