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Overview
When Grady Bowman and his new girlfriend, Julia Elkins, travel from San Francisco to the Far East to get Grady back into the gem business, a jeweler in Bangkok tells them the extraordinary true story of two female Japanese pearl divers who discovered in the Andaman Sea an oyster bed filled with priceless, naturally blue pearls. The divers were murdered for what they found, and now the son of one of the divers wants revenge.
As Grady and Julia hunt for the source of the priceless pearls, they are led to the estate and oyster farms of the world’s wealthiest pearl dealer. Here Julia becomes increasingly obsessed with the divers’ tragic deaths, and she and Grady will unravel an extraordinary mystery of one man’s obsession and another man’s crime, and the world’s most breathtaking naturally blue pearls.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781480478534 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 10/21/2014 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 376 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
18mm Blues
By Gerald A. Browne
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1993 Pulse Productions, Inc.All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4804-7853-4
CHAPTER 1
Grady Bowman caught on a thought and paused about halfway through his shave. He looked out the bathroom, through the dressing room to Gayle's unmade bed. It had been unmade when he'd arrived home at three A.M., and although he'd about 98 percent expected Gayle wouldn't be there, the bed bothered him.
He'd been making the circuit for the past sixteen days. Starting with Denver, then Houston, New Orleans, Atlanta, Boston, New York, and, finally, Chicago. At least twice a year, some years three times, he traveled around and met in person with clients of the firm he worked for, the Harold Havermeyer Company. Havermeyer himself used to go on such trips, and so had the Havermeyer before him, but it had been left up to Grady since he joined the firm nearly ten years ago. Some of those trips had been successful, others not so. This one fell somewhere in between, would have been really good had Lawler in Boston been able to decide on that lot of emeralds. There'd been no way for Grady to sell him. All Grady could do was stand there and watch Lawler sell and unsell himself and finally end up unsold.
Last night's flight in from Chicago was one of those evidently destined to misfortune. It was an hour and a half late taking off, and after a half hour in the air had to return because of a mechanical problem. Then there was the hour and some wait for another plane to be readied and the problem Grady had had with his pistol. As usual when he flew with goods, he'd turned in his pistol to airport security for safekeeping in the plane's control cabin. However, with the switch of planes and crews the pistol was forgotten in the copilot's flight case, which was finally located but was locked and had to be broken into.
So, altogether, the last leg of the journey had been everything but good for Grady and a measure of amend was surely called for. Gayle's bed, however, was unmade and empty. Grady believed he was too exhausted to think about it. He let his clothes drop anywhere, vetoed a shower and got into his own bed. Eyes shut, Grady felt sinking and drifting, but then the emptiness in the bed turned his mind back on, and his mind did the same to the rest of him.
He switched on the bedstand light. How long was it that she hadn't been there? he wondered. Got up to perhaps find out. Went nude out to the landing and downstairs to see if there was a dated note from her where she usually left them whenever it occurred to her. Nothing was on the hall table nor propped against the black-and-white photograph of them framed in ornate English silver. It was an enlarged version of the submitted flash shot that had appeared seven years ago on the wedding page of Town & Country.
In his semisomnambulant state it was easy for Grady's attention to get held by something. Such as Gayle as she'd appeared that day, well tanned, slick lipped, haloed by a white floral headpiece, no claim of chastity in that audaciously beautiful face. He doing the mild hug, sort of smiling, certainly not his best smile, dazed really, trying to nonchalant it.
He went into the study and played back the messages on the answering machine. Days and days of them, including the six or seven long-distance that were him and his wordless disconnects. Otherwise only trivial calls such as from the pesticide service a week ago and some woman friend of Gayle's miffed because Gayle hadn't shown up for a dinner party last week, hadn't even called with excuse or apology.
The kitchen. It was clean, the sink was dry, the counters a bit dusty. The coffee left in the coffee maker had evaporated three inches and was scummed blue-white.
Grady didn't really need further indications, such as the ten days' accumulation of newspapers on and around the front entrance or the avalanche of mail beneath the slot or the total vacancy of the second right-hand built-in-dresser bottom drawer where Gayle kept her better, trickier lingerie.
Gone again, he thought, mentally sighing. This time for longer. Ten days at least.
He roamed the house. There wasn't much of him in it the way it was done. She hadn't let him contribute except when it came to some of the outside plantings. So the house was her. Every room and every area of every room and every possible surface within every room was intentionally cluttered. With tasteful and expensive things but nonetheless cluttered.
The low burled chestnut table that served the fat-armed sofas of the living room seating area, for example. There was hardly room left on it to place down a wineglass. A leather case with its lid ajar just so contained a set of nineteenth-century bone dominoes with several spilled out just so, never to be further disturbed. Packets of letters postdated early 1900s, British stamped and addressed in the very practiced hand of the time to several someones in Yorkshire and Northumberland, were tied by dainty silk ribbons, the curled strands of which invaded perfectly an antique brass spyglass positioned just so next to an antique sterling silver porringer stuffed just so with dried pink miniature roses in slight disarray. Lorgnettes, things of tortoise, a just so stack of old leather-bound books of odd sizes buffed and so patined they looked as though they'd been adored, read and reread countless times.
Highly polished pairs of used riding boots in the rear hall, floral-banded, wide-brimmed straws on brass hooks or supposedly tossed over the knob of a chair. Persian carpets, varnished woodwork, paintings of high-strung dogs, cats, horses and boats.
The arranged disarrangements overfed the eyes. But that wasn't how Gayle saw it. To her it was accomplishment worthy of not admitting she'd been assisted by one of San Francisco's most sought-after interior decorators.
To Grady the decor was paradoxical, very much like Gayle and very much unlike her. He never came right out and said it reminded him of a Ralph Lauren display.
