The Golden Gizmo

The stuff was practically never used in jewelry; never except, perhaps, in insignia and tiny plated areas. It was too soft, not to mention its cost. So…?

Toddy lowered the watch and stood striking it absently against the palm of his hand. There was a tiny plip ping sound, and the movement, face and crystal flew off. Flew off in one piece. Toddy stared at them, at it-looked from it to the case. He took it in one hand and it in the other, and balanced them.

The movement was little larger than a dime. With the things it was affixed to, the crystal and face, it weighed a 'weak' five pennyweight. The case, then-the case weighed almost a full pound. There shouldn't be much more than a pound of pure gold in all of Los Angeles County-outside of government vaults, of course. And yet here was a pound of the stuff in his hand.

He snapped the two sections of the watch back together, a tremor of excitement in his fingers, a slow grin lining his tanned jaw. In a quiet recess of his mind, the gizmo was awakening. It was kicking back the covers and reaching under the bed for its bulging kit of angles.

So he'd picked up the watch by accident. So it didn't belong to him. So what? Maybe the chinless guy would like to claim title to it. Maybe he'd like to explain what he was doing with-well, call it by its right name-a pound of twenty-four-karat,.999 fine bullion.

Of course, Chinless didn't look like a guy who'd make many explanations. He didn't look like a nice guy at all to tangle with. Still, he wouldn't be stupid enough to raise a stink over this. Or would he? Toddy wasn't sure-but then he'd never been a sure-thing player. This was worth gambling on; he was sure of that.

The movement was worthless as a timekeeper. It wouldn't run more than a few hours before it gave up the ghost. It served only to disguise the true nature of the watch. And no one would take such pains, go to such expense, with only one watch. There would be other-yes, and other items besides watches. Articles that weighed many times the amount their appearance indicated. If a man could move in on a setup like that-

Toddy paused in his scheming, listening to the chatter of the bathroom shower. The light of excitement dulled in his fine gray eyes. What was the use? What good would it do? No matter what he made it would all go the same way. Down the bottomless rat-holes which Elaine burrowed endlessly.

…Box under his arm, he closed the door of the room and walked down the long hall to the stairs. He went out through the side entrance of the lobby, reconnoitered its smog-bound environs with a glance as deceptively casual as it was automatic. He strolled up to the corner and stood leaning against a lamppost. Ostensibly, he was waiting for the traffic signal to change. Actually, he was waiting for the man who had been lurking in the shadows of the entrance, a small man with a sunken chest and a snap-brimmed gray hat that was almost as wide as his shoulders. One of Shake's boys- a shiv artist named Donald. The man approached. He sidled up to the opposite side of the post and spoke from the corner of his mouth.

'Let's have it, Kent. Shake ain't waitin' no longer.'

'Cow's ass?' said Toddy, with the inflection of 'How's that?'

'I'm not tellin' you again. The next time I see you, you'll have your balls in that box instead of gold.'

'Why, Donald!' said Toddy. 'How would I close the lid?'

Donald didn't answer him. Donald couldn't. Toddy's arm had curled around the post, around his head, and his nose was flat and getting flatter against the rusty iron. He mumbled, 'Awwf-guho,' and managed to free the thin steel knife from its hip sheath. Toddy's arm tightened, and he dropped the knife into the gutter.

'Now,' said Toddy, 'get this clear, once and for all. I'm not paying any protection-not one goddam penny. Don't try for it again. If you do… well, just don't.'

He released the little shiv artist with a contemptuous twirl. He crossed the street and vanished into the darkness without looking back.

Milt's shop was dark, of course, but the door was unlocked. For a man in the gold racket, Milt's faith in human nature was astonishing.

Toddy made his way down the dark aisle with practiced ease, pushed through the wicket which adjoined the jeweler's cage, and shoved aside the drapes. Milt wasn't in the living room, but an excited clamor from the kitchen told Toddy where he was. Toddy set his box upon the old-fashioned library table, and went on back to the rear room.

As usual, the swarthy and sullen Italian who delivered Milt's beer was late, and, as usual, Milt was reading him off. He followed the man to the back door, gesticulating, complaining with humorous querulousness.

'Have you no sense of the importance of things? Is there no way I can appeal to you? Suppose I had run out! What then, loafer? That means nothing to you, eh, that I should be left here without so much as a swallow-'

The roar of the delivery truck shut off his protest. Muttering, face pink with outrage, he faced Toddy.

'I ask you, my friend, what should I do with such a dummox? What would you do in my case?'

'Just what you do,' Toddy chuckled. 'You wouldn't know what to do if you didn't have that guy to fight with every night. Anyway, I'll bet you've got your refrigerator full of beer.'

'But the principle involved! The fact that I exercise a certain foresight does not affect the principle.'

'Okay,' said Toddy. 'I think I'll drink a bottle of this warm, if you don't mind. On a night like this, I-'

'Stop!'

'Huh!' Toddy jerked his hand away from the beer case.

'Never!' said Milt with mock severity. 'Never in my house will such a sacrilege be permitted. Warm beer? Ugh! Aside from the shock to the senses, there is no telling what the physical results might be.'

'But I like-'

'I will do nothing to nourish such an unnatural appetite. Come! I will get us some that is only mildly cold.'

Milt took two bottles from the bottom of the overflowing refrigerator and carried them into the living room. They took chairs on opposite sides of the table, toasted each other silently, and then went to work at grading and weighing the gold.

This, checking-in time, was virtually the only time of day when the scales were in use. Simply by hefting it, any good gold-buyer can tell what an article weighs within a margin of a few grains. His clients can't, of course. They have only the vaguest idea as to the weight of the things they sell. They live in a world of ounces and pounds. and they remain there, if the buyer has his way. He won't use his scales unless he has to.

In dealing with Milt, a wholesale buyer, the scales were, naturally, necessary. Estimated weights, correct within a few grains, were not good enough. A grain is only one-four-hundred-and eighth of a troy ounce, but multiplied by several dozen purchases it might cost the wholesaler his week's profit. As for the grading, that went swiftly. The quality of gold is determined by its brightness, and it was seldom that either Milt or Toddy lingered over an article.

Toddy took the bills which Milt gave him, and stuffed them into his wallet. A good day, yes, but if he could turn that watch, that pound of twenty-four-karat bullion now hidden in the back of his dresser drawer… If there was some way of tapping the source of that watch-

'There is,' said Milt, 'something troubling you, my friend?'

'Oh no.' Toddy shook his head. 'Just daydreaming. Tell me something, will you, Milt?'

'If I can, yes.'

'Where would-how much scrap gold like this would it take to make a pound of twenty-four