--- EMERALD RICH IN RORAIMA ----
A story by Stirling Penn.

-- 1 --


“C’mon, Mr Burl, no more bull, it is true that you struck it rich in Roraima, isn’t
it?”
“What? Don’t you know? You seemed so certain before, mister newspaper-man”
I tried to out-stare his two beady eyes, couldn’t even see those little black bits
for the sun-glare off his specs. Brave as a heretic at Auto da Fe I dropped my gaze;
tried not to look too guilty.
The reporter-man was wise to me for his harsh chin shone like a wing-nut as snake-
lips showed sharp teeth in his smile. “Don’t get slick with me, Mr Burl, I’ve
handled tougher clientele than you. Milked em’ and broken ‘em - You’ll be easy -
of course, you could cooperate?”
“Issat so? What you gonna do when I’ve nothing to say - Gonna quote me?”
“I’ll think of something to go with all the stuff I have already.”
“Oh, I see, gonna resort to traditional journalism, eh : syntactic arrangements
based on predicates of nix?”
The preying mantis flexed his lips some more and doodled with his little black felt-
tip. “My knowledge of your activities in Brasil can hardly be construed as nix,
Mr Burl. As for your sixteen month prospecting tour of the Sierras Pacaraima, it
had nothing to do with tourist fun, much less the Guyanaian smuggler trail..
You see, I know your little secret, in outline if not in detail.”
“Ah well you don’t need me, then, do you. You only have to print it in the Chicago
Trumpet. Good day, Jimmy Olsen.”
“not so fast, smart-ass.”
“Look, Humphrey Bogart-”
“-No, you look. You’re not here on the Chrysler fourth for cafeteria service.
I happen to know that you deposited a cache of 5-star merchandise in Bollinger’s
lapidary-vaults,”
“Lapidary vaults? I know nothing of butterflies. Good day.”
“Better than ten thousand carat of high denomination stones, that’s a lot
of emeralds, Mr Burl.”
It was a nasty shock to hear the quote in such great detail, the legs that had
served me well for thirty-eight days just quit on me.
“So what, I’m a gemstone courier,” I limply offered.
“You surely are, Mr Burl,” William Caxton’s screw pressed on, “You’ve carried
them halfway across Brasil, boy, but not for the Muzo mine.”
I tried to say something, but - “Please, Mr Burl, no more bluffing, You see,
I happen to know that one of those stones will cut to 500 carats, any one of
whose fragments Cleopatra would have killed for... Think of it, Mr Burl, nothing
of that size and perfection has ever been found - except by you!”
I had to admit it, this bloke took his job seriously, and, in the face of such
dedication I owed him some respect, yet, like a dope, I made a face and shrugged,
“It looks like the jeweller gave you half a tale, it must have been a synthetic.”



--Sterl