Chapter 2

By now we were on US 12. 12 is main street Townsend and what I wanted didn’t seem to exist on Main. Ah ... a cop. I pulled up, got out and asked.

“Decent Jewelers?”

“At the Cenex.”

“He know what he’s doing?”

“German. Old guy.”

Love the sticks ... cop didn’t even ask me why. Couldn’t do that in a big city. A Jewelry wouldn’t be in a gas station either. Nope ... nothing quite like small town western America.

At the Cenex, the redhead started looking through the Montana tee-shirts. Talked to the clerk and disappeared to the john, two or three shirts on hangers with her...

Old guy didn’t fit. The guy in the little booth at the back was ancient. Shave Santa and you have it. Bald and chubby would be polite. Hr charged me $25 to look at my find ... and test it.

His accent was broad ... probably Swiss. Out here it’s all the same ... Swiss ... German, north Italy, Alsatian ... all the same. “Sapphire ... close to 1200 carats. Like it is, I wouldn’t take less than 5 million. Cleaned up and cut ... probably 7 to ten.” He looked again. “No fractures. I’ll do a cleave for a hundred. Just one.”

I passed him a hundred. He did it right there on his bench. As far as sapphires go ... orange (padparadscha) is very rare ... one that has a star when cleaved?

“Impossible,” he said ... and lost his English.

When one does not speak the language, guttural german sounds like cursing ... even if it’s a recipe for sauerkraut and weiners. He wound down, finally.

“You have made my career. Never have I seen such a stone. I’ll not ask where but that’s not an American stone. And you brought it to me in your pocket!” That last was nearly a shout. He glared ... I blushed and looked guilty. He slipped the stone in a velvet bag. The cleaved piece he wrapped and handed the pair to me. “Don’t keep them together. I’d pay a thousand just for the piece.”

I gave it to him. Free.

Speechless. Flabbergasted.

I wandered over to the cash drawer. The redhead was there.

She paid for her shirt ... she was wearing it out. The shirt she wore at the mine went in the trash barrel by the pumps.

At the car, I said, “I would have paid for the shirt.”

And that set her off. It was like I lit fire to her tampon.

Fingernails ... girl fingernails are sharp. My nose bled for ten minutes. Expressing her ire and displeasure she had stuck her finger in ... just making sure she had my attention.

“I am not a groupie...”

I held up my other hand, palm forward ... STOP ... not the one holding my nose, “And just what do you mean by groupie?”

“My college dorm-roommate ... hold stll ... says they’re girls who offer kinky sex to be allowed backstage.”

“And where did she get that piece of imagery.”

“Rolling Stone ... her dad has all the back issues.”

During the groupie discussion ... you know those blue paper towels at the washing station at the gas-pump? The ones you use to wipe up the water after you use the squeegee to clean suicidal mosquitos off the windshield? ... during the discussion she did one of those impossible girl things. She grabbed a blue towel, tore off a strip using one hand and her teeth, rolled the strip, all the while gauging the size of the roll by the finger she had in my nose, said hold still, pulled her finger out and replaced her finger with the paper roll. Instant red blue towel ... and not a drop of blood on my shirt. Those blue paper towels are very absorbent ... and probably more sanitary than toilet paper.

Anyway ... she cussed me out for thinking she was in it for the money.

“I’m not. I’m in it for the sex.” She was loud and irate.

That had the attention of every male within shouting distance. And the disapproval of their women.

“Would you like to go to a concert Saturday?”

“Where?”

“Great Falls.”

“The Silver Spur is playing Saturday. I couldn’t get tickets.” She sighed, “Sold out a month ago.”

“I’ll get us in.”