18mm Blues (47 page)

Lesage had assumed insouciance from the first word when he'd phoned Kumura a few hours ago and during a pause in their discussion regarding a trivial matter had dropped the fact that he (by the way) had acquired another batch of blue natural pearls. Was Kumura by any chance interested? Kumura had difficulty only saying he might be. Kumura let the subject go for a minute or two, then came back to it, suggested offhand that Lesage bring the blue pearls by so he could have a look at them. Lesage put him off until five with the fib that Paulette had a new pedicurist coming in from Phuket whom he also wanted to give a try.

That delay was intended to fuel Kumura's acquisitiveness, however what it did was give Kumura time to settle on how he'd handle the matter if indeed Lesage did have some blue naturals.

Thus, when Lesage showed up at five-thirty with a brown paper bag in hand, Kumura was prepared for him.

The pearls were removed from the bag and grouped upon a square of white velour. The bag was crumpled into a ball and tossed into the wastebasket. Kumura got a ten-power tripod loupe from one of the drawers of the collector's cabinet situated against the wall behind his desk. He chose pearls at random and examined them carefully, taking his time, making favorable comments. At times he got lost in the depths of their blue vibrancy, not seeing the pearls as pearls as much as he was seeing women. Women he would yet meet and fulfill, young, erotically greedy women whom he'd satiate with his virility, passionate sexual novices whom he'd initiate with such impressive technique and ardor that they'd go through life spoiled for all other men.

Finally, Kumura set the loupe aside. “So, how many do we have here?”

“Fifty-eight.”

“Not fifty-seven or fifty-nine?”

Lesage shrugged indifferently. “To tell the truth,” he said, “I didn't count them.”

“You're jesting, of course.”

“I played with them a bit and thought about counting them but then I saw no point in it. They're so obviously a large lot and I have no intention of selling them by the piece.”

“I see. Still … I find it hard to believe you haven't counted them. Any other man would have done so a dozen times.”

“You should know by now that I avoid doing the ordinary.”

“That doesn't say much for me,” Kumura smiled wryly. “Here I sit finding it hard to suppress the urge to know precisely how many there are.”

“Go ahead, count.”

It was crucial to Kumura that he know the exact number of pearls in the lot. Lesage had lied well and Kumura didn't know which to believe. Were there fifty-eight pearls as Lesage had first said or was it true that Lesage hadn't bothered to count?

Kumura used the flat edge of a silver letter opener to separate two pearls at a time from the rest—
thirty-two, thirty-four, thirty-six
…—and while counting asked, “Would you mind telling me where in the world you got these?”

“I'd mind.”

“Somewhere in the Andaman no doubt.”

“Somewhere.”

Forty-two, forty-four
… “I suppose you can get more whenever you wish.”

“No, the source is depleted.”

“You're certain of that?”

“It's cleaned out. There won't be more.”

“What a shame. But, if that's the case you shouldn't mind my knowing where they came from.”
Fifty-four, fifty-six, fifty-eight
.

Lesage remained silent.

Kumura abandoned that tack. He reached down into the wastebasket to retrieve the badly crushed brown paper bag. Pretending to have a second better thought he dropped the paper bag back into the basket. He stood and from one of the many higher drawers of his collector's cabinet brought out a tan, chamois drawstring sack. He put the pearls in the sack, had a slight problem with the drawstring. He paused for a long moment, seeming to be turning over in his mind the sack of pearls he had in his hand. Then, abruptly, as though having reached a decision, he drew open one of the high drawers of the cabinet and placed the sack of pearls into it. Slid the drawer shut sharply. “Okay,” he said, turning to Lesage, “now, how much are you going to stick me?”

“This is twice as good a lot as the first.”

“If you say.”

“A hundred million,” Lesage blurted.

Kumura smiled. “I knew you'd be reasonable.”

“And…” Lesage continued, “controlling interest in the pearl farm here in Bang Wan. I thought what we might do is simply reverse our positions. I'd hold the majority share, you'd take over my limited standing.”

“Is that all?” Kumura asked calmly.

“No. I want a quarter interest in Kumura Worldwide.”

