Red-Hot Ruby (3 page)

On the first day of the exhibition at Spears Art Gallery, Carter dressed up. He’d been to a number of art exhibitions in his life, and he well knew that people liked to look posh when attending them. So he took his most elegant shirt, a dark blue shirt with an Italian collar. He exchanged his blue jeans for black trousers and wore shining black leather shoes. No one would notice him dressed like that; he would just be one more person in the crowd, instead of being “that guy with the blue jeans.”

Carter went out into the street and waved at a cab, which rushed by, already occupied. He walked on a bit and saw another yellow car. He stretched his hand, but that one was full as well. Carter swore and kept walking. Finding an empty taxi in just a minute only happens in the movies. Yet, after a few more tries, Carter finally sat at the back of a car.

“Spears Art Gallery,” he said.

“You too?” the driver sounded half surprised, half annoyed. “Looks like everyone’s goin’ to see that ruby.”

Carter didn’t answer. He just sat back and enjoyed the view. They crossed Manhattan Bridge, so Carter could fully admire Brooklyn Bridge on his right. He tried to remember how long it had taken to build it, but failed. He could only recall having learned at school that a lot of workers died because of the water pressure. But what a work of art stood there in the end. Too bad it was impossible to make forgeries of that one.

The driver pulled Carter away from his reveries by announcing that they’d arrived. Carter quickly paid and got out of the cab. He stood in front of the art gallery, staring at it for a second. Loads of people were waiting at the main entrance. Carter walked around the building. He was aiming for the eastern door. He guessed that less people knew about it and it would be easier to get in through there. He was right. He waited in the queue for about ten minutes.

“Here’s your ticket,” the cashier said when he handed her the money. “If you wish to admire the ruby of
Monsieur
Duval, just follow the red carpet.”

“Thank you.” Carter entered the gallery. It was darker than he had imagined. The walls were brown and clothed with paintings and pictures. He looked at the floor. Under his feet was a red carpet which looked brand new, while under it a blue carpet seemed permanent. “Follow the yellow brick road,” Carter sang to himself. Well, here, the yellow brick road was actually a red carpeted road. Maybe he should have worn golden slippers to counterbalance the colors.

Carter was gazing at the ruby when he noticed her. She was standing on the other side of the showcasing display. Long black hair, dark eyes, a long dark red dress. She was almost as beautiful as the ruby. Carter walked around the crowd to stop next to her.

“Quite a nice sculpture,” he said.

“A beautiful jewel, you mean.” Her voice was low and soft.

“Women see the jewel, men see the art.”

She turned to face him. Her beauty struck him as she folded her arms under her breasts. He couldn’t help looking down.

“Women see the eyes, men see the flesh,” she said provocatively.

He instantly lifted his eyes to meet hers, which were illuminated by a dark and menacing look.

“Have a nice day, mister.”

“Carter,” he said, but she was already gone.

Her

Juliana Farrell was absentmindedly sipping on her Cuba Libre. She was looking at people going in and out of the pub. Teenagers were trying to fool the bartender into thinking they were old enough to drink. They kept arguing, but she knew López wouldn’t fall for it. She sipped a mouthful and nearly choked. It was too early for alcohol.

“What’s that wince? Cocktail’s not good?” López asked.

“No,” she said distractedly. “I mean yes. Yes, it
is
good.”

“What’s up then?” he laughed.

“I’m bored.”

“You should watch TV tonight,” López said mysteriously.

“Why do you say that?” She frowned as she tried to decipher the bartender’s expression. He didn’t answer. He just smiled at her. “Seriously, what’s on TV tonight?”

“There might be a new jewel in town.”

“Really? Where? When?” She was suddenly vigorous, staring at him with eager eyes. He laughed at her childish reaction. She tried to regain seriousness, but when she looked at his wide smile, she couldn’t help smiling herself. “What channel?” she asked.

As soon as she got home, Farrell switched the TV on. She was twenty minutes early for the show, so she ate some pizza while waiting. Finally, the show started with a ridiculous jingle. Some useless gibberish introduced the different people; a French artist named Duval, a specialist of jewelry, and Mr Spears. Farrell started up when she saw it. The ruby was absolutely beautiful. And according to that Taylor woman, absolutely priceless as well.

“I want it,” she decided.

Farrell pulled up her long black hair and tied it with a pencil. She went to her room to fetch her laptop. Back into the living room, she sat comfortably on her couch. She crossed her legs, opened her laptop, and typed Adrien Duval on Google. He was famous indeed. Pictures showed a man with long untidy blond hair and a huge stupid smile. He must have been around forty. His art was very original, sometimes even a bit weird. He gathered rare stones, precious or not, and carved them so they would look like flowers or animals. Farrell thought that the animal ones weren’t very realistic. Sometimes, you couldn’t even make out what animal was represented. Yet, the flowers were quite nice. Tulips, roses, amaranths, they all looked great.

Farrell looked up at the TV. Spears was boasting about his art gallery. Soon to be the most famous in the whole city of New York, he was saying. Farrell googled him too. She knew the gallery, but she’d never been there. Apparently, there was a permanent collection. Mostly art works by unknown artists. And, once in a while, the museum hosted a foreign artist—right now, it was Duval—and held an exhibition of their latest work for two days, or sometimes a week.

The ruby was floating among Farrell’s thoughts. The flower shape, the bright red glow, the tiny cuts and imperfections. Farrell could hardly think of those as imperfections; they were quite the contrary, they were what made the ruby perfect.

The jewel reminded Farrell of a man she had known a few years back. That man would always wear huge jewels around his wrists. Some of them were fake, but Farrell clearly remembered a nice round ruby inserted in a golden flower, which hung from a thin chain. As soon as she saw the man, Farrell grew interested in him. Maybe even a bit too much. Her feelings had eventually prevented her from stealing the jewel. She’d given up on the golden flower with its ruby, because she didn’t want to deceive her friend.

