Closing Time

By Peter Rustin

After the recession, the formerly splendid Main Street could only support one jewelry shop—barely.  Harry was getting ready to close early as the streetlight shadows grew long under the monochrome winter sky.  Emma had already left to pick up the twins from ballet, leaving Harry to finish removing the jewelry and watches from the sparkling cases up front.

A well-groomed middle-aged fellow, with a fashionable dark stubble and longish black hair, in a clearly Italian black leather jacket, appeared in the glass alcove of the front door, and pressed the yellowing Bakelite doorbell that had been there since Harry’s dad opened the shop back in the 60’s.  Harry glanced at his blue Omega Seamaster 300M—an unexpectedly extravagant wedding gift from Emma—and was disappointed to see that it was only 3:45. 

Although he could have explained through the heavy glass door that he was closed, Harry was acutely aware that sales were firmly ensconced in the trough between Christmas and Valentine’s Day.  The thought of Emma looking at him sternly over her lowered glasses when he told her he had turned a customer away (they had agreed on a truth-only policy after Harry’s parole) eclipsed the quotidian pleasures of a drink, a Barcalounger, and CNN.  As he buzzed the man in, Harry’s image of himself sipping a Johnnie Walker Black and catching Jake Tapper faded, and then disappeared altogether, like the picture on a switched-off 1957 Zenith TV.  

The young man sidled up to the ring counter, met by Harry.

“Harry Rouse.  Pleased.  And you are…?”

“Doug McLemore.  I’m looking for an engagement… .”

Harry gaped in wonder, and jumped in before the sentence could be completed.

“Doug McLemore!  The Doug McLemore?  From the 2004 Sox team?!  Didn’t you pitch a perfect 7^th inning in Game 4 against the Cardinals?”

A lopsided grin from Doug.  “Wow, you know your baseball.  Not many people remember a one-inning lefty pitcher from that long ago.”

“Are you freakin’ kidding me? You bridged the gap between Buzz Corman and the closer, Ted Roberts, and the Sox broke the 86-year Curse of the Bambino!  What the heck are you doing in our little town?”

“I bought a house out on the lakefront with my soon-to-be fiancé, which is why I’m here.  You see…” 

Doug dropped his voice confidentially, even though the shop was empty.

“I want to propose to my girlfriend but, to be honest, uh, those Boston jewelry district stores are pretty spendy and I’d just as soon give the business to a local joint.  Also, well, a washed-up ballplayer’s salary doesn’t go as far as you may think, so… .”

“Say no more, Doug!” said Harry.  You’ve come to the right place. What do you have in mind?  Do you have a budget?  Some particular style in mind?”

Doug blushed.  “Maybe…Ten grand?  Can that get me something that won’t be a total embarrassment?  No clue about style… .”

Harry had this part down cold.

“Ok, first: tell me about your girlfriend.  What does she like?  Dislike?”

“Well, Penny, she’s 32.  Never been married.  Kinda preppy, but not stuffy.  Redhead.  Funny.  Executive at a small internet startup. Likes nice things, but nothing gaudy.  Not a designer clothes person.  We actually met at a fundraiser.  I was signing baseballs at an event for a kid’s charity and she was volunteering.  I asked her out for a drink, and… you know.”

Harry had heard enough.  “She sounds lovely.  I have some ideas. I’ll be right back.”

Harry walked into the back room, leaving Doug squinting at the rings below.

Turning the corner, out of sight of the store’s showroom, Harry turned the dial on the black AmVault TL-30, marveling as he always did at its tactile clicking, less heard than felt.  He then spun the Y-shaped steel handle and the safe’s door silently yielded, its hundred-plus pounds rotating on the hardened Swiss bearings.

The safe’s interior was divided into a series of wood drawers, each with a rounded, stemmed nickel knob in its center.  Harry knelt, and looked at two adjoining bottom drawers.  Harry paused, opened the drawer on the left, and selected two tightly rolled pouches made of dark blue velvet.  He closed the safe and joined Doug up front.

Harry sat on the well-worn jeweler stool and pulled the pneumatic arm to lower the height–would Emma ever remember to do this when she left?  He pulled out a black velvet display mat, a precision 160mm commercial-grade tweezer, and a loupe from a drawer below the counter.  Next, he turned on a high intensity slim lamp that was mounted to the side of the display case; and unrolled one of the pouches after carefully untying its pale-yellow ribbons.  He placed the other pouch on the top of the adjoining display case.  No sense in presenting the customer with too many choices.  Harry knew only too well that this led not to sales, but to customer paralysis and empty promises to return another time. 

Using the tweezers, Harry carefully extracted 12 stones from small pockets inside the pouch’s interior.  He arranged them in a line, in several shapes (round, square, pear) ranging from small to large.  “First, we need to pick a stone, and then we move on to the setting,” explained Harry. 

“Let me tell you about what you’re looking at.  When you buy diamonds, you start by understanding the unique characteristics of each stone. Diamonds are graded based off the 4Cs – cut, color, clarity and carat weight. The 4Cs of diamonds impact the stone’s beauty and value.  What shape cut do you think Penny would like?”

Doug thought for a moment, and then said “Well, she’s what you might call a ‘classic’ kinda gal.  It’s not like we ever discussed this, but I do remember that she ooh’ed and aaah’ed over her sister’s ring, which was, uh, I think round?”

“Ok, now we’re getting somewhere,” Harry said.  “Did you notice what it looked like?”

