The Tavernier Stones by Stephen Parrish

the diamond carefully into a stone paper, and tossed the naked shank into a jar of old gold. “I agree completely,” he replied, deadpan.
    “You do?” His back was still to her, so she couldn’t judge his expression.
    “Indeed, I do. Profit sharing has been lopsided. You’re getting more than you deserve.”
    “We’re a team. You can’t do it alone. We should split the take fifty-fifty.”
    “Bullshit. We don’t split the work fifty-fifty. I do almost all of it.”
    “You didn’t have to kiss the bastard. Did you get a whiff of his breath?”
    He swiveled his chair around to face her. “Come here. I’ll make it up to you. Give me a kiss.”
    “Keep your hands off. I’ve earned fifty percent, and I want it.”
    “Don’t you realize how replaceable you are? All you bring to the job is your pretty legs. This town’s full of pretty legs. But how many guys do you know who can cut a decoy like yours truly? If you don’t like the money, go back to modeling underwear. I’m sure somebody, somewhere, hasn’t heard of you—maybe in Pittsburgh. Go out to the sticks, where they don’t know you. Go back to Zimmerman, where you belong .”
    She swung her hand in a wide arc to slap him, but he blocked the blow with his forearm. Tears of pain came to her eyes. “I bring a lot more than a pair of legs,” she cried.
    “How dare you spoil this moment for me with your talk of ‘profit sharing’?”
    “I also bring knowledge of the operation—and your past.”
    He stood up and grabbed her shoulders. “You want a bigger cut? I’ll give you a really big one.” He manhandled her toward the bedroom. She tried to wrench her shoulders free but was no match for his upper body strength. So she dropped to the floor and kicked.
    He caught her legs in mid-kick and dragged her, squirming and jerking, into the bedroom. There he hooked his right arm under her knees and swung her up onto the bed.
    “I’ve got an idea,” David said. “Let’s invite one of your girl-friends over and have a threesome.”
    “I have a better idea,” Sarah responded, gasping for breath. “Let’s invite her over, have a twosome, and leave you out.”
    He stepped into a pair of shoes and starting tying them. “I’m tired of breaking up with you,” he said. “This is the last time. I’m going to attend my meeting now, then go to Tien Chau’s for lunch. Maybe I’ll even get laid. When I come back, I expect you to be gone.”
    “I’ll go. Believe me, I’m happy to shake this shit hole. But I’m broke, you know that. I need my cut before I can leave.”
    He turned his back on her. “Sue me for it.”

     
    Barclay Zimmerman was already waiting at the corner of Fifth and Arch, next to the Christ Church burial ground where Benjamin Franklin and his wife, Deborah, slept the everlasting sleep. Their plain marble slab, sprinkled with coins, lay immediately on the other side of the bronze spiked fence where Zimmerman stood. Any tourist who wanted to pay respects to one of America’s founding fathers only had to pause on the sidewalk and dig some loose change out of his pocket.
    David watched from a block away. He wanted to make sure Zimmerman was alone: if he had company and knew it, he would glance occasionally at the observation post, even if only inadvertently. But Zimmerman, a wiry, nervous man in his thirties, with unkempt hair that often spilled into his eyes, just stamped his feet impatiently, his hands buried deep in his pockets.
    That satisfied David; if something were about to go down, Zimmerman would be waiting with the patience of a statue.
    Their stories were remarkably similar: Zimmerman had been working on a graduate degree in medieval European history when something happened to alter his course. The “something” was different for everyone who ended up working the street; rumor was, Zimmerman had come to blows with his advisor. That would end an academic career awfully fast.
    He was sharp—and mean as a cornered