Passing Judgment Over Passover

Passover is the most important religious holiday on the Jewish Calendar, celebrating the Angel of Death passing over the first-borns of the Hebrew as Yahweh's Holy Annihilator murder the first-born of the Egyptians. This last plague of Moses freed the bonded Hebrews from the Land of the Pharaohs. The actual date is lost to time as is the name of the Pharaoh. Some religious historians date the Biblical tale to the rule of Rhamses II, although no historian from that time recorded the plagues and the story of Moses sounds a lot like the Neo-Assyrian version of the birth of the king Sargon of Akkad in the 24th century BC.

But if Passover is not plagiarism, how to explain the last plague.

The massacre of the first-born.

Possibly the first-born were first given food in the morning and the bread could have been poisoned by a toxin or else died from sleeping too close to the ground as was their privilege and breathed a toxic gas or more plausibly the children were poisoned by the slaves.

Every slave-owners feared that fate,except the Hebrews were never slaves, just workers trying to flee their debts.

Serves you right, but all part of the ruthless God of Israel.

"I'll fuck your eyes out." Exodus 12:11

And people ask why I'm an atheist.

Many reasons.

please be peaceful, Azrael.

MEA CULPA OI VEY by Peter Nolan Smith

Several years ago I rode my bike down Kent Street to Williamsburg. Scores of Hassidim were flocking out of the Brooklyn shtel. They congregated by the East River to atone for their sins and the Expulsion from Eden. Men and women were separated by a fence and I thought about taking a photo, but realized this was a private moment and continued my trip to the metal shop, where a check was waiting for me.

After all 'nimmt geld' was one of the most important tenets of 47th Street.

On the way back the gathering by the small inlet next to old Brooklyn Navy Yard had grown by the hundreds. Police were setting up barricades in expectation of a larger throng in the early evening.

Today I called up Manny to wish him 'Gmar chatimah tovah'.

My old boss answered the phone and asked who was this.

"Your shabbas goy and not someone you owe money."

"Thank the stars for that."

"Are you open tomorrow?" I had some gold to sell as scrap.

"No, but only because the religious people closed the exchange, but if it was up to me, I'd be open all day." The ancient Brownsville native lived to work as many hours as there were left in his waking days.

"Aren't you going to temple tomorrow?"

"Feh, I'm going to Hudson's Bar." It was his local.

"What about a fast?"

"Not a chance. At my age I don't give up any meals, plus I have a medical condition. I need a drink to keep sane." Business in the Diamond District was brutal these days.

"What about a mitveh?" A ritual bath was a purification rite for the Hassidim.

"I'll take a shower and don't even ask me to apologize to 'God'. He ain't done nothing for me this year other than give me more problems than Job. He should be saying sorry to me and everyone else in this economy." Manny was a little bit of a commie. His son was the complete opposite. Richie Boy still believed in the trickle-down theory. "What do you care? You're a goy. You do anything wrong last year?"

"A couple of things."

As a boy I had been an altar boy.

We struck our chest saying 'mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa'.

None of us meant a word of it.

"Then you have nothing to say to God either. Forget all that Moses shit from the Old Testament. How Yom Kippur was the day he got the second set of the Ten Commandments. Moses was the same as all men. Only sorry if they got caught fucking around." Manny was an expert at that.

"No, I guess I don't have to offer any apologies to God." I was a content atheist. "I'll see you Thursday."

"I should be so lucky."

I hung up the phone and thought about the lack of religion in my life.

LA Dodger Sandy Koufax had refused to pitch the first game of the 1965 World Series because it fell on Yom Kippur. His replacement Don Drysdale gave up seven runs in less than three innings and told his manager, "I bet right now you wish I was Jewish, too."

Not me, I was going to Mullane's to have a beer and I don't have to wish I was a goy to do that.

As for Yom Kippur.

Have a happy day of saying you're sorry.

I believe you, but all my friends think you're lying.

BET ON CRAZY - 1ST DAYS by Peter Nolan Smith

Richie was more forgiving. They had made the move to a diamond exchange on 47th Street. No more Italian subs, but the pastrami sandwich from the Bergers Deli was built for two. Richie and I shared one.

“So what are you going to do?” Richie positioned napkins on his lap and chest to avoid any greases dripping onto his Armani suit. He had bought it ‘hot’ from Frankie Fingers, the street’s haberdasher.

“Work in a club, I guess.” Fifteen publishers had rejected my stories.

“Any ideas?”

“None at all.” I stalled getting a job for several months, while I rewrote my short stories. The amount of typos was astounding, almost as if my fingers suffering from dyslexia.

The New Year brought an eviction notice. I didn’t panic. My landlord couldn’t take me to court for another three months. The refrigerator went empty and the heating was augmented by the gas range, as I typed away at my kitchen table, imagining fame and fortune would save me two minutes after I wrote THE END, then the springs of my typewriter broke with a off-note twang.

I walked to the repair shop through a snowstorm. The man at the counter said fixing the Olivetti portable would cost $50. My “I popped both my knees skiing. I’ll be off my legs for six months. You working?”

“No.” I could see what was coming and realized THE END would have to wait until summer.

“I need someone to schlep around goods.”

“Goods?” I knew ‘schlep’ meant to carry.

“Diamonds, jewelry to repair, money. Someone I can trust. Manny, what you think?”

“Why not?” Manny glanced up from a small pile of iridescent stones. “As long as you show up on time and don’t break my balls, you’ll do fine. $100 a day.”

“Cash?” I hadn’t paid taxes in ten years.

“I’m not the IRS.” Manny dropped a necklace into a small manila envelope and wrote an address. “Take this to the setter. Have him call me, then come back here fast. I got more for you to do.”

“Okay.” I had become a worker in less than a minute.

“Don’t lose anything.”

“Sure.” I stuffed the envelope inside my damp jacket. “What time is lunch?”

“Hasn’t been working for more than a minute and already worried about lunch. I’ll order you a sandwich for when you get back.” Manny resumed sorting the diamonds.

“Thanks,” Richie said from his desk.

“Thank you.” I would be able to pay off my back rent within the month.

“Can you two stop the love story and let the goy get going?” Manny sighed with annoyance.

“You know, Manny, I know nothing about diamonds.”

“Whatever."

There would be much more than one or two, because I had survived day one as a goyim on 47th Street and my life wasn’t going anywhere fast. At least not in 1990.

