Snake in the Glass (5 page)

Nessa looked up when I came into the shop to relieve her for lunch. “You look pleased with yourself,” she observed.

I grinned. “I am. Take a look.”

She went over to the large window that overlooked the studio work area—good advertising for customers, who loved to watch the process. “The vase with the snake? It’s lovely—and an interesting use of glass.”

“Yes. The furnace works just fine. Damn, that was fun! I thought I’d quit while I was ahead, if you want to primp a bit for your lunch date.”

“No need. Frank will just have to take me the way I am.”

Wise woman, Nessa. At that moment Frank appeared at the door, looking right with the world. “Ready to go, m’dear?”

Nessa glanced at me. “I am. Just let me get a sweater.”

Frank turned to me. “Want to go check out the fun, when we get back?”

“You mean the Gem Show?” I thought for a moment. As I had told Nessa, I was superstitious enough to believe that I shouldn’t push my luck. I had turned out one good (I hoped) glass piece, and no doubt jet lag would sandbag me later in the day, so I might as well get this gem thing over with. “Sounds good to me, Frank. But you don’t need to hurry back from lunch. I think I can handle the crowds.”

He grinned at my joke. “Right, then. Nessa?” He offered a courtly arm, and Nessa took it gracefully. They made their way out of the building arm in arm. Nice.

Nessa and Frank were back in under two hours,
looking no less happy than when they had left. At least there was no trouble in their little paradise. Frank relinquished Nessa’s hand grudgingly before turning to me. “Ready to go?”

“I guess.” I had mixed feelings about our planned excursion, although that had nothing to do with Frank. “What do you want to see? There’s a lot going on, both big and small events. You have friends here?”

“Friends might be a bit strong. Plenty of colleagues, acquaintances.”

“Are you selling this time around?”

He shook his head. “Thought I’d get my feet wet first, although if the right deal came along . . . I’ll introduce you to some of my pals, but maybe you should see the biggest gathering first—at the convention center, isn’t it?”

“There and about a million other places. But if you want big, that’s the place to start. You want to walk?” I asked. “It’s only a few blocks.”

“Sure. Clear the head, stretch the legs.” Frank looked ready to take on tigers. Didn’t anything slow him down? I wasn’t so sure about my own stamina, but a brisk walk sounded like a good idea.

One of the plusses of having a shop in the Warehouse District was that it was downtown, which made many things easy to get to, including the convention center. I liked to walk, and I drove only when I had to. With the seemingly endless reconstruction of the major highway through the center of town, which had shut down not a select few but
all
of the exits, there were far too many lost and/or frustrated drivers on the streets. Walking was much simpler and often faster.

We had covered a few blocks before we spoke. “Not quite like Ireland, is it, Frank? How does Arizona compare to Australia?”

“Not too far different, although we don’t have the cactus—at least, not the tall ones. We’ve got succulents, and there’s a lot of prickly pear, but that was introduced, not native. We call it a weed.” I could hear the grin in his voice. “Depends on where you are. It’s a big place.”

“But you do have kangaroos, right? That’s not just an advertising gimmick?”

“That we do, more than enough. And the same goes for koalas. Come visit.”

“I’d love to, but I’ve got a business to run.” And I didn’t want to guess what a plane ticket to Australia might cost. We walked another block.

“Heard from Cam?” Frank said, his eyes on the streetscape.

“Not since he stalked off in a huff. He knows you were coming, and he said he wants to see you. I hope it will work out. I left him a message on his cell phone that you were here.”

“No worries. He’s tough.”

“I hope you’re right.”

I took us maybe fifteen minutes to make our way to the sprawling Tucson Convention Center, the biggest venue for the many gem-related events. Frank looked like a kid waiting in line to see Santa Claus, bouncing on his feet, his eyes lit up. Me, I was less enthusiastic: I don’t like crowds, and I don’t particularly care for expensive, useless things. From all that I’d heard, the Gem Show contained the worst of each. But Frank was eager, and I tried to keep an open mind. “You ready?”

