down.
The blue felt sat between us on the table— Mama made no move to touch it. In a couple of minutes, the waiter came back. He cleared the table, wiped it down, spread a brilliant white bolt of heavy cloth over the top. Then he placed a black metal cube near Mama's left hand, spread a red silk square next to her right. Mama bowed her head, fingertips together, waiting. The waiter opened the top of the black metal cube, telescoped a long stem with a tiny quartz halogen light at the tip. He pressed a button on the side of the cube and a circle of pure light showed on the tabletop. On the red silk square, he carefully assembled a jeweler's loupe and several different–size tweezers. From one of his apron pockets, he took a miniature scale with an electronic dial. He placed it at the far corner of the table and stepped back.
Mama raised her head, opened her eyes. Nodded an okay at me. I unwrapped the gems. Mama plucked the diamond first, placed it on the table in front of her. Then she screwed the loupe into her right eye, picked up the gem with a pair of tweezers and took a look.
Nobody spoke.
Mama turned the gem back and forth with the tweezers, her fingers precision machinery.
'You remember what I teach you about diamonds? Five C?'
'Sure,' I told her, remembering the lesson from so many years ago, when I came back from Africa and told Mama about new smuggling opportunities. Four C was the world standard: color, clarity, cut and carat. The last C was Mama's own— cash.
Mama nodded acknowledgment as she worked. After a couple of minutes, she put the rock down. Her smile was brighter than the light.
'Very fine stone.'
'It's for real?' I asked her.
'Oh yes. Blue–white, brilliant cut. Maybe VVS, VS for sure. Three carats, pretty close.'
'How much?'
'A hundred thousand, quick.' Meaning it was worth a quarter million.
'What about the others?'
Mama didn't reply. She reluctantly put the diamond on a corner of the cloth, reached for the green. She did the same routine, switched to the red. Finally, she took up the smooth black stone, rubbing it between her fingers. After a few minutes, she switched off the light, looked across at me.
'All perfect stones. Ruby is pigeon blood, probably from Burma. Emerald is Colombian for sure. Very big stones to be so perfect.'
'What's this?' I asked, touching the smooth black stone with a fingertip.
'Girasol,' Mama said. 'Black opal. From Australia.'
'There's more,' I told her. 'This is just a sample.'
'Passport,' Mama said. I knew what she meant. There's no harder currency than fine gems. A universal language— you could turn these into cash anywhere from Bermuda to Bangkok.
'I told you, bro, I know what I know. We tap that vein, we feel no pain.'
'It's not that easy, Prof. She had something else too.' I showed him the diskettes. 'You know what these are?'
'Sure, schoolboy. That's the cake— the rocks are the take.'
'That's the way I see it too. We Hoover the place, she knows it was me. And she's got enough juice to buy trouble.'
'But if we know what she knows…'
'Yeah.'
'Let's ride, Clyde.'
We picked up Michelle on the corner of Twenty–ninth and First. She climbed into the back of the Rover like it was a limo, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, settled back into the leather and lit a smoke.
'What's on?'
'I'm not sure yet. The Prof was right— the joint is rotten with money. I took some samples…gems. Mama says they're true blue. She's got seven figures stashed in the house.'
'Oh honey, you know just what to say to make a girl crazy.'
'It's trickier than that, Michelle.' I showed her the disks.
'Blackmail?'
'That's my guess. I'm not sure. There's some tapes too. But either I put everything back or we're stuck with hit and run, see? We need a way to take a look.'
'My man can do it,' Michelle said, confident.
Terry let us into the junkyard, greeting the Prof and Clarence with elaborate courtesy as Michelle looked on proud.
'Damn, boy, you getting
The kid flushed. 'I told you, Mom,' he said, holding his back real straight. 'How tall am I gonna be?' he asked the Prof.