“What else?”

“Those are my terms,” Lesage said firmly. He was quite sure Kumura would go for the hundred million and with owning a lesser share of the farm. He was just as sure Kumura wouldn't agree to a quarter interest in Kumura Worldwide. He'd included the latter in his demands only to have something to give up.

Kumura nodded thoughtfully to convey that he understood the terms. While evidently considering them, he began pacing back and forth in front of the cabinet. It was a huge piece of mahogany furniture. Over ten feet tall and six wide. Lacquered red as it was, with intricate gold-painted Oriental figures and motifs and hand-shaped brass pulls, escutcheons and hinges, it appeared to be authentically Chinese. However, in truth it was early nineteenth-century English, created by a maker in Bristol. Kumura had come across it one day in a shop on Curzon Street. The most appealing thing about it was its numerous drawers. Fifty-five in the upper section alone. Thirty-three more below. Not tiny drawers, either, but of useful size. For that reason it was called a collector's cabinet. It was Kumura's favorite. He regularly took advantage of its features and knew it well.

He stopped pacing, stopped equivocating. Faced the cabinet, pulled out one of its higher drawers. He was removing the tan chamois sack from that drawer when he again had trouble with its drawstring. The drawstring came loose. Several of the pearls escaped the sack and clacked against the mahogany bottom of the drawer.

“Damn!” Kumura exclaimed. He retrieved the pearls, fumbled them into the sack, tightened and tied the drawstring and placed the sack on the desk in front of Lesage.

“By nature,” Kumura said as he resumed his seat behind the desk, “I'm the impulsive sort. Too much so. Always have been. Lately I've been trying to check that shortcoming. My inclination is to make this deal, close it here and now and be done with it. This time, however, I'm going to listen to my more judicious self.”

“Meaning?”

“I'm going to give it some thought.”

“What's the problem? Are my terms too stiff?”

“You know very well I'd never part with any of Kumura Worldwide.”

“So, I'm flexible when it comes to that. Exclude it from my deal entirely, just throw it out.”

“And how about revealing to me the source of the pearls?”

It occurred to Lesage that inasmuch as he'd told Kumura that the source of the pearls had been picked clean he could indicate just about any remote island and say that was it. He acted reluctant, hemmed and hawed some before giving in. “I'll take you to it,” he promised.

A grateful smile from Kumura.

Lesage believed he had him.

But Kumura was like a big fish that kept slipping off the hook. “You'll have my answer by tomorrow morning at the latest,” Kumura said, “most likely sooner. Will you be turning in early tonight?”

“I'll be up,” Lesage said, dejected. He undid the tan chamois sack, took a cursory look in at the pearls, retied the sack and departed.

Kumura stood by the window and watched Lesage's black Rolls out of sight. He felt like doing a dance around the room. He limited his glee to a single skip on his way to the collector's cabinet. From the drawer fourth from the top in the second vertical row from the left he removed the chamois sack containing the fifty-eight natural blue pearls.

It had taken some doing, he thought, as he opened the sack and poured a few of the precious blues into his cupped palm.

He'd prepared in advance of Lesage's arrival three sacks of pearls. One containing forty-five pearls, another containing fifty-five, and still another containing sixty-five. All were cultured pearls that he'd gathered and covertly dyed blue over the years, with the hope that each batch he dyed would somehow be as effective for him as were the natural blues.

He'd placed each of the three identical sacks in a separate drawer on the fifth row down. The sticky part had been the number of pearls. When it turned out that Lesage's natural blues totaled fifty-eight, Kumura had either to add three to the sack of fifty-five or subtract seven from the sack of sixty-five.

He'd decided it would be easier to take out rather than put in. Accordingly, the troublesome drawstring had been his spontaneous invention, allowing pearls to escape from the sack of sixty-five so that he could recover all but seven.

Thus, the sack he'd given back to Lesage held fifty-eight pearls and, in that regard, Lesage would be none the wiser.