NEW YORK SNOW DAY by Peter Nolan Smith

In the winter of 2010 I woke early to snow flakes fluttering against the window of my Brooklyn bedroom. Beyond the glass a winter storm was decorating the city white. I thought about going back to sleep, except the telephone rang.

It was my boss' son, Richie Boy.

"I hope you're calling to tell me not to come in work." I loved no-work snow days.

"No, I have a customer coming into the store at 9:30. He's buying a Rolex."

"And you aren't coming in?" Richie Boy never showed before the crack of 11.

"Not until later." I was more into 10am.

"How much snow is there?"

"Twelve inches so far. Can you make it?"

"If the trains are running, yes." I hung up, made a cup of tea, got dressed for the weather, and called my family in Thailand. My son Fenway was getting ready for school. His mother listened to my description of the storm and said, "I never see snow."

"I don't think you'd like it." The coldest it got in Sri Racha was the low 70s.

"I think I die. You come here soon. I keep you warm."

I hung up, finished my tea, and headed to the Atlantic Terminal. Trains were running slow, but running so there was no chance of a snow day for me. It was a good way to start out the morning and I headed out of the Fort Greene

The train ride into the city took an hour instead of 30 minutes. Richie Boy's customer was already at the store. These Wall Street types didn't like wasting time even in a blizzard. He didn't thank me for coming into the city and I spun the dial of the safe slower than normal. I wasn't making a penny from the sale. It was 100% Richie Boy's deal. After pulling open the door I took out the watch. It was in a box. The banker tried it on. It was a late gift from his bonus.

"You have the money."

He handed over an envelope. $10,000 wasn't much of a wad in hundreds. I count it three times and said, "You're good to go."

Neither of us said good-bye.

I looked outside, as I set up the jewelry in the window. The snow wasn't letting up and I doubted Richie Boy was getting here before 1.

The phone rang.

I checked the number. It was a client calling to ask where was his Fedex package. I answered the phone and told the realtor that his wife's gift might be stuck at the depot.

"But Richie said it would get here today."

"The snowstorm is an act of God." I had to blame it on someone and who better than God.

The customer cursed me and I said, "I'll call Fedex soon and get back to you."

"I'm not happy."

"Good morning?" Andrea asked from across the aisle.

We were the only two people in the exchange other than the two guards.

"Yeah, lovely. I thought I was going to have a snow day, instead I get yelled at by a customer who wants his package now."

"Who wants what now?" Richie clomped into the store in his snowboarding gear. He saw the cash on the desk and stuck it in his pocket. He had bills to pay.

I told him about the package in limbo.

"Let's see if we can save it from purgatory." Richie called Fedex and asked the rep about options. "Can a customer can pick up the package from 11th Ave and 42nd Street."

That was FedEx's main depot.

I groaning thinking that Richie Boy wanted me to pick up the package. He blamed me for the package's status, not remembering that he had ordered Monday delivery to save on shipping. Americans loved to blame everything on someone other than themselves. I bit my tongue. I had four kids to feed. They were more important than my pride.

"Where you going?" Richie Boy asked without putting down the telephone. The only time of day his ear was free was when he's asleep.

"To pick up the package." I figured the go-come back would take two hours.

"Let the prick pick it up." Richie Boy hung up the phone. His ear was boiling red. Better his than mine. I have no one talking in my head while I sleep.

"You're right about that." I don't talk about any customers like that, although Richie Boy's father considers all Gs are POS or pieces of shit and they proved him right more often than not.

Richie Boy made another sale. We closed early. The snow was gaining on the rock salt and shovels. His wife was waiting at home. A bottle of wine would be my companion for the night. Later a telephone call would join me with Mem. She would know from the tone of my voice that I had been drinking.

"It's a snow day."

Mem was smart.

She knows what that means and she knows me.

I love snow.

For a related article click on this URL

http://www.mangozeen.com/2010/01/31/sex/the-last-go-go-boy.htm

50 States of Hell

Hawaii is the happiest state in America. New York ranks as the unhappiest. It is my state and I wish that I could be with my children in Thailand. Holding my son and daughter is paradise for me. Maybe I can fly to Asia in two weeks.

One good sale would pay for the R/T ticket and I had two new good customers.

Several years ago I was speaking with an older woman in the diamond exchange. Everyone else had early closed for the Rosh Hashana. The nickname for the high holiday of repentance was 'rush-a-home-a' and people get very religious when it comes to getting out of work early.

Only our store and Marsha's were open.

My boss, Manny, was busying with paperwork. His son, Richie Boy, had left at 4 with his Brazilian wife and older brother. They were dining with Manny's ex-wife. Hilda had invited both of us to her table. Manny said the same thing as me.

"Thanks, but not thanks."

Neither of us wanted to schlep back and forth to the island.

Across the aisle Marsha was also in no hurry. She was meeting her good friend for dinner. Marsha had millions. Much more than Manny. Her wealth came from the hard work of her husband and herself. Marsha's wrist was marked by a tattoo. The work of the Nazis. Her late husband was a friend. We shared the same taste for good things. He could afford them. Not anymore.Paul passed away the previous year, leaving Marsha everything.

Marsha's children had begged for her to come to dinner. She wasn't going to the suburbs. She liked sleeping in her own bed.

Me too.

"Tomorrow I'll go to Long Island," Marsha spoke the two words as if the suburbs was purgatory. She had been brought up in Berlin. Her family had lived on Behrenstrasse. The good life. Even three years in a concentration camp had not destroyed her love for Europe. She knew my history of living in Paris and said, "It's not Ile St. Louis."

"Nothing in New York is Ile St. Louis." I had lived on Rue des Deux Ponts with a Vogue model during the 80s. She slept with many men. Never me. It was better that way. "I loved waking in the morning and walking to the cafe opposite Notre-Dame."

A cafe, croissant, and Calvados.

"This city is for animals. I'm sorry, but no one here has any class." Marsha adhered to the old ways and was appalled by the lack of dignity in America. "The people are good, but they are slaves to TV. No one reads anything. They speak about trash and the way they eat, feh."

Her tongue clucked with a disdainful hiss.

The city's restaurants were crowded with wealthy hedge fund bankers. They were the only ones with money.

"The reason that I don't get a laser operation is to avoid seeing the ugliness of this city." A 100 mph storm had devastated my neighborhood the previous evening. "After the tornado I looked at the sky. The end of the storm was beautiful. We have to enjoy these small moments. They make the ugliness forgettable."

