Chapter 20 #2
I didn’t automatically hate Stanton, even though he’d hired people to kill me.
Building an empire isn’t necessarily a crime, and cancer, so far, wasn’t something he could bribe or have his attorneys sue into submission.
There’s something about a bully brought low that’s, if not tragic, then humanizing.
When I was a kid, my uncle Seth had died of lung cancer at sixty-one.
His ravaged appearance was frightening and inexplicable, because death, like age, was foreign to me.
But now that I was older, I didn’t reject or fear illness so easily.
Even massaged with health insurance and private nurses, disease is an equalizer, and I understood why Stanton was clutching at the Atropos Emerald to save him, or guarantee a few more days of attracting Saudi cash for a personal space shuttle.
“Lady Tresselmere, you and your buddies may be asking yourselves, why would Mr. Jack Stanton, who’s already got this gosh-darn Atropos doo-hickey in his back pocket, why is he so chompin’ at the bit to get your stamp of approval?
Well, I’ll tell it like it is: my whole life, I’ve only wanted one friggin’ thing—the very best. And the very best comes with a certificate of authenticity, so some fifth-rater can’t start hollerin’, ‘Sorry, Mr. Stanton, but I got me the number one Van Gogh or the top-of-the-line Japanese teahouse in my backyard! Yours are fine, but they’re some jiggly-squat also-rans!
’ But after today, I can tell any such pissant jackass to fuck the hell off, because I got the one hundred percent real-deal Atropos Emerald as officially rubber-stamped by Lady Tresselmere herself! ”
Stanton most likely suspected that his condition, while never admitted to in the media, was no secret, but our pity would be unbearable. Besides, once the emerald was certified, he’d live forever, and we’d be specks of lint to be plucked from his oversized lapels.
“I’ll be happy to have a look,” said Elizabeth, her English accent slightly emphasized, because Stanton would love that. “This is quite momentous.”
“In a red-hot second. But let me pose a puzzler. Lady Tresselmere, you’ve more than likely gotten up close and personal with some major—what should we call ’em—objects of interest?
Zillion-dollar whatnots that folks say can lower your cholesterol or choke your enemies in their sleep a continent away?
Statues and scarabs that rich men pay dearly for?
Has that been your experience, Lady Tresselmere?
Are you a believer or an I-don’t-think-so? ”
Stanton’s parched voice was unmasking him: this was an anguished man, teetering on a last-ditch precipice.
“I believe in history,” said Elizabeth. “In record-keeping and in firsthand accounts. But after becoming acquainted with centuries-old artifacts and artworks, I’m not immune to a touch of tinsel. Perhaps after enough time has passed, the belief of so many can alter an object’s capabilities.”
“I would agree with you there. In fact, I own Miss Marilyn Monroe’s white fox stole, and a partial dental bridge from none other than Mr. Elvis Presley himself, and both items are worthless, except they’ve been verified, so I got ’em front and center in the lobby of Stanton’s Starshine Casino in Tahoe, under glass, and folks will push a loved one’s wheelchair within inches, so they’ll be healed.
But the Atropos has a particular meaning for me personally. ”
“You’re speaking of the postponement of one’s death.”
“Damn tootin’, Lady T.”
The door behind him opened and a figure in white coveralls and cotton gloves appeared bearing a rectangular zebrawood box, which he placed on Stanton’s desk. At a signal from Stanton the coverall guy opened the box, and there, set into velvet, was the Atropos Emerald. Without meaning to, I gasped.
“May I?” asked Elizabeth, who’d slipped on her own pair of white cotton gloves.
“That’s what we’re here for, Your Ladyship,” said Stanton, with more menace than his previous false hospitality.
Elizabeth carefully, but with a practiced efficiency, reached out and lifted the emerald from the velvet.
“Since you’ve hired me, at no small expense,” she said, “you’re aware that emeralds are the only stones judged not through magnification, but by eye alone.
There are the standard rules of hue, clarity, cut, and weight by carat, but this piece transcends categories.
Most emeralds contain significant flaws, which don’t affect their value, and can deepen their color.
The Atropos is a law unto itself. The tint is more bluish purple than yellow, which is rare. ”
The emerald was a few inches from Elizabeth’s face as Brock and I leaned forward, to submit corollary opinions.
Despite my ambivalence toward Stanton, I was rooting for the emerald to be magical.
Stanton was dying, so my knee-jerk reaction was hope.
