One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [132]
He looked around his little apartment. Was he about to lose his own home as well? Would he, too, become a charity case? The fact that Annalisa Rice had asked him if he needed money was a bad sign. Was it apparent to all how desperate he was? Once people sensed his weakness, he’d be cut off. “Did you hear what happened to Billy Litchfield?” they’d ask. “He lost his apartment and had to leave New York.” They’d talk about it for a little while, but then they’d forget about him. No one cared to think about the people who didn’t make it.
He went into his bedroom and opened the wooden box Mrs. Houghton had left him. The Cross of Bloody Mary was still in its suede pouch in the hidden compartment. He’d considered renting a safe deposit box in which to store the cross, but he worried that this action alone might arouse suspicion. So he had kept it, as Mrs. Houghton had, on top of his bureau. Unwrapping the cross, he recalled something Mrs. Houghton had once said: “The problem with art is that it doesn’t solve people’s problems, Billy. Money, on the other hand, does.”
Billy put on his reading glasses and examined the cross. The diamonds were crudely cut by today’s standards and were far from perfect in color or clarity, with cloudy occlusions. But the stones were old and enormous. The diamond in the middle was at least twenty carats. On the open market, the cross might be worth ten to twenty million dollars.
This particular circumstance dictated that he mustn’t be greedy, however—the more money he demanded, the more likely the sale would attract attention. He would ask for only three million dollars—just enough, he reasoned, to take care of his mother and ensure his relatively modest lifestyle in New York.
Then the reality of what he was about to do caused his body to react in fear. He felt a damp sweat beginning to form in his armpits, and leaving the cross on the bed, he went into the bathroom, took two Xanaxes, and stepped into the shower.
Afterward, patting himself dry with a heavy white towel, he sternly told himself that he must be resolute in his decision. He would have preferred to sell the cross to Annalisa Rice, whom he trusted completely, but Annalisa was a lawyer and would know the transaction was illegal. That left one other choice—Connie Brewer. Connie’s blithe lack of intelligence might prove to be his downfall someday, but on the other hand, she was good at following instructions. As long as he constantly reminded her to keep quiet, he would probably be safe. Wrapping himself in his paisley silk robe, he reminded himself if the thing be done, it best be done quickly. Picking up the phone next to his bed, he called Connie.
She was collecting her children from school but would meet him at four o’clock. At four-thirty, his bell rang, and Connie came fluttering into his cramped apartment. “You’re being so mysterious, Billy,” she said.
He held up the cross.
“What is it?” she squealed, thrusting her head forward to get a better look. “Is it real? Can I hold it?” She put out her hand, and he placed it in her palm. She gasped. “Are those diamonds?”
“I hope so,” he said. “It belonged to a queen.”
“Oh, Billy, I want it. I want it,” she repeated. “I have to have it. It’s mine.” She held the cross to her chest and stood to look at herself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. “It’s speaking to me. Jewelry speaks to me, you know—and it’s saying it belongs to me.”
“I’m so glad you like it,” Billy said casually. Having begun the transaction, he felt calm. “It’s special. It needs the right home.”
Connie became businesslike, as if fearful that the cross might get away from her if she didn’t buy it right away. “How much do you want for it?” she asked, sitting on the couch and taking her iPhone