Although the whole story was some years old, it was hardly forgotten. And that, for a reason far more important than jewelry. For the first time of her life, Farrell had given more importance to love than to jewels. Since then, she’d promised herself to draw a perfect line between her private life and her business occupations. And she was never to cross that line.

Farrell untied her hair and massaged her temples. She put her laptop aside, got up lazily and went to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. She put way too much sugar in it, as always, and moved the spoon around the mug, leaving the mark of an eight in the brown liquid.

As she went back to the living room, she thought of her last robbery. She’d successfully stolen a few tiny diamonds five months back. She sold them at a good price and wasn’t even suspected of theft at any moment. The best operation of her life, no doubt.

She’d always escaped the police. Yet, clients who suspected the gems to be stolen tended to refuse the offer. What Farrell did for a living was bad, but she was good at it. However amiable and warmhearted with her friends, she could become as cold as ice in a minute and steal unscrupulously from the richest people. She soon developed a whole circle of influent acquaintances—like Rafael López—and she’d find buyers for the jewels at any time.

A look at the clock informed Farrell that it was almost ten. The TV show had been over for a while. But Farrell was so lost in thought that she didn’t see time flow. She got up. She decided she had to go out and see people tonight. She took her phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me,” Farrell said.

“Jules, I know it’s you. Your name was on my screen.” Her friend, Sarah, laughed. She always told Farrell the same thing, but she didn’t seem to get the point.

“Yeah well… What are you up to tonight?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I have to watch over my little sis.”

Farrell sighed. “Never mind then.”

“You know what, I’ve got nothing planned for tomorrow” Sarah said. “We can go have a drink in the afternoon if you like.”

Farrell agreed, wished Sarah a good night, and hung up. She wouldn’t see her friend tonight, but at least she managed to schedule a meeting before the end of the week. Sarah worked at Spears Art Gallery and Farrell thought she might give her some insight about the place. Maybe there were easily accessible windows or unguarded doors through which it would be effortless to enter. If that was the case, breaking into the museum would be child’s play. And if not, well… Farrell preferred not to think about the alternative. Thinking about it would mean acknowledging its possibility. She was optimistic and, more important, her experience had shown that there was always a weak point in the patrol of sentinels. She would get in anyway, but being able to deceive guards without breaking a sweat was even better.

Although she was happy to have planned to see Sarah, Farrell still wished to go out. She phoned a few other friends and they finally resolved to meet about thirty minutes later in their favorite pub in Manhattan. Farrell hurried into her bedroom. She put on a short dress, combed her hair, slipped into her high-heeled shoes. But when looking at herself in the mirror, she winced. The dress was blue with a gold stripe along the left side. It was too tight, too short, too blue.

“Nope,” she said to herself.

She abandoned the dress on the floor near her bed, and chose another one. A bit longer than the first one, this dress was of a brownish red. Its soft fabric felt comfortable and nice. And yet, the mirror wasn’t any more impressed than before. Too long, too dark, too ugly.

“Ugh, why am I even trying?”

At last, Farrell took out a pair of dark blue jeans from her closet. She pulled on a tight green top with no sleeves. And this time finally, the mirror reflected the picture of a sexy young woman. Satisfied, she put on her high-heeled black leather boots, randomly picked up a purse, and left.

Luckily, Farrell was able to get into the first cab she saw. She was late. Again. She hoped her friends wouldn’t mind; they were probably used to it. She defended herself by saying she was the only one living so far from the pub. And it wasn’t even a lie. When she arrived, she waved at the group of people waiting for her, but walked toward the counter instead.

“Hey, honey,” López said. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“Well, what can I say, I missed you,” she said with a smile.

“Really?” He spoke in an inviting tone which matched his look.

“No, not really. And don’t look at me like that. Anyway,” Farrell sighed. She looked at her friends and caught a glimpse of the pale blue eyes watching her. “Who’s that guy over there?” she asked López.

“Friend of mine,” was the answer.

Farrell didn’t ask more. She headed for the table where her friends were waiting for her.

On the next day, Farrell had some difficulty coming out of her hangover. She had a cold shower and drank five glasses of water. She had breakfast. Then she went back to bed. She slept until early afternoon. When she got up, she still had a headache. After having drunk four more glasses of water and eaten pasta, she had another cold shower.

Farrell walked naked around her flat, looking for her cellphone. Water dripped from her hair, leaving slippery stains on the floor. Her place was a mess. The night before, she’d left her boots near the entrance, and her clothes were scattered across the living room, between the bathroom and bedroom doors. She finally found her purse, got the phone out and called her friend to say she’d be late.

Farrell chose her favorite clothes: blue jeans and thin leather top. She took several minutes to dry her long rebellious hair. After that, she combed it as well as she could. She put dark make-up on her eyelids, and red lipstick. Before leaving, Farrell tidied her flat a little. She picked up the clothes from the floor and slipped into her boots. After checking she hadn’t forgotten anything, she left.

Luckily, her friend didn’t live far from her place, so Farrell didn’t have to wait for a taxi. She walked down the busy streets of New York, her steps resounding because of her high heels. After a while, she turned into Union Avenue and met Sarah who was waiting for her outside the building.

When they were finally sitting in a cafe, Farrell casually asked her friend about her work. Sarah had been working as a hostess in Spears Art Gallery for a bit less than a year. She had befriended almost of all her colleagues and got along just fine with her boss, Mr Spears himself.

“I’ve actually never been to the gallery,” Farrell said. “What’s it like?”