The Green Parrot
It wasn’t much of a tourist destination; someone told me the name ‘Mira Loma’ meant “Look at the Mud.” That might have been a joke, but the place wasn’t high on anyone’s list of beauty spots; if not for the tiki bar on the edge of the small beach town, it would have little to recommend it.
The margaritas were lacking, and the beer was warm, which annoyed the Americans, though the table of Brits seemed untroubled by it, downing cerveza after cerveza as they watched Champions league and sulked.
“Why did you bring us here?” I asked Johnny. We’d known each other for years, and been friends ever since he lied to give me an alibi.
“You remember the Green Parrot?” Johnny asked. I nodded. No one in our business didn’t know the Green Parrot; it wasn’t quite as big or famous as the Hope Diamond, but it was pretty much in the same league. It edged out the Dresden Green by a couple of carats, and was almost flawless.
“Sure,” I replied. It had been stolen a few years back. It was a fantastic job; there were no clues, no witnesses. The insurance companies had hushed the whole thing up; the police co-operated because they didn’t want to give people ideas.
“I’ve been tracking him down for months,” he said. His face was calm, but there was a sort of cocky assurance underneath.
“Who?” I asked.
“Anderson Coleridge,” he answered. I probably turned pale. Coleridge had a reputation for doing bad things to people he thought had crossed him; he was the best in the business, but the word ‘psychotic’ got thrown around a lot when he was discussed.
“He’s got the Green Parrot?” I asked. I must have spoken too loud; a couple of people looked over at our table. I waited a few minutes and dropped my voice when I spoke again. “You can’t mean you want to try and steal it from him!”
“Call it ‘recovery’, then,” Johnny said. “The insurance company will pay millions to get it back; it’s too hot for Coleridge to sell, and he’s too sentimental to have it cut up into smaller stones. It’s just sitting there, begging to be taken.”
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