He was up for the night now, he believed. Too tired to get to sleep, that was actually it, nothing to do with Gayle, he told himself. Went to the kitchen to warm some milk, but the half carton of it in the refrigerator had gone sour. He settled for a twenty-three-ounce-size Perrier that he twisted open with more strength than was needed and took swigs from on his way to the study. Such large, fast swigs the burst of its fizz burned his palate and the start of his throat.
He sat on the green leather Chesterfield sofa with the cold green bottle in his hand, the base of it resting on his knee. Thought a while about tomorrow, which already was, thought he'd call in at nine and say he wouldn't be in until two. Thought about how he must look from across the room, bare ass adhering to leather in the low light. Did an alone thing, brought the bottle to his crotch, between his thighs, snugged it with a squeeze. After the initial sensation, he couldn't tell which was winning, chill or warmth, the bottle or his balls. He set the bottle on the side table where its sweat might very likely leave a ring. Toppled over onto the sofa's hard arm and brought his legs up, shifted onto his side, knifed his legs to himself and, without another thought, slept for four dreamless hours.
Now it was eight-thirty and he was finishing his shave, giving his cheeks and chin some upward strokes. He splashed his face with two handfuls of hot and dried briskly with one of the fine linen hand towels Gayle had asked him never to use. No aftershave or cologne, this wasn't an aftershave or cologne day. He'd smell his true clean self.
From his suits he chose a slouchy, double-breasted brown light wool that was fresh from the cleaners. Liberated it from the plastic bag, suspendered it and got into it, along with a soft cream cotton shirt and the tidy small knot of a brown grounded tie. Didn't appraise himself in Gayle's full-length mirror. Put his pistol into the everything drawer of his dresser, put his ready cash to pocket, put at once out of mind the suggestion to himself that he make the bed, took his attaché case and went down and out.
He used the twenty-minute drive from Mill Valley to the toll bridge to make friends with the day. It was something he frequently did, left off the radio because the music would likely be either songs involving emotional situations unlike his own or abrasive hard rock stuff that would only potentiate anyone's early morning hostility. As for the news, was it ever really news? Just a carousel of public affairs with seldom a happy horse.
Anyway, this day was a pretty June day, nice sky and everything. Some clouds around but none that looked like they'd form a gang and cause rain. The tie-up at the toll was, as usual, worth it for the bridge, so cheerfully painted and strong and complicated. Since 1981, the first time Grady ever saw the bridge, he hadn't ever taken it for granted. Even on the way home after his most devastating days he was able to get out of himself enough to appreciate it, let it lift him.
As it did today.
By the time he reached Market Street and parked the Ford Taurus in the open lot opposite the Phelan Building, his spirit was boosted two, going on three notches. The old ivory and black marble lobby of the Phelan was as impeccable and deserving of appreciation as ever, and five of the seven people Grady shared elevator number two with were gingerly carrying cardboard containers of coffee and the slight steam from the tiny puncture holes in the lids of the cartons seemed playful.
Every tenant of the thirteen-story Phelan was in one way or another involved in the gem and jewelry trade. Thus the structure was, in effect, a sort of community made up of specialists dependent upon one another or in compatible and sometimes not so compatible competition. So, Grady recognized five of his fellow passengers and was acquainted well enough with the other two—a first-rate stone setter and a younger man who dealt in semiprecious goods—to exchange smiles around good mornings. The setter was next to last to get off. On ten. He seemed eager to get to work. Grady thought probably he'd promised some client, Shreve and Company or someone of that importance, that he'd have a particular piece of work completed first thing that morning.
Grady went to the top, which was mainly taken up by the Harold Havermeyer Company. The designed ensignia HH was in gold on the heavy double doors (only the door on the right could be opened) and beneath the ensignia, like an explanation of it, was the firm's full name.
Grady's name wasn't on either door.
Harold Havermeyer was his father-in-law.
Now and then over the years Harold would make a point of indicating to Grady where on the door he intended to have Grady's name put. Harold's tone always inferred it was imminent and a few times he emphatically tapped the exact prominent spot with a forefinger. However, having it done seemed always to slip Harold's mind.
It got so it was embarrassing for Grady, who told himself that his name on the door wasn't a rung on his ladder.
The girl at the HH front desk was new, extremely pretty and, probably for both those reasons, overdressed. Earrings so dangling they barely cleared her outdated, padded shoulders. Grady discerned the cool may I help you in her eyes and beat her to it by introducing himself and asking her name.
He went on down the hall to his office, on the way glancing into the largest office, which was Harold's. Harold hadn't come in yet. His office was the only one with personality because that was how Harold wanted it. His desk was a bureau plat, a reproduction but nevertheless a bureau plat. His chairs were convincingly distressed bergères, the rug a high and thick piled Chinese, pale blue. The paintings were original oils, two portraits of anonymous British nobles and a Normandy landscape that featured cows by a turn-of-the-century impressionist who hadn't made E. Bénézit but who nevertheless had been a turn-of-the-century impressionist. Harold also had a private toilet. He never referred to it as that but rather as his w.c. Too, there was an impressively stocked bar, though Harold refilled a perpetual vintage '66 Graham port bottle with seven-year-old Sandeman.
The rest of the HH space, reception area, halls, other offices and even the vault room were painted a surely inoffensive dove gray in a flat finish. The woodwork a shade darker. Matching wall-to-wall nylon carpet throughout, and the only thing allowed to be hung were framed oversize examples of fairly recent HH advertisements that had appeared in trade journals and various fashion and snob publications.
Grady's office was an 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.
"Fried ham and egg."
"On what?"
"On anything. Make it fried ham and egg and cheese."
"You 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.
"This is shitty coffee."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from 18mm Blues by Gerald A. Browne. Copyright © 1993 Pulse Productions, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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