“I am. Let’s do the public stuff first, eh? Then you can decide if you want to try the dealers-only part.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Less crowded, and maybe better quality bits. I can get you in.”

“Let’s see if I survive the first round, okay?”

Frank chivalrously sprang for a couple of visitor passes, and we hovered for a moment near the entrance. I took a deep breath: the noise coming from the huge exhibition hall was daunting—and it got worse once we walked in.

The bare-bones room was the size of a football field—at least it looked that big to me—and the entire floor was taken up with row upon row of booths with giant banners and bright lights, all shining on boxes and baskets and bins of gems. Rough gems; cut gems, mounted and unmounted; beads, strung and unstrung. Shoehorned in between was the occasional booth selling fittings and findings and supplies. The place was packed with people, most of whom appeared to be conducting family reunions in the middle of the aisles, making it hard to move in any direction. Maybe that was the point: the vendors figured if you had to stand in front of one booth for any length of time, you’d eventually end up buying something. All credit cards accepted. I shut my eyes for a moment to listen to the din. Lots of voices, with a mix of accents. When I opened my eyes again, I noted signs for vendors from all over the world, but particularly Asia—Hong Kong, Shanghai, Burma, Thailand.

“Wow,” I said, stunned.

“Too right,” Frank replied, clearly eager to get started. “What do you want to see?”

“I have no idea. You pick.”

Frank studied me. “You’re not the pearl type, and there’s no point in looking at the diamonds in this lot—I can show you better in the dealers’ section. And you don’t do beady things. So let’s take a look at the colored gems—plenty of interesting stuff there. And if you want to ask questions, go right ahead.”

“Yeah, sure,” I muttered. I followed him meekly as he plunged into the throng. It wasn’t easy to keep up with him as he wove his way along. He wasn’t hurrying, but he wasn’t dawdling. He stopped at a double-wide display, where the table was covered with small closed boxes holding cut stones, the boxes arranged by color to form a rainbow spectrum across the table. Even I had to admit it was impressive. And it reminded me of frit, the ground or powdered glass I use to add color to pieces. Maybe there was something I could use here after all. “Okay, Frank, tell me what we’re looking at.”

Frank launched into an analysis of the stones spread out before us, while the vendor behind the table watched with an amused smile. Finally he said, “Can I show you something? Looking for anything special?”

Frank looked at me and winked. “What’ve you got in peridot?”

Peridot? I bent forward for a closer look. So this was the stone that guy Denis had been talking about this morning.

“You want Afghan, Burmese, local?” the vendor replied.

“Show us what you’ve got,” Frank countered.

The man directed us over to a counter area where there was a black velvet pad under a bright light. He collected several small plastic zip bags holding light green stones, then opened them one at a time, spreading the stones out on the velvet. They ranged from rough crystals through cabochon and faceted stones, and the colors varied from a pale yellow green to a more intense grass green. Most of the stones were fairly small, no larger than a half inch. I poked idly among them, listening with half an ear while Frank asked what I supposed were knowledgeable and pointed questions. The dealer replied glibly, but I had no idea whether he was shooting bull or knew his stuff. Frank seemed to be enjoying the process at any rate, and in the end I was surprised that he ended up buying a stone, for a price that seemed quite reasonable even to me.

When the transaction had been completed, Frank guided me back into the traffic stream. “What was that all about?” I asked. “You need stones? And why peridot?”

“Just testing the waters—wanted to hear his patter. He was fairly honest, and he knew his stones. After that I thought I ought to buy something. And you should know a bit about peridot.”

“Why?”

“Because most of the peridot in the world comes from your backyard.”

“What, you mean from the U.S.? Frank, I told you I don’t know anything about gems.”

“Closer still—Arizona, maybe fifty miles from here. Hang on, let me look at something.” Frank leafed through the vendors’ guide he had picked up at the entrance. “Right—two aisles over, at the other end. The Stone Trade Exchange guys control most of the sales of local stones. Let’s check them out.”