Marsha shrugged with surrender.

"Three weeks ago I was in Switzerland. The mountains were everywhere." Her voice softened with the memory. She had been a widow for over a years I had offered to marry her on more than one occasion. Her laughter each time made us both happy.

Almost happy as Hawaii.

And that was a good state of mind.

Especially after Manny said that it was time to go home before 5.

It was most certainly 'Rush-a-home-a."

Tannah Shova.

TOUGH GUYS / BET ON CRAZY by Peter Nolan Smith

Brownsville has always been a tough section of Brooklyn.

The one-mile square neighborhood was actually tougher than tough.

Its unofficial motto "Brownsville! Never ran, never will!" guaranteed Kings County Hospital the title of the most gunshot victims admitted to a E.R in the USA. The US Army even set up a training program called the Academy of Advanced Combat Medicine to take advantage of the area's hundreds of gunshot and stabbing victims. Surviving the gauntlet of youth steeled Mike Tyson for his reign as the heavyweight champion of the world and molded my boss on 47th Street, Manny,for the old diamond dealer also hailed from Brownsville.

"Brownsville was always tough," the 80 year-old jeweler explained to everyone who has to listen. "I fought with Italians, Puerto Ricans, Irish, and Blacks, but in some ways we all got along. Everyone knew who they were. One day this big black kid decides to fight with me. He didn't give a reason. Maybe he didn't like pastrami. He called me out and after school I met him in the playground. He had thirty friends with him. I wasn't too scared, because a fight with a schwartzer was usually fists. Only the wops and spics carried knives. 31 schwartzers versus me. So I tell the guy, "Listen you want to fight me then we fight, but if any of your friends touch me, then tomorrow they'll be a 100 guys out here looking to square things with you." The guy, his name was Horace, looks at me and says, "Fuck it." That's how things were back then. No guns. No one dead. The next day Horace and I were friends."

Black boys and Jew boys were cautious friends in the 1940s. This urban myth lasted into the 50s, but white people fled Brownsville for the Long Island suburbs in the 60s. The Civil Rights Act had been passed to insure the progress of blacks, but Brownsville became a ghetto with the influx of cheap heroin, gun shots in the night, and a roll-back by the police, as the absentee landlords torched their tenements.

Jimmy Breslin wrote about the neighborhood in 1968.

"Berlin after the war; block after block of burned-out shells of houses, streets littered with decaying automobile hulks. The stores on the avenues are empty and the streets are lined with deserted apartment houses or buildings that have empty apartments on every floor."

Manny left Brownsville before this decay, but Brownsville remained in his blood.

He worked as a schlepper for several years in the Bowery diamond district. There the young man met the most beautiful girl in Brooklyn. Everyone said that Hilda looked like Elizabeth Taylor. They weren't lying about the comparison, except Manny's wife had sapphire blue eyes. The two opened a jewelry store on Canal Street.

Manny remained true to his roots. He didn't take shit from anyone. Not the mob from Little Italy. Not the other jewelers who looked down their noses at the young upstart or his wife's family who couldn't see what she did in the undersized starker, as the old folks call a tough guy in Yiddish. He wasn't beholding to none of them.

Street fights were not acceptable, but Manny would protect his own. Shotguns lay under the counter. His revolver was in the safe. He never had to fire either. Manny was friends with the wise guys on Mulberry Street. He was their kind of Jew.

Even after he moved uptown to 47th Street with his sons, Richie Boy and Googs. His heart was still downtown and talked that way to customers, dealers, and his help.

"He comes from the Bowery." The older family firms would criticize his gruff ways.

"Not the Bowery, I come from Brownsville." Manny was proud of his heritage and even prouder to exhibit the street prowess a boy needed in that neighborhood.

Diamonds were traded on memo. One jeweler loaned merchandise to another jeweler on the promise that within 90 days they return with the goods or the money. Honesty is a crucial element in these transactions, however not all jewelers are honest, so the odds are high that sooner or later you'll get burned by greed.

Manny depended on his tough guy reputation to avert any thefts and he was a young 70 in 1999.

Young guys aren't scared of old guys and one jeweler burned Manny for a $20,000 diamond. This was before the age of cellphones. The dealer had gone to ground. Manny had to make good the loss and never thought that he would see the thief again.

Life went on.

Money came and went from one hand to the other without sticking in anyone's pocket for too long.

One night Manny took his second wife to dinner at a midtown restaurant after playing tennis.

The midtown restaurant wasn't expensive, because besides being a tough guy, Manny was a little cheap. This vice was another legacy of a Brownsville upbringing. His second wife didn't mind the stinginess, for she used to dine with the infamous Jewish gangster Meyer Lansky and Luciano's 'Little Man' would split a dish with her. She always told Manny that he was no Meyer Lansky.

"He was a runt." Manny wasn't too tall either, but his height broke 5-8. A good half-foot taller than Meyer Lansky.

Size isn't the only determining factor for toughness, for another Brownsville native, Mike Tyson, was only 5-10. He KOed taller, stronger men with regularity in the early years. Iron Mike hit Leon Spinks so hard that the then-champion's eyes rolled in his head like dice.

Most of being tough was being ready to be tough and Manny was more than ready, when he spotted the diamond thief at the restaurant bar.

"Excuse me a second," he told his second wife and rose from the table.

The seventy year-old took out his tennis racket and strode across the dining room. The thief was 30, taller, and once remarked to another dealer that Manny could go fuck himself if he thought he was going to get back his diamond.

"Hey, you." Manny called out to the younger man.

"Nice tennis outfit." The thief thought he was safe at the bar.

He misjudged the older man.

Safe was home in bed.

Manny whacked the gonif in the head with the racket and made him pay for this disrespect with another couple of whacks to the ribs. His wife pulled Manny off the fallen man. Two off-duty cops were glomming drinks at the bar. They were going to arrest the two of them, but Manny was a better talker.

His older brother had been a cop in the 20th. Seymour was from Brownsville too.

The thief made up a story with hems and haws.

The cops freed Manny and threw the thief in jail. A search of the gonif's apartment turned up a steel box. Manny's diamond was still in its envelope. The cops kept it as evidence. Manny cursed them for six months.

"I'd rather have the stone back than see that piece of shit in jail."

Manny's balance of justice had been met with the beating. It was the Brownsville way of life. He got his diamond in the end. He doesn't admit to hitting the gonif, but he's still a tough guy at 80. Mean too, because something about those Brownsville street turned a tough guy mean and Manny was no exception.

