The Plaza Hotel's Retail Collection was a disaster. No signs were posted on the entrances of the hotel to inform passers-by about the 20-odd high-end stores in the basement of the landmark hotel. Few hotel guests strayed down to the renovated boiler room. Weeks passed without my making a sale at our jewelry store. My 60 year-old co-worker was having a nervous breakdown. Her husband had leveraged the value of their dream house in Jersey to zero. Everyday my work wife talked about suicide and I wondered what I had done in my previous lives to be punished by imprisonment in this purgatory.
The only redeeming aspects of the Retail Collection were a weekly salary, the cakes of Demel's Pastry Shop, and an after-work beer at the Oak Bar. The bartender was an old friend and I would sit at the historic bar, happy to be away from the room of gloom underneath my feet.
The clientele of the Oak Bar was a mixture of nostalgic guests, loud tourists, and hard drinkers not offended by the management's edict to measure out the alcohol in drinks. I mostly minded my own business, but one night an Arab man took the stool next to me. He was young, fat, and effeminate. He asked the time and commented on my Omega. The automatic dated back to the 40s.
"I love watches." He was sporting a Audemar-Piguet. It cost $45,000 retail.
I explained about my diamond store in the Retail Collection and he mentioned that he had a 4-carat blue diamond in his hotel room along with some jewelry to sell.
"Would you like to see it?" His gestures were extravagant. His clothing expensive without any addiction to fashion. His lilting speech had been sculptured by English private schools. "It's a deep blue."
"Sure." Gays didn't hit on out-of-shape 57 year-old men. "Are you staying here"
"Not in this hotel." He laughed with lisping disdain and signaled for his check. "I don't stay here anymore. Only the St. Regis. You want to see it."
"Yes, of course." Blue diamonds were rare. I had only seen a few in my 20-year career as a diamantaire. I paid $9 for my Stella with a ten. Orlando was good with that tip. We went back to the Blackout of 1977, although he arched an eyebrow about my companion. I shrugged with a smile. No way I was turning a trick. That is a game for young men.
It was a winter night, but not too cold, so we walked over to the St. Regis. Mubarah came from the Gulf. His family was connected to a royal family. The Islamic right to have multiple wives led to big families and his country was crowded with princes. The doorman greeted Mubarah with deference and we went over to the elevator with getting a key. He didn't make any moves on the ride up to his suite. It was bigger than my lost East Village apartment by several hundred square feet.
"One minute." He took off his coat and motioned for me to do the same. He sat on the brocaded couch and I positioned myself opposite on an elegant chair. Mubarrah reached into a bag and pulled out a box of jewelry. Most of it was very ordinary.
"Looks like someone is getting rid of their unwanted possessions." Necklaces, bracelets, and ring from the 80s and 90s. None of it stamped by Cartier or Tiffany. Our store on 47th Street brought such merchandise for 20-30% of value. Most people thought their treasures were worth more.
"There's not much money in this."
"No, I know, but there is in this." Mubarrah opened a small diamond parcel. A iceberg blue diamond flashed in the low light. The loose emerald-cut gem was beautiful and Mubarrah handed me the paper for a closer inspection. A loupe revealed that the stone was clean. "I want to sell this."
"Is it yours?"
"I used to wear in a ring." His voice betrayed the loss of privilege. Mubarrah was 25. His hands betrayed his never having worked a day in his life. "But I could use the money."
"Have you shown it to anyone else?" It was a stupid question. No one would take a stone of this value out of a ring, unless a dealer wanted to find out the true weight. Playing dumb was a trick, but I had a good idea that Mubarrah was as skilled at this game as an old camel dealer.
"No one."
"And how much do you want?"
"2.3 million."
"A good price." The Hope Diamond was on display at the Smithsonian Museum in Washington. The grayish-blue gemstone had been stolen from the statue of Sita. It was supposedly cursed from this act of sacrilege. The 31.06 Wittelsbach-Graff Diamond had been sold at auction for a fortune. "Any takers?"
"You're the first person to see it in New York." His rounded face was devoid of deceit.
"I feel honored." I believed him, but my boss Manny would think he was a liar and Manny was rarely wrong in this matters. The Brownsville native had worked in the jewelry trade for over six decades. He had heard every story and considered most of the interesting. "Can I show it to some privates?"
"Here's the GIA certificate. The stone stays with me." His fingers plucked the parcel from my grasp with the delicacy of a tiger. It disappeared inside his jacket. "See what everyone says about it. I'm here for a week and why don't you take the jewelry. Get an offer from your friends."
"Now?" We barely knew each other an hour."
"You're not Jewish. right?"
I had spent over 40 years with the Chosen People in the nightclub and diamond businesses. I understood Yiddish. Hassidim and I argued the dietary strictures of the Talmud. Some of this exposure had rubbed off the good way, but I had to admit, "No."
"Then I can trust you."
"Thanks." The #1 rule on 47th Street was 'trust no one' and that adage worked for the rest of new York too. Even Staten Island, however the young Arab's confidence was based on the fact that none of the out-moded jewelry belong to him.
Mubarrah was only interested in his blue diamond and I wasn't leaving the room with the gem. We said good-night and downstairs in the lobby I telephoned Manny's son, Richie Boy. I rattled off my find without mentioning the blue. I'd tell him about that after speaking to Jakob, an Afghani diamond broker. That market was controlled by that tightly-knit group of exiles. If one of them had seen the stone, then each of them would know of the gem.