It had been a perfect switch. All those identical drawers. Fifth row down or fourth row down, Lesage hadn't been alert enough to notice the difference. Also Lesage's affected air of insouciance had helped greatly. The bloody oaf, Kumura thought. He'd phone Lesage in the morning to tell him no deal.

Of course, Lesage would find out soon enough that his goods were cultured and dyed. As soon as he tried to sell elsewhere that would come out. Lesage would be insulted, perplexed and livid. In that order. When he mentally backtracked, he'd realize when the switch had most likely taken place. He'd rant and accuse, threaten all sorts of action.

Let him.

For Kumura it was a matter of
fellicific calculus
, the pleasures that would be forthcoming because of the switch far outweighed whatever else he'd have to put up with.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The village of Na Yang.

Ten miles up the coast from Bang Wan.

Grady and William decided they'd put the ketch in there rather than sail directly to the docking shed.

Julia wasn't asked her opinion of the tactic, and, although she agreed that such stealth seemed a good idea, she resented not having been allowed a voice. Nor was she included in how Lesage should and would be dealt with. Grady and William could think or speak of little else, but when Julia tried to contribute, either her words got stepped on or it was like she was talking to herself. It had become a dangerous matter involving weapons and therefore a male matter.

Julia loathed that. She felt like punching them or at least kicking them (she only momentarily considered the balls) in the shins. Instead, she told herself to just bide her time. She stopped trying to make suggestions, sat there in the stern and silently approved on cue while they conspired.

When they had it worked out, her part in it was to hire a car in Na Yang to take them to Bang Wan and, when they got to Bang Wan, she was to go to Kumura's and remain in the room well out of the way until it was over. Typical shit, she thought as, apparently, she accepted her role.

They arrived at Na Yang at dusk. Had it been any later they probably wouldn't have been able to tie up because the dock there wasn't much of a dock and most of it was occupied by small overused commercial fishing boats. Grady just did manage to slip the ketch in between two and attach a bowline.

While he and William tended to the sails and to making sure the ketch was otherwise in order, Julia went ashore as she was supposed to.

She found that Na Yang was much less of a village than she'd expected. That was good, she thought. It consisted of one everything store, with a single weathered gas pump out front and no more than a dozen congenially situated makeshift houses in the tropical growth out back. Other than a couple of motorized bicycles left outside the houses, the only vehicle seemed to be a 1967 Ford station wagon missing three fenders and one headlight. It was parked on one side of the store. A tiny Thai woman was loading slotted crates almost as large as herself into it, shoving the last crate in when Julia, with a U.S. twenty in hand, approached her.

A ride to Bang Wan? The woman snapped the twenty from Julia's fingers. She said she was in a terrible hurry. The crabs in the crates had already been out of the water too long. She was taking them to the Coral Beach Hotel in Phuket. The more life there was in the crabs when she got there the more she'd be paid for them.

The old, one-eyed station wagon started obediently, and within a minute or two was the ultimate rattler on paved Highway 4 headed south. Another thing missing from the wagon was its floorboards on the passenger side. Julia hunched down and placed her feet up on the dashboard. The texture of the highway visibly zipping by at close range beneath her and the frantic scuttling of the crabs in the crates just behind her made it an even stranger ride.

Julia expected she'd be let off at the private road, but the woman asked her where to turn and took her all the way in to Kumura's house.

Julia went in and up to her room. She took a quick shower, shampooed and conditioned her hair. Did her makeup, her more natural version, included no real red but skillfully applied an artful, dark, wicked look bordering on evilness to her eyes. She'd already decided on what she'd wear. The pale yellow silk organza trousers she'd bought in Bangkok. Wide-legged, floaty trousers, precisely transparent enough so only her fanciest bikini panties would do. No blouse. Instead, a snug tank top of silk in a more chrome yellow. The combination was right, she thought, as she simultaneously slipped her feet into a pair of light scaled heels and appraised herself in the mirror: a susceptible show-off below, a bit tough above. She remembered to decide against perfume. (Hadn't it been said that her natural scent was provocative?) Neither would she wear any jewelry, not even ear clips. Bare eared would be better. She grabbed up an appropriate shoulder bag and, repressing another look at herself, hurried out.