He was an old mean tough guy.

We fought all day long over sales. He stiffed me on commissions. I called him a cheat. He was a piece of shit to me and I was a piece of shit to him.

One day a hard-nosed Hassidim was late delivering a diamond. My customer didn't want to wait. I lost the sale. $200 out of my pocket. $2000 from Manny. Fish was a big guy. 6-4, but this wasn't the first time that he had been slow. Brownsville has always been a tough section of Brooklyn.

"I don't need this schiesse from a goy." Fish didn't like dealing with gentiles. The diamond maven was a big person on the street. His firm sold diamonds to Tiffany and Harry Winston. A gross macher.

"That's apparent from the way you treat me, sie gesund." I was not a goy, but a sheygutz.

Ten minutes later he was at the exchange, itching for a fight. Fish unbutton his black rekel undercoat and Prince Albert frock coat. They were both a size XXXL

"I should hit you." His fists were clenched in rage. He had a reputation for the first punch.

"Hit me once if you want." I hated fighting fat guys, but I was a tough guy too back in the 70s, 80s, and some of the 90s. I've been a tough guy in the 21st Century too, but with decreasing success. I maintained my stance, which was a few inches out of Fish's reach. "But if you try a second time then I'll take out your teeth."

"Slow down." Manny came to the counter. "Fish, we're here trying to make money. If you say you're going to give us a stone, give us a stone. Don't make so much drama about the goy saying something about your beanie."

"Beanie?" Fish sputtered with outrage and his left hand grabbed his yarmulke, as if he was trying to distract me.

"Yarmulke. Beanie. It's all the same to me." Manny hasn't been to temple in since his father Jake passed away at the age of 98. He had been run over by a truck and caught a cold. The cold was what killed him. Jake was a tough guy too. Manny's father came from a part of Poland that was just like Brownsville.

The Yiddish word for tough is hart.

"It's a yarmulke." Fish was an observant Hassid.

"Just like I said." Manny stood his ground.

Also out of Fish's range

The big Hassid eyed the both of us and shrugged off the moment.

Life on 47th Street was about making money or nimmt geld. He threw a packet and a memo on the counter.

"Here's your diamond."

Manny practiced religion after work. He had great faith in the power of wine.

We sold his stone later that afternoon.

Manny complained about the small profit I squeezed from the customer.

"Better a little than nothing."

"Best more than a little."

Manny smiled with a laugh. He was still a tough guy. A piece of shit too, but he was my piece of shit.

And the tough guy from Brownsville wouldn't have it any other way.

Never ran, never will!

Bet On Crazy 10 / The Taylor Diamond

All diamonds have stories. Little ones maybe a sentence. Bigger ones deserved more time and not everyone tells the story the same. The stories like the stones have lives of their own. The bigger the stone the longer the stories.

One afternoon Manny’s partner, Jerome, was showing a 7.04 Cushion Cut Round Diamond to a retired couple from West Palm Beach.

“Where’s the stone come from?” The sixtyish woman wore a stylish Dior outfit. She could have been from Park Avenue if her tan hadn’t screamed Boca Raton.

“Africa, darkest Africa, but I bought it off an estate from Duchess County. “Jerome was an expert at dressing up a stone with history and held out the ring. “Try it on.”

The woman betrayed her Brooklyn roots with an envious coo, "I don’t know, it’s so bigggg!”

Her husband was the color of an old leather couch from the decades of sun on Long Island and Florida and agreed with his wife, “It is big.”

"Big? This isn’t big.” Jerome, silver-haired and handsome in his early seventies, slipped the platinum ring onto the woman’s finger. “You remember Liz Taylor and Richard Burton? Well, back when we were all young, my good friend, Buzzy Yugler, had a 55-Carat D Flawless Diamond, which sparkled like snow under moonlight. Liz thought it was a little too big, yet once she put it on, she somehow changed her mind and said, “I think I can get used to it.”

Acting as if he had been in the room with Liz, Jerome guffawed with a practiced elegance and the couple laughed too, until Jerome removed the ring from her finger and turned to me, “Could you put this back in the front window.”

“What about the ring?” The woman was crushed by its potential disappearance.

“It’s too big.” Jerome was teasing her like a tarpon allured by the dazzle of bait.

“I didn’t think it was so big.” Her tongue flickered over her lips.

“Only one way to find out.” Jerome held out his palm and I gave him the ring. It was on her finger in a second. Jerome winked at me to indicate the diamond wasn’t going back into the front window. As I went to plug the open space in the front window’s diamond ring trays, Manny, my boss, muttered about Jerome's unabashed schmoozing, “Buzzy Yugler had nothing to do with that sale.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Jealous of what? That Jerome made a big sale.” Manny had been brought up in Brownsville. Jerome hailed from Park Avenue. Manny started as a schlepper same as me, while Jerome inherited the business from his father. The two men couldn’t be more different.

“Yeah, don’t tell me you wouldn’t have wanted to make that sale.”

“I would have love to, but I didn’t and Buzzy Yugler had nothing to do with that sale.” The Italian suits and imported ties more accented his rough background rather than hide them, not that he cared a rat’s ass what anyone thought as long as they bought something at the end of his spiels.

"What do you mean?” I stuck a plug in the empty slot. Jerome was writing up the ring for the couple. It was a done deal.

"I don’t have time to tell stories.” Manny looked at the wall clock at the back of the exchange. It was past noon and his customer hadn’t arrived with a promised check for $1000. He frowned like Jackie Mason not getting a laugh. “And neither do you.”

"You sure about that?" I surveyed the sidewalk for prospective customers, however most were intent on wide-eyed browsing. “Not much business out there today.”

"Now you hexed the entire day.” Manny knotted his tie and joined me in the window. He was ready for action. One glance at the street broke his heart and he said, “I know that Taylor stone. Came from a 240-carat rough. Harry Winston had his cleaver study it for months before giving him the okay to cut it. Whack. They got two stone. One for 78 carats. The other for 162.”

“The Taylor-Burton stone.”

“Of course. You can’t make something bigger. Certainly not a diamond. Anyway they shape it to a pear and sold it to some rich dame. Only it’s too big for her. She thinks someone is going to steal it, so she brings it back to Winstons and they announce an auction. The bidding starts off at $200,ooo. Half the room bids for it. Soon they’re at $500,000. Bidders are bailing like they’re on the Titanic. Up it goes. $650,000 and more until only two bidders are left. Buzzy Yugler and Cartier. Buzzy is bidding for Burton, who balks at $1,000,000 and Cartier wins the auction at $1,050,000.”