“Lemme see,” replied Doug.  “Yeah, sorta standing on its own on a silvery band.  Made the diamond look pretty big.” 

“Ah, a solitaire ring,” said Harry.  “Yup, that’s the most classic of them all. If the band looked ‘silvery’ as you put it, that suggests that it was set in a platinum band.  So, maybe a nice round cut and a platinum band for our Miss Penny?”

Doug nodded happily.  Harry replaced all but the round stones into the pouch and extracted 5 more round stones.  He gave the loupe to Doug, and picked up a stone, slowly rotating the tweezers so that the light glimmered as if coming from a distant star.  

“Here, look at this one.  It’s what we call a classic round cut.  Your budget will get you a very nice 1 carat stone.  Nice clarity, well cut.  Look at the precision cut facets and the way it throws off light.”

Doug squinted at the gem and gave a low whistle.  

“Wow, beautiful!” he said.  “But…what if I wanted a bigger one?  I just know that if Penny’s is smaller than her sister’s…. ”  He trailed off.

“Gotcha,” said Harry, “Do you think you could stretch the budget a bit?  We could put you into a 2 plus carat stone for maybe 15k.  Now, mind you, it won’t be as clear—you may see some tiny specks, called ‘inclusions’ if you really looked hard in very bright light.”  Harry cocked an eyebrow.  “Does Penny carry a loupe?”

Doug laughed. “Let’s see it.”

Harry picked up the largest of the stones and, guiding Doug, invited Doug to look at it with the loupe.

“Yeah I see them,” said Doug.  Then he looked at the stone unaided. “Huh, looks totally ok now.  Nice.  Ok, let’s say this one.”

With that delicious feeling that the fish had been hooked, and all that remained was to reel it in, Harry opened a case of ring settings.  He pointed to one with 4 prongs.

“This is what we call a round platinum band.  Very high quality, and very classic indeed.  Here, let’s place the stone in the band so you can get an idea of the total effect.”

Harry handed the ring to Doug.

“Dude.  Amazing.  That is Penny to a T.  Let’s do this.”

“Excellent,” said Harry. “What we can do is place the stone in it, you pop the question, and she can come back for a fitting with her hero.  Most women wear about a 6.  Let me find you a nice box.”

Harry rummaged through the drawer and emerged with a black velvet ring box.  “This should do nicely.  Will this be charge, check or…” Harry grinned. “Cash?”

Doug reached into the chest pocket of his jacket and said “Neither.  Do you accept Glock?”  He pulled out a flat black pistol, about 8 inches long, and set it on the counter, covered by his hand. “Are we going to do this the easy way or the hard way?  Most people, they choose the easy way.”

Harry’s throat tightened, the way it does in a dream where you try to scream but nothing comes out.  He looked out the plate glass window in the hope of seeing a passerby, but all he saw was a hazy puddle of light from the now-lit streetlight, and the dim storefront of Frank’s Hardware across the street.  He had read about this in the trades and knew that passivity was the only play here.

“Uh, the easy way,” Harry choked.

Glancing continually at the windows—time was key here–Doug motioned with the Glock for Harry to roll up the pouch, which looked to contain about 30 stones.  Doug grabbed the pouch and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.  He stood, tucked the Glock into the back of his waistband, and walked slowly backwards to the door.  

“Don’t feel bad Harry.  Occupational hazard, right?  Now, be a good boy and buzz me out.”

Harry pressed a hidden button on the rear of the display case, and Doug opened the door and silently receded into the evening.  The last thing Harry saw was the shine of Doug’s black hair catching the bluish light from the lamppost.

***

After he could breathe slowly again, and the pounding of his heart stopped reverberating in his ears, Harry got up, flipped the deadbolt on the door, and turned off the blue/white LED overheads designed to impart a pricey glint to the merchandise.  He walked to the back of the store and, hands unsteady, turned on his iMac.  He tapped the keys, a moment passed, and Harry stared at the screen, and then stared again.

The Google result for Doug McLemore showed, on the left side of the page, a baseball card photo of a clean-cut, blonde, fair young man.  In a light blue box on the right, the word “Born” showed January 27, 1977.  Next to it, in an identical blue box said “Died,” with a date of December 22, 2012. In a box titled “About,” was the following:

“Doug McLemore was an American professional baseball player.  Primarily a relief pitcher, he was best known for his 2004 season with the Boston Red Sox, when he posted a .87 ERA during the World Series against the St. Louis Cardinals.  He died in an automobile accident in Litchfield, Connecticut in 2012.”

Harry shook his head, amazed at the world’s mendacity.  He took the pouch that “Doug” had missed in his haste, and unlocked the AmVault TL-30.  He opened the drawer on the left, and placed the dark blue velvet pouch, with its sister pouches (all containing cubic zirconia) and closed the vault door.  No need to call his insurance agent, Hal Stevens, to report a $350 loss.

He glanced at the blue Omega. Tuesday.  The twins loved Emma’s tacos.

Peter Rustin and his wife Leslie recently moved from Los Angeles to Peter’s native Connecticut, with their three rather intelligent cats. Peter is an attorney practicing remotely with his firm in Los Angeles. He plays guitar badly and drums decently.  His work has been published in the Arboreal Literary Journal; Free Spirit; Assignment Literary Magazine; BarBar; WrongTurn Lit; Ariel Chart International Literary Magazine; Piker Press; Gabby & Min’s Literary Review; and the South Florida Poetry Journal.