But that’s not why I was here, or Brock.
Reggie had stipulated a diversion. Adherence wasn’t a choice because as I stared into the mesmerizing enticement of the Atropos, my legs buckled, my arms flapped, my eyeglasses tilted, and I fainted dead away, crumpling to the carpet, the victim of my own juvenile idolatry.
I came to a few seconds later, hideously embarrassed as Brock and Reggie dragged me to my feet.
“I’m so incwedibly sowwy,” I said, imitating Hanna Schygulla from the Fassbinder films I’d watched in a college seminar on Postwar European Cinema. “I hawen’t spent vewy much time at sea.”
“Or was it the Atropos?” said Stanton. “If you were faking, good job.”
“Gustav’s behavior has no effect on my conclusions,” said Elizabeth, gently placing the emerald back in its cushy resting place.
“But I can assure you, in a notarized certificate if necessary, that the stone is over four thousand years old and genuine. It was once attached to the Diadem of Apollo. I’ve no idea what you paid, but my estimation is ‘near priceless.’ So congratulations, on money well spent.
This emerald has already appreciated and if donated to a world-class museum would accrue a significant tax deduction. ”
“And that Diadem whatsit you’re talkin’ about? I’m not necessarily interested, but who’s got their grubby little paws on it?”
“Unknown at this time, but I’m happy to make inquiries. It’s been a pleasure and an honor doing business with you, and I’d welcome future conclaves.”
As the attendant shut the wooden box and carried it from the room, Stanton said, “Well, ain’t this ring-a-ding good news. Plus I got to meet me a bona fide English royale, and a straight shooter at that.”
Elizabeth stood, coolly peeled off her gloves, handed them to me, and departed, with her associates and bodyguard in tow.
“And Gustav-arino,” Stanton called out, “get some shut-eye or a little Dramamine. I ain’t hankerin’ for anyone goin’ whoops-a-daisy on the Empress’s first time out.”
Reggie, Brock, and I escorted Elizabeth to a waiting helicopter. We thanked her and she smiled, telling us, “Whatever I can do, don’t hesitate.”
Once we were back in our cabin, Reggie commented, “Excellent work, both of you. Especially Gustav.”
“Great swoon,” added Brock. Should I admit that my fainting spell had been unplanned, or had this been obvious?
“Did you make the emerald exchange?” I asked.
“Liz was superb,” said Reggie. “Done and done.” Reggie was now the guardian of three precious stones, but closemouthed about the technicalities.
The op had gone smoothly, while I smothered any memories of heist movies in which a conspirator murmurs, “Too smoothly.” The Tuxes were functioning like a White Lotus or Knives Out ensemble (both examples of superb casting and lottery-winner accomodations), Liz was on her way to New England, and we’d earned Jenn’s birthday bash.
And I’d made myself useful, as Reggie had admitted. My bow-tie tattoo was inching closer.
That evening we jostled around our central table in the atrium, in our formal wear, which baffled the nearby vacationers in their pastel sweats, Hawaiian shirts, and ever-adaptable leggings; for most Americans, the all-occasion dress code is “backyard coma.” Jenn left her room in a sparkling black sequined strapless minidress, her bathrobe dropped in a laundry bag.
She’d prescribed herself a proven salve: getting all dressed up as a first line of defense.
“You look fabulous,” said Brock. “Is that the Ralph from last Spring?”
“Fifty percent off, thanks to you,” said Jenn.
“Everybody?” said Timothy. “Repeat after me: brAYDEN SUCKS.”
“brAYDEN SUCKS,” we thundered, causing more than one traveler to tell his or her companions, “So gay,” which we took as the highest compliment.
“Jenn,” said Mikaela, “have you thought about getting a new place, for your new life?”
“Because we’ve got ideas,” said Pei-Sze.
“And there’s a presale on RL Home, which includes duvets and Euro-shams,” said Brock. “I can get you in before the store opens and we can Post-it things.”
“You should do a whole Insta story,” suggested Timothy, “on how dumping a creep can reduce fine dry lines.”
“You guys,” said Jenn, with tears in her eyes. “I know some jerks don’t think they should let queer people serve in the military. But I think they should only let queer people serve in the military.”
We cheered and donned our party hats, with the heavy elastic under our chins, as a bevy of waiters brought our salads, which also made Jenn cry, because picking at a salad is her go-to ritual.