“Which was a lot of money in 1969.”

“And still is.” A million would be almost enough for the rest of my life. "Didn't Liz Taylor leave the singer, Eddie Fisher, for Richard Burton during the filming of CLEOPATRA." "Left him in a heartbeat. Serves the schmuck right for dumping Debbie Reynolds, but she said it wasn't so bad, since Liz was the most beautiful woman in the world." Manny would know how beautiful. His first wife was 90% Liz Taylor. Blue eyes and all.

“So if Cartier bought the diamond, how’d it end up with Liz Taylor?”

“Because Burton lost his cold feet and called Cartier’s agent from a hotel in England. Obviously Taylor was really wanting the stone and one thing about women is when they want something they get it no matter what.” Manny was speaking from experience, although in these years he was good at telling women ‘no’. “Anyway Burton tells the goy working for Cartier, “I don’t care how much, just buy it.” And they agreed to sell it as long as they could also display it in their front window as the Taylor-Burton diamond. 69.42 D flawless."

“End of story.”

“Not end of story for a stone that big.” Manny shrugged like he handled stones that large every day. "Diamonds might be forever, but not Taylor and Burton.”

“Why she break up with him?”

“Could have been the drink? She met someone richer. Although about that time he admitted to having an affair with an actor. Some said Laurence Olivier. Who knows why they broke up, I’m not a marriage counsellor. Anyway after their second divorce in 1978 Abe Padrush offered Elizabeth Taylor two-million three for the stone. She laughed in his face and sold it for $5 million most of it going to some hospitals in Africa.”

"But not enough to buy a 66-carat Pear Shape, because someone beat Buzzy’s bid by three hundred thou, though failure didn’t prevent him from crowing about having sold Liz the stone.”

"I thought Harry Winston sold Richard Burton the stone.”

"No, Burton was sitting in a hotel in England and called the winning bidder. Some goy working for Cartier. Burton told him, “I don’t care how much, just buy it.” And they agreed to sell it as long as they could also display it in their front window as the Taylor-Burton diamond. 69.42 D flawless. " Manny shrugged like he handled stones that large every day. "Diamonds might be forever, but not Taylor and Burton. After their divorce in 1978 Abe Padrush offered Elizabeth Taylor two-million three for the stone.”

“Even more money.” The stone had doubled in price in nine years.

“Not enough.” Elizabeth Taylor’s rejecting the prime Yiddish tenet of ‘nimmt geld’ or take the money might have confounded Manny, except his story wasn’t over. “ She laughed in his face and sold it for $5 million most of it going to some hospitals in Africa.”

“Nice lady.”

“It’s easy to be nice, when you’re as beautiful as Liz Taylor.”

His son, Richie Boy, had been speaking on the telephone, but had overheard his father’s story and decided to give his father a zug or needle. "You just don’t understand them, because you were brought up on the Bowery."

“And where were you brought up? On 5th Avenue. More the Five Towns?” The two started fighting and I went to the back of the store, where Jerome was wishing the old couple good luck.

“So Manny tell you all about the Taylor stone?” He handed the check to his daughter. She put on her coat for a trip to the bank.

“His story differed from yours.”

“Everyone has a different story about that stone. I told them the short version.”

“The carat size wasn’t right.”

“Carat size isn’t important. Liz Taylor. Richard Burton. Cleopatra. Love. Diamonds. My stone needed a little help. It was far from a D-flawless.”

“G VS1?”

“In a good light.” Jerome raised his eyes to the halogen lamps shining on the counter. They could make a banana look like snow. “So I fudged the numbers and sizes. Better that then telling the couple Burton was gay like Manny might have done.”

“He wouldn’t have done that.”

“You’re a good goy, now be a better one and escort my lovely daughter to the bank.”

“It’s just a check.” Elise hated to be thought of as a woman.

“On this street a check is money. Not Richard Taylor money, but better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.” Jerome peeled off a twenty. “And get me a coffee too. Someday if you stick around here long enough you might hear another version of that Taylor story and not just from me.”

Jerome eyed Manny. The two men smiled and sat at their desk. They might have come from different address, but they both thought the same thing when it came to diamonds.

“The most beautiful diamond is the one you sell.”

And that was always the truth on 47th Street.

SNOW BUNNY - BET ON CRAZY by Peter Nolan Smith

This morning the snow fell in globs on 47th Street. A younger female co-worker was leaving early for the day. Hlove and I were staying late to inventory diamond goods for the upcoming Antique Show in Palm Beach. I helped Laani with her sheepskin coat and she said, "I like working with you, but you're not really my type."

"I'm old enough to be your father's older brother."

"I know, but you don't seem old." She tugged on a fur hat.

Laani was a Baltic Sea import almost half my age. Many men found the blonde twenty-eight year old attractive, but I said, "You're not my type either. Most women aren't. In truth I'm not attracted by looks."

"You're not." She had seen photos of my wife and commented on Mam's beauty.

"The allure of sex for me is ruled by the situation. The where and when." This was sort of a lie, since my wife Mam exiting from the shower with wet hair was all the situation I need for arousal.

"I don't believe you." Laani was constantly barraged by the tired pick-up lines of New York men

"Situations helped stir my blood."

I noticed Manny listening to my story. He thought all conversation was a waste of time, unless it had to do with diamonds or his long-distance relationship with his girlfriend.

"How so?" Laani wanted a man, a rich one. They weren't so many in Manhattan this year.

"When I was a teenager, my girl and I were walking back from the skating rink. It was next to a small river. Winters were colder back then and we took a short-cut across the ice, which was clear as glass. Kyla, that was her name, said she wanted to make out there. On the ice. I was game and laid on my back. We kissed for about thirty minute, then the ice trembled beneath us. We got up and ran to the road. That was a good situation."

"And you two made love?"

"Not at all. We were sixteen and in love." I remembered Kyla's smile that day and how cold my spine was after a half-hour on ice.

"That's bullshit." Manny had heard the entire story. "He was a dog like any other red-blooded man."

"No, he's not like other men."

"Thanks."

"You're worst, because you believe your bullshit."

"But it's the truth."

"Anyone telling you something is the truth is usually a liar." Sixty years in the diamond trade has soured Manny's trust in humanity.