The next day I excused myself from the Plaza. My co-workers was high on Valium. I doubted whether Janet had registered my presence or departure. Bernie Madoff had stolen her American Dream. She wasn't alone. I strolled down 5th Avenue. The sun was bright and the wind whipping around the edges of the buildings was very cold. A good cashmere coat and hat kept me warm and I arrived at the colored diamond dealer within ten minutes. he greeted me in his office. It was on the 17th floor.
"You seen this stone before?"
"Let me see the paper." Jakob was a small man. He had a big family. They had fled Kabul before 1975. There were very few Jews left in Afghanistan, but those remaining were family. "The certificate is interesting and he wants 2 million for the diamond."
"2.3." The number stuck in my head. "It is a beautiful stone."
"And you have seen so many blues?" Jakob was big in his field. Hundreds of diamonds passed under his eye every day.
"Not many, but I can recognize something special." I had sold a million-dollar ruby for him the previous spring. Its color was blood red and clean as a burgundy wine. "This is not a fake. It's a real diamond. Blue as an iceberg."
"Deep blue. 4 carat." Jakob handed back the certificate. "Someone was showing this stone in Switzerland. The same numbers. Tell him I'm interested at 2 million. At 2.3 no one makes money but him. Understand?"
"Of course." I wasn't getting involved in this sale for my health. I had two wives and two kids in Thailand. They liked eating every day. I bid Jakob good afternoon and went over to our diamond exchange on West 47th Street. Richie Boy was unimpressed with Mubarrah's dreck.
"A waste of time."
"What about this?" I handed over the certificate. My commission on this sale would in five-figures. "I saw it last night. A beautiful stone. Worth about 2 million."
"Still sounds like a waste of time. You have a buyer for it?"
"Jakob said it was worth 2 million."
"Yeah, but how much would he pay for it? Not 2 mill." Richie Boy got on the phone. He knew Jakob's number by heart. The conversation was short and not so sweet. Jakob was still owed 90K for the ruby. Richie Boy changed the conversation and asked, "Does the Arab really want to sell the stone?"
"Says he does."
"Then get him down here."
It was more an order than a request and my friend's tone said that I would get cut out of this deal by Jakob at the last moment without any commish. I would have loved to back-door the deal to another broker, but all the other Afghanis were more untrustworthy than Jakob. I called Mubarrah to tell him about the jewelry and the offer for his diamond.
On the way back to the Plaza I stopped by the St. Regis.
Mubarrah was in the lobby. He smiled upon seeing me and bid me to sit down.
"Tea?"
"Please." I passed over the bag of jewelry. He understood their disinterest as well as the appeal of the blue diamond. "It is rare. Clean and so blue. 2 million is an honest offer, but I have a better one from a friend in Geneva."
"Oh." My big commission evaporated with the confirmation of his shopping the stone. He had wasted my time and I sought to regain the upper hand.
"I lived the last twenty years in Thailand."
"Selling and buying rubies and sapphires."
"Something like that." Actually it was counterfeit shirts and jackets. "I arrived in 1990. A year after the Blue Diamond Heist. Are you familiar with this story? About how a Thai janitor stole $20 million worth of jewelry and gems from the Saudi Royal Palace. He smuggled the loot back to his native province and started selling the jewelry at a 1000-baht each. A Bangkok jeweler discovers the treasure trove and buys it for nothing. The janitor buys a new tractor and some rice fields."
"I've heard some of this story." Anyone from the Gulf knew what happened next. "Go on."
"The Saudi King considers this theft an insult to his throne and send two diplomats and a royal thug to find the jewelry. The royal thug thinks he's tough, but not as tough as the Thais and he gets shot dead. The investigating police commander arrests the janitor and jewelry, but another two Saudi 'diplomats' get whacked in Bangkok. It's a dangerous town and bodies are piling up, but finally the police handed over the stolen jewelry in a public ceremony only most of it is faked the Thai media photograph many of the cops' waives wearing the swag at a Red Cross functions. This was not a shining moment in Thai-Saudi relationship and it gets worse with the Saudis sending back 250,000 guest workers. The cops kill the jeweler's son and wife looking for a 50-carat blue. Bigger than yours, but maybe that's where yours came from."
"It's been in my family for years."
"The certificate is new, but that's unimportant. Heads roll in the police hierarchy and the thief comes out of prison after serving two years. His family and tractor are waiting in Lampung. The head cop gets convicted for the murder of the jeweler's wife and daughter. His death penalty is lowered to 25 years. He claims to be innocent."
"A bad story." Mubarrah toyed with his jacket. The blue diamond was inside a pocket.
"Behind all big gems are a bad story." I could punched him once. A quick hand and then out the door. A taxi to JFK. 747 to Bangkok and my wives. The fence's price of 20% would last 10 years, except Thailand had a special method of writing bad endings.
"Like the Hope Diamond." Mubarrah tightened his grip on the hidden parcel
"You know your gems. If you can't get your price in Switzerland, give me a call." I thanked him for the tea and wandered back up to the Plaza. My co-worker was crying behind a People magazine.
"What's wrong now?"
"I can't pay for my Botox." Janet was inconsulate and I consoled her with a glass of wine from Demel's. I had one too. She popped a Valium and asked, "Where were you?"
"I had to go to the bathroom." I had to have been gone over three hours.
"I hope you washed your hands." Janet was too loaded to have notice the passage of time and I thanked her for the advice. She was a good work wife.
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