“Lead on,” I said. Much as I hated to admit it, I was beginning to get interested—not so much in the idea of buying or owning gems, but in the amazing range of colors that surrounded me. I could feel glass ideas bubbling into my head, and I was visualizing new combinations and effects. Heck, I could even see how changing the display lighting in my shop might make my glass pieces stand out better, based on what I was seeing here.

Frank led the way unerringly to a modest but tasteful booth, with a simple dark color scheme and some striking images of what I thought I recognized as Arizona hills. An array of gems on the table battled with assorted flyers and brochures, equally well designed. Behind the table two men in sober shirts and pants appeared to be in a heated discussion with a third, more casually dressed man. The Apache origins of all three were evident. Theirs was one of the less crowded booths in that corner, and when they saw Frank and me approach they quickly wrapped up whatever they had been talking about. The third man hovered uncertainly, but the other two—apparently the ones responsible for the booth—turned their attention to us, ignoring their companion, who finally turned and left.

“Welcome. What can we help you with?”

A nice nonpushy opening. I approved. I let Frank do the talking again.

“Frank Kavanagh—Kavanagh Mines in Australia. Been hearing about Arizona stones for years now but never saw many. Mind giving me a quick see?”

I could tell that the vendors recognized a colleague, and also that they were more than happy to talk about their wares and their organization, if the enthusiasm of their response was any indication. “Happy to, Mr. . . . Kavanagh, was it?”

“Call me Frank.”

“You know of the San Carlos Reservation? We—my brother and I, and members of some other families who live on the reservation—created the Stone Trade Exchange some twenty years ago to handle the marketing of the stones mined at the reservation. Our business is international, and we’ve added finishing centers and branched into handling some other gems and producing jewelry.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a pretty good deal going. Exclusive handling of the reservation’s stones?”

“Yes. We have long believed that our individual miners are better served if they are represented in world markets by a single organization. I believe we’ve all done well through this arrangement. Are you interested in some stones?”

“Love to look. Em, here—she’s local, and I guess your advertising hasn’t reached her. What can you tell us about your stones?”

I smiled and tried to look as though I cared, embarrassed by my total ignorance of this local industry. The spokesman didn’t seem to notice, but pulled out a selection of stones and laid them on the now-familiar black velvet surface, describing the virtues and flaws of each. Several other strollers were attracted by his obvious expertise, and in the end Frank and I slipped away, leaving the field clear to the more likely buyers. I snagged a brochure before we moved on.

When we were a discreet distance away, I said to Frank, “I never knew about the whole peridot thing. Or that the local Indians were marketing them. Is it a good business?”

“It can be. Depends on world markets and what the overall supply is. Some good finds have been made in places like Afghanistan and Burma, but politics there sometimes makes it hard to get quality stones shipped out. I’d guess the local supply is more dependable.”

“Are they good-quality stones?”

“Some, sure. It’s an attractive stone, don’t you think? And affordable, which is a plus these days. Looks good with gold or silver mounts, not as fragile as some like opal.” Frank scanned the huge room again. “What else do you want to see?”

“I have no idea, but I’m learning fast.”

We wandered up and down the jammed aisles, stopping now and then to poke at piles of stones or strings of beads. Frank chatted with quite a few people, some of whom he obviously knew. He picked up a few more small purchases, but even I could tell he wasn’t in serious dealer mode. Maybe that all went on in the exclusive dealer section. Still, most of the people here seemed to be having a good time agonizing over their decisions and haggling over prices. After a while I realized I was reaching some sort of saturation point: everything was beginning to run together, especially after I’d seen the same kind of stones on seventeen different tables.

“Frank, how much more do you want to see?”

He tore himself away from yet another display and took a look at me. “Had enough? I’m happy to call it a day.”

“Thank you. I’d really like a chance to digest what I’ve seen, and right now I’m feeling kind of overwhelmed.”