"Are you calling me a liar?" I clenched my fists. That was a fighting word.

"No." Manny knew when I wasn't kidding around.

"You men are all alike." Laani shook her head and headed for the door looking like an Aspen snow bunny, "And you're still not my type."

"And you're not mine."

Laani left and Manny smirked, but didn't say another word, because he wasn't Laani's type either.

At least not in this situation.

Good German / BET ON CRAZY

The Tri-State TV meteorologists had an easy job during the Spring of 2008. Rain drenched New York day after day throughout April and May. Mushrooms sprouted from the sidewalks and moss covered the trees, as long trough of fronts anchored over the East Coast. The rainfall broke records for each month. Many people blamed the ceaseless wet on global warming. I suspected the wrath of the Christian god seeking a replay of Noah.

Either way summer seemed a myth, until the deluge broke for clear skies several days before the Memorial Day Weekend.

The regional weathermen guaranteed a pleasant stretch of five days and New Yorkers reacted to this over-optimistic prediction by leaving work mid-week to fully enjoy the opening holiday of the season. Millions of city-dwellers abandoned their primary residences in a mass exodus of planes, trains, cars, and buses to every point of the compass and by Thursday the population of Manhattan had shrunk by double-digits.

I was spending the holiday in the city. My wallet was empty and my family was on the other side of the world in Thailand. 26 hours door to door. On Tuesday I was flying south to West Palm Beach to take care of a beachfront mansion and a 3 year-old Airedale named Pom-Pom. Dog-sitting didn’t pay much, but it would bridge the three months until Richie Boy opened the jewelry store in the basement of the Plaza.

A friend of mine wanted a pair of diamond studs, so I left AP’s brownstone in Fort Greene and took the B train from Atlantic Terminal to 47th Street. The subway cars were empty, almost as if New York had been hit by a neutron bomb. Many of the shops in the Diamond District were closed, but my old boss wasn’t the type to take a day off, when he could work.

I entered the diamond exchange in the middle of the block and greeted Manny, “No place to go.”

“Same as you.” Manny believed that hard work was the cure for everything.

“Where’s Richie Boy?” His son and my friend was nowhere in sight.

“He left for Montauk yesterday to beat the traffic.” The eighty-year old from Brownsville had a pile of bills and invoices on his desk. His computer was a Texas Instruments adding machine and a pencil. His finger jabbed at numbers like a woodpecker.

“You going anywhere.” His girlfriend was in Fort Lauderdale.

“No, I’m staying in the city. That way I beat the traffic.”

“Good plan.”

I said hello to several other people in the exchange. Most of them were staying put. Steve looked out the front window at the sky.

“Doesn’t look like rain.” The diamond broker was a consummate pessimist. “But I don’t believe the weatherman. They only tell people the weather is going to be good to fill the hotels and restaurants.”

“Maybe so.” I had checked the online national radar report. The East Coast was scheduled for clear skies from Virginia Beach to Eastport, Maine.

“You seen any good movies?” Steve flicked through the Arts Section of the New York Times. The bald bacholer liked going to movies. He had already seen TOY STORY 3 and CITY ISLAND. Neither had earned any stars.

“No, I’m not really a movie goer anymore.” I hadn't been in a movie theater since my friend Willem had premiered a vampire film in Alice Tully Hall. The blood-suckers smoked cigarettes. The director thought that their death wish was a parable. In truth it was an ad for nicotine. “Hollywood can’t make any movies.”

“They’re only interested in selling popcorn to pimply boys.” Steve had good skin for a man in his 40s.

“Nothing wrong with that.” Manny’s broker commented from his desk. He hadn’t seen a movie since GLADIATOR. “They make movies like that to make you feel young. Feel like a 15 year-old boy.”

“Not me. I feel creepy in the theaters.” The floors were sticky with discarded candy wrappers and spilled soda. Plus everyone talked during the movies. I couldn’t blame them. Nothing on the silver screen could hold their attention for more than 10 minutes. “Too many people I don’t know.”

“I’m waiting for INCEPTION.” Steve’s cousin was performing in that apocalyptic film. She was part-French. Blonde too. Most of the men in the exchange had a a weakness for schiksas. It was a religious thing.

“The only good film I saw this summer was GOOD. It was about a good Nazi.” My coffee arrived from the little shop in our building. I tipped the Mexican $1. We were the only two goys in the exchange.

“A good Nazi. There’s no such thing.” Manny my boss offered from the safe. This was his mid-morning break from shuffling bills. “Every German was a Nazi in World War II and now all their kids are Nazis.”

“What kind of car do you drive?” I pouredg a packet of sugar into my coffee. I had lived in Hamburg. Six months. I could speak German. Three years in high school. Mostly Ds and one F.

“A Mercedes.”

“I thought so.” My high school teacher was from Bavaria. He chain-smoked in class. My grades in German cost my scholarship. I didn’t blame him. He sent me Christmas cards even after I graduated from Xaverian.

“What’s that have to do with anything?”

“Just that you hate Germans and drive a German car.” I hadn’t met many good Germans in Hamburg, then again I was working at a nightclub owned by a pimp.

“I shouldn’t drive a good car, because there are no good Germans.” Manny was adamant about this verdict, however an older woman Nancy across the aisle rose from her chair.

“Quiet.”

Nancy had lived through the Nazis. She came from Vienna. Her accent was Mittel-Europa. Those dreadful childhood years had not stolen her elegance. The recent death of her husband had saddened her, however she was still good fun and never was offended by my offers to spirit her away for a long weekend in Paris.

Welsh rarebit at La Flore. Tea at The Plaza Athenee, and a glass of wine on Ile St. Louis.

She wagged her finger at Manny.

“You don’t know Germans like I know Germans.”

“No one’s arguing that.” Manny was well aware that Nancy had survived the camps. She never said which one.

“If anyone can say that there are no good Germans, I can.” His wrist bore a tattooed number. “Truth is I never met any. Not in the war years, but my cousin he was gay. His boyfriend was an SS officer. He loved my cousin so much that he hid him in his house. My cousin was happy with this arrangement, because while no one knew exactly what happened in the camps, we all knew it was nothing good. A year goes by and the SS officer asks my cousin what is wrong. He tells his lover that he is worried about his parents, who are hiding in a small town. The SS Officer asks, if my cousin wants to see them. My cousin is too scared, so the German goes instead. When he comes back, he says that my cousin’s parents have been re-settled. They survived the war, because the SS officer arranged their transfer out of the death camps. My parents were not so lucky, so there were some good Germans. Just not enough of them. Was that movie any good?”

