Nick had written about the fire and it had appeared on Page One, above the fold, with two color photos. It was a story the morning paper wouldn't have until the following day, and then the reporter would be forced to come up with a different angle, which Nick had made even more difficult for his competitor by mentioning, in detail, the works of art stored on the third floor. He felt good when he saw the first copy of the paper, his byline high on the page beneath the headline for any passerby to see in a vending box. Tonight, the television news would be following up on his story.
That had also had turned up the heat on his investigative piece, and John had taken him into the conference room for a lengthy discussion about what that story would contain. John was inclined to believe this would certainly tip off the morning paper because it was too messy a situation. Someone, somewhere, would say something that would have their reporters off and running, chasing the same story and possibly scooping it. After ninety minutes, Nick had become demoralized, certain that his story would come apart and he would have little to write about but a stand-alone news article detailing, briefly, the arrests of the members of the art theft ring.
And that had sank his ship, or at least breached it, letting saltwater into the lower decks, as he left work that afternoon and walked toward the parking garage where his car sat. If the other paper caught up to him, his story would be worthless. Few people would care to read a rehash of the morning paper's take on the events, and the six o'clock news programs would be using the morning paper as their reference, not his story. At that point, it would be pointless to write much of an expose on the investigative process and detail the background of the suspects and how they operated. The upcoming week would be a morass of long days and intensive interviews; John wanted the outline to each of the stories by Friday with as much flesh on the bones as Nick could muster.
He turned a corner and shuffled along the sidewalk, ignoring the mid-afternoon crowds darting into stores or idling at bus stops. Nick stopped mid-way down the block and turned to look through the glass window of a jewelers. Laid on beige velvet just beyond the security glass was a variety of gaudy watches, tennis bracelets and diamond rings. He stepped up to the window and peered down at the few rings slipped over cloth-covered cones: a sapphire, a men's onyx dress ring, and a few diamond engagement rings. The sun beat down on his back and exhaust billowed up from a bus departing the curb as he looked down at the crystallized carbon gems set on gold bands.
Inside, the air conditioning was a relief from the late summer heat and he noticed his arm pits were clammy when he put his hands into his pockets. A woman in her early fifties, her fingers littered with gold and gem-encrusted rings, floated down toward him on the other side of the counter as he tilted his head downward.
"I see you're going to make some young lady very happy," she said, her glistening lips parting into a broad smile and showing her bleached teeth.
Nick stared at her teeth for more than a moment and then looked into her eyes: her lashes were thick with mascara and clashed against her pale skin, giving her a Gothic look that wasn't helped by her loose-fitting black dress.
"What?" Nick asked, his voice not fully forming the word.
The woman kept her smile and drew {to a stop opposite Nick. "So, this is your first time, I see."
"First?"
She nodded. "Yes. Your first time in a jewelry store to look at diamonds. That'll make it easier for both of us, since you're probably not ready to buy today."
"Easier? Maybe, I don't know," Nick said, glancing back down through the case at the rings lined up rank and file.
"Well, you're looking at engagement rings, so at least we both know where to start this conversation," she said, her smile still boisterous. "If you would like to look at one up close, just ask."
Nick looked up at her as she took a step backward and leaned against a counter set into the wall behind the display cases. This didn't feel low pressure.
"Are they returnable?" he asked.
The woman kept her smile, though it diminished slightly when she furrowed her eyebrows at Nick's question.
"Aren't you going into this in the wrong direction?" s(tm)he asked.
"What do you mean?"
"That's normally one of the last questions you're supposed to ask, although most of you never do," she said, crossing her arms and tilting her head to the side. "But, yes, they are, within thirty days of purchase."
Nick nodded his head.
"Why diamond?"
The woman shrugged an almost imperceptibly. "It doesn't have to be. We sell a few rubies now and then, but mostly diamonds. It's tradition. They're beautiful. They're the hardest substance known to man, meaning they're durable. Those are characteristics you want in a marriage."
Nick nodded.
"How long have you been dating her?" she asked.
Nick looked down into the case. "About three years, I guess."
"Have you two talked much about getting married?"
Nick looked back up at her. "Some. Nothing in particular."
"Do you know what kind of ring she might want?"
Nick made a small grimace. "Are you supposed to know that? Doesn't it ruin the surprise?"
She smiled. "Honey, getting married isn't supposed to be a surprise. When and how you give her the ring is supposed to be a surprise. You really don't want to surprise her too much with what kind of ring you get her, she's got to wear it, after all."
Nick drummed his fingers on the glass top, leaving partial fingerprints behind. "Yeah, I guess I'm not trying to shock her."
The woman smiled as Nick turned and pushed through the door and stepped back into the hot afternoon. He looked around at the people moving along the sidewalks and wondered if they knew where they were going, if they knew who they were, or if everyone was just waiting for the next surprise to come along.
TWENTY-THREE