Two years ago 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 score of high-end stores in the basement of the landmark hotel and few hotel guests strayed down to the renovated boiler room.
Weeks passed without my consummating 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 spoke about suicide and I wondered what crime I had committed in a previous life 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 subterranean 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 shot glass. 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. Everything about him said royalty or fake. “It’s a deep blue. 4 carat-plus. You want to see it”
“Sure.” I wasn't scared of his questionable sexuality. Gays didn’t hit on out-of-shape 57 year-old men plus I was very curious about his stone, since I had only seen a few blue diamonds in my 20-year career as a diamantaire and none as big as his. “Are you staying here”
“Not in this hotel.” He laughed with a lisping disdain and signaled for his check. “I don’t stay here anymore. Only the St. Regis.”
"I love the King Cole Bar." I paid $9 for my Stella with a ten an dropped another $2. Orlando was good with that tip. We went back to the Blackout of 1977, although he arched an dubious 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 an emirate 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 practiced 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 sat on the brocaded couch. I shucked my cashmere coat and positioned myself opposite on an elegant chair. Mubarrah reached into a bag and pulled out a box of jewelry.
“Looks like someone is getting rid of their unwanted possessions.”
"A friend needs money."
"Who doesn't these days."
All the necklaces, bracelets, and ring dated back to the 80s and 90s. None of the pieces were stamped by Cartier or Tiffany. Our store on 47th Street brought such merchandise for 20-30% of value. Most people imagined their treasures were worth more. After my brief examination I said, “There’s not much money in this.”
“I know, but there is in this.” Mubarrah unfolded a small diamond parcel. An iceberg blue diamond flashed in the low light. and Mubarrah handed over the loose emerald-cut gem for a closer inspection. My revealed that the stone was clean. I had never seen a stone this beautiful and lifted my eyes off the diamond.
“I want to sell this.” Mubarrah gestured at the diamond, as if pointing was ill-mannered
“Is it yours?”
“I used to wear in a ring.” His voice betrayed the loss of privilege. Mubarrah was 25. His open palm bore no signs of having worked a day in his life.
“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 roundish face was devoid of deceit.
“I feel honored.” I believed him. My boss Manny would think that he was a liar and Manny was rarely wrong in these matters. The Brownsville native had worked in the jewelry trade for over six decades. He had heard every story and considered most of the bullshit. “Can I show it to some privates?”
"Only here." He obviously wasn't letting it out of his sight.
“Here’s the GIA certificate. Show them that.” His fingers plucked the parcel from my grasp with the delicacy of a tiger. It disappeared inside his jacket. “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, I'm a gentile.”
“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 belonged to him.
We said good-night and I rode the elevator downstairs to the lobby where 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-worker 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. He hadn't robbed me, because I had no money to give him.
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. Jakob greeted me in his office. It was on the 17th floor.
“You seen this stone before?” I handed him the certificate for the blue.
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. How much he want for the stone?"
"$2.4 million."
"How did he get that price?"
"Probably since someone offered him 2.3." It was only logical. “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 clear as a fine 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 walked 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 sale. 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 and Richie Boy. I would have loved to back-door the deal to another broker, but the other Afghanis were even 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. Finally the police handed over the stolen jewelry in a public ceremony. Only most of it is fake. A month later the Thai media photograph many of the cops’ wives 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 rolled in the police hierarchy and the thief exited prison after serving two years. His family and tractor are waiting in Lampung. The head cop got convicted for the murder of the jeweler’s wife and daughter. His death penalty was 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 have 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 re-writing happy endings into bad endings.
“Cursed 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 brought 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. She knew men. We were all alike and my wives thought the same. Women were all alike too. They would have loved that blue diamond. It was magic, then again so are all things of beauty.
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