“GOOD?” Her question was posed to me. I thought about it. “No, not really, but it’s better than anything else at the cinema.”

“Would you take me to see something nice?” Nancy smiled going back to her desk. “I haven’t been to the movies in years. Not since my husband passed away.”

“It would be my pleasure.” I took a pair of diamonds from Steve. They were in my price range. He lent me the Arts section. I read the movie ads.

If anyone could revitalize my movie experience it would be Nancy. Women her age don’t eat pop corn. Only chocolate.

The Writing of History

The dead never come back to life and I know that since I've almost died on several occasions from motorcycle accidents, beatings, and chemical misjudgments. These brushes with death must not have been too serious, because my soul was never enveloped by the tunnel of light.

When I returned to the USA from Thailand in 2008, my friends and family recited the list of the missing. Few of the deceased were close, however I was deeply saddened by the demise of Howie Hermann. The owner of our diamond exchange was a fifteen year-old at heart. He and I met at the 2nd Avenue Deli on Monday nights for a sandwich and then drove over to the West 20th Street shooting range. His other friends pulled a few rounds on their personal weapons, but Howie would bring special guns for me.

22 Sportsmans.

Lugers.

Colt 45s.

Whatever I wanted, because I liked shooting a pistol and Howie liked having someone with whom he could shoot for an hour. He was as good as they get and his death was even more traumatic, since his loving son Josh had preceded him into the cosmos. A good skier and a great father and a favorite son. I counted my blessings to have known them both.

I noticed a few more faces missing from 47th Street and I asked for Lenny the Bum.

No one had seen him for months and finally someone said that he had passed away in 2007. My boss hated Lenny.

"He's a Trombenik."

The Yiddish expression was new to me, but I divined its meaning, since Manny had worked from the time that he was old enough to wear long pants and Lenny begged for his living. He was a bum.

"Better he should be in Gan Eden without a penny to his name." Manny wasn't very religious, but hard times can give people a belief in the after-life.

I'm a humanist. Heaven and hell are destinations for the faithful. My heaven and hell is the now, but I was surprised to see Lenny back amongst the living in 2009. he was angry at my listing him among the deceased on mangozeen.com.

I was surprised that he read my writing.

"I'm a big fan, but could you bring me back to life?" he pleaded with a whining voice. the grating tenor earned him a good income.

"Like Lazarus and you won't smell as bad." Lenny looked in better shape than when I departed the States in 2001, although his balding head was sporting an ugly growth and his weight had to be over 250.

"I have some place to live. I have to take care of my sister. If it was just me, I'd still be living on the street. I like the fresh air." His clothing was clean and his breath was shy of the old bouquet of cheap brandy. "I stopped drinking too much. Now a little too much but not often."

Lenny asked about my kids in Thailand and I gave him another dollar. He knew his audience.

Over the past two years we have discussed politics, Israel, heaven, Obama, Iraq, and my trips to Thailand. His stock advice made me a few dollars last year and I hold my sand about the personal stories that he tells me about his life.

This week Lenny and I have been engaged in a debate about Egypt and the threat to Israel from the change of regime.

"Lenny, this is not about democracy. This is about revolution and the rich versus the poor. Democracy has failed the Egyptians. It has failed the Iraqis and it has failed in America."

"Maybe, but the Muslim Brotherhood is going to kill all the Jews."

"Lenny, you're smarter than to believe that propaganda." Egypt only had to shut off Israel's natural gas to threaten the Zionist state.

"Have you ever read the Koran?"

"No." I haven't read that book or the Talmud or Thomas Mann's THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN or James Joyce's ULYSEES and millions of other books.

"You know that Mohammad married an eight year-old."

"Alyessa." The Mother of Islam was young. Some people say that the prophet bedded her at ten. Others at 15. I could only counter with the truth. "Abraham was 86 when he bedded Hagar and he threw her and his son into the desert. So don't get high and mighty about the old times."

My boss Manny rapped on the window. He had not time for my discussions with Lenny. Every second with the Jewish beggar was one lost to his business. Later that evening I passed Lenny on my way to the bank. I had to send money to my kids. Angie had to buy school books and Fenway needed some medicine and Fluke and Noi were asking their mother was sweets.

Lenny stopped me in front of the 20 Exchange.

"Damian, you know the Arabs hate us. Mohammad killed all the Jews of Medina."

"Because they backed the idolaters of Mecca." I had been surprised to read how the Jews of Arabia had figured into the rise and fall of Islam.

"Islam comes from the Bible."

"And the Bible comes from the ancient religions. It's all bullshit to me and the Christians and Jews and Muslims kill each other for their beliefs. There is only one good and one evil." I was tired and had lose my track, but then said, "How many Palestinians were on the plans of 9/11? How many at Dachau? Answer me that."

"The grand Mufti of Jerusalem had 10,000 SS troops at his command," Lenny shouted in the cold winter air and I made a note to check this riposte once I got home to Fort Greene. Lenny might have been crazy, but he was no fool and I read online about how the Grand Mufti fled Palestine to Nazi Germany, where he encouraged Bosnian Muslims to wage jihad against the Serbs and Jews of Yugoslavia. The 1943 Hanzar SS Division were ruthless during the savage civil war during the Nazi occupation, horrifying their German overlords, but I could find nothing about Palestinians working for the Nazis.

Only the Grand Mufti, who worked both sides of the fence between the Axis and Allies to restrict Jewish migration to Palestine.

"Lenny, let me ask you a question." I brought Lenny to the side. People on the street had heard about our discussion and stood close to hear what we had to say. What we had to say was for our ears only.

The Sheygutz and the Trombenik.

We spoke for several seconds. He had good points and I spoke about good versus evil. We were on the same side of the argument within a minute. I gave him a dollar. it was not a bribe and he said, "Thanks for bringing me back to life."

"It's an easy miracle with a live person."

"I love you, Damian."

"And I love you."

Omnes vincit amor.

But anyone coming back from the dead knows that 'love conquers all'.

BET ON CRAZY 4 / First Sale by Peter Nolan Smith

The day after Super Bowl XXIV, I paid off two month's rent with my winnings. Everyone in the exchange was richer thanks to betting the other way from Manny. They ribbed him relentlessly for having lost yet another bet on the NFL championship game. I said nothing since Manny had confided that he had bet on the Cowboys and the 4.5 spread.

After setting up the window he send me on errands; bank, diamond broker, setter, polishers, and his bookie. Rip was standing in front of Berger's Deli in a fur coat. The 50 year-old swore it was beaver. He took action on the payphone attached to the wall and claimed this stretch of the sidewalk as his office

"I suppose you're here for Manny's winnings?" He pulled his coat tight. It was cold.

"Manny actually won." I hadn't really believed Manny.

"Yeah, he bet the Boys, but he was supposed to tell everyone he bet the Steelers. I got killed because of him. Manny's lucky I like him." Rip dealt out 10 c-notes. They were crisp as potato chips. Two go-fers handed him $100 each. "And I'm lucky I was able to lay off his friends' bets. Who you bet with?"

"My cousin." Uncle Carmine's nephew lived one street away from my East 10th Street apartment.

"Dougie." Rip put the ringing phone.

"How you know?"

"Hey, it's a small world." Rip waved me away and I returned to the office. Richie Boy and Domingo were not behind the counter and Googs, Manny oldest son, had called in 'drunk'. Manny cuffed the cash and lifted an index finger to his lips. This was our secret.

"What you want me to do?"

"Stand in the front window and wait for a customer."

"You're going to let me make a sale?" Three weeks on the job and I hadn't made one sale. I'd greet the walk-in and either Googs, Domingo, Richie Boy, or Manny would t-o or 'take over' the sale. They called it 'getting bumped'.

"You're here as a schlepper. You know nothing about the business. Everyone else has been here longer. They deserve first shot."

"They're not here now."

"What I'm not paying you enough?"

$500 is cash was a good salary. I wanted more.

"Manny, when I worked with Seymour at nightclubs, I made up to $500 a night."

"And if I know my brother Seymour, that means you were glomming off the door." Manny had no use for thieves. No one in the diamond business did.

"I'm not a thief and neither was Seymour." There was another name for it. "I want a shot at a sale."

"Such chutzpah from a pisher."

"Yeah, I have a lot of balls for a nobody."

Manny forgot I knew Yiddish better than his sons.

"Okay, you get a shot, but I'm gonna help you when the time comes."

"How?" I figured he'd bumped me off the sale.

"Don't schvitz the small change. You'll get your commish." Manny sat down at his desk and I waited for a customer. It was late-January. Valentine's Day was around the corner. I looked out the window. It was starting to snow. A young couple stood before the display of our goods. They were looking at wedding bands. Manny noticed them too and called me over. He held up a hearing aid.

"What?"

"Stick in your ear."

"Why?"

"Because wedding band shoppers are usually a WOT."

"How can you tell they're a 'waste of time'?"

'You been in the business as long as me and you know. These schmucks will go up and down the street looking at every ring until they make their decision which is based on one thing. Money. They wanted a $10 bill for $8, so when they come in pretend to be deaf. When they ask the price of something, add a hundred dollars upon the wholesale price and yell back to me, "How much?" I'll ask the price and say that's right, but you take off a hundred. You know the codes?"

"Yeah." The code was based on a 10 letter word or phrase without any repetition. The Randolphs across the aisle used 'tacomaword'. T equalling 1, A for 2 and so on.

"Then go get 'em." Manny shoved me forward and pointed to his ear. I stuck the hearing aid in my ear. The batteries were dead. The door opened and the couple entered the exchange. The Randolphs were above selling wedding rings and I asked, "Can I help you with something."

Domingo used the same line.

"Yes, we'd like to look at some wedding bands." The girl was holding about fifteen cards from other stores. They had writing on the back, Manny was right. They were making the rounds.

"Sure, was there anything you like in the front window?" I was polite. My suit was freshly pressed. I was everything a salesman should be, except knowledgeable.

"Yes, I'll point them out." The man went outside and indicated the tray with plain gold bands. He looked like a lawyer. So did his girlfriend. Richie Boy considered lawyers the most distrustful people in the world, since their livelihoods depended on turning their clients lies into the truth. I brought the ring tray to the counter and showed them several rings. The woman liked the 2mm width`18k band and the man liked the 6mm width 14K.

"Can you give us a price on this?" The man surveyed the previously written information on his collection of business cards

I read the upside-down and took out a calculator. Manny was standing by his desk with his head down. The rings cost us $200 for the two. I had to sell them for $300, which beat all the other offers from the street. Manny had told me to add on a $100 and I told the man. "The rings are $400."

"$400?" The man blinked like he hadn't heard me right. "Can you do any better?"

"I'll ask my boss." I called Manny and said, "I offered these rings for $400. Is that the best we can do?"

"Take off $20."

"What?" I cuffed my hand to my ear, so they could see the hearing aid.

"Sell 'em for $380." Manny sat down at his desk like he was unconcerned by this transaction.

"Did he say $320." It was twenty more than Manny told me to ask. "I'm hard of hearing."

The couple glanced guiltily at each other and the man said, "Yes. We'll take them."

I wrote them up for $320. They scooted out of the store like they had had received stolen merchandise and I handed Manny $320 in cash. I also dropped the earring aid on his desk.

"Thanks you so much for making my day." Mr. Randolph applauded from the other side of the aisle. "I haven't seen that trick since I left the Bowery."

"It's an oldie but a goodie." Manny handed me a $20. It was more than the normal 10% commission on the profit. "Congratulations on breaking your cherry. May you make millions for me."

"That trick is old?" I asked Mr. Randolph. He barely said anything to our side, except for Richie Boy.

"That trick was old when Manny was young. The best one for that was a haberdasher on Orchard Street. "Moishe, how much?" "Izzy, it's 300." "Did he say $200." The Gs fall for it every time, because they think they're getting something for nothing. And they looked like lawyers. Feh, not an honest on in the bunch."

There were over a million lawyers in America. My brother and sister were lawyers. I didn't waste my breath defending them.

"What are you standing around for?" Manny nodded at the door and handed me the hearing aid. Two more customers were entering the exchange. "You want to make money? Make money.”

“Of course I do.” I greeted the couple with the hearing aid in my ear. They bought the in less than 10 minutes. A wedding band manufacturer had a contest for the best salesmen on 47th Street. First prize was a trip to Spain. Wedding ring sales were beneath Richie Boy. Googs never bothered with customers and Domingo was gone most of the day. Manny never knew where and kept his head buried in his books. Richie Boy hated wedding ring sales. Another couple came through the door.

I was up.