Published 2008

Rough diamonds are predominantly mined from volcanic vents in Africa, Australia, Russia, and Canada. After that process separated into parcels for the London sight-holders, who have the stones cut in Antwerp, Israel, or India. The finished products are divvied out to various diamond brokers and then brought over to various diamond markets across the world. Over 80% of the diamonds sold in the USA pass through Manhattan’s West 47th Street, making the block between Fifth and Sixth Avenues a crossroads of the world for jewelry.
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Sapphires and rubies from the Orient are transported here from Hong Kong and Thailand, while Israelis brave the dangers of Columbia for precious emeralds. Having handled jewelry for over ten years, I sometimes act as if I were dealing with chopped liver at a deli counter. We are, however, occasionally blessed with something to get excited about, an opportunity to deal with truly valuable gems.

Several years back my boss and good friend, Richie Boy, was introduced to a big player from the West Coast. A CEO of several companies, this man had expressed interest in purchasing a Christmas gift for his mistress, a blonde from Palm Beach who was married to another millionaire. Botox preserved her beauty, although her eyes told her age.

The call was for a very rare ruby. It had to be over five carats, a natural from Burma, internal perfect, and the color of the blood seeping from a pigeon’s nose. The vein, not the artery. In his own way he was a bit of a poet.

Richie Boy phoned several dealers and within a day came up with a stone. It wasn’t cheap. The dealer flatly told us, “875,000 dollars and I don’t want to hear any bitching about the price.”

The dealer bought the stone down. It was not big, but the color was a sublime blood red hue, and clean. Not a single flaw. Richie Boy asked me, “What do you think?”

“It doesn’t look like a house in Montauk with a beach view, but what do I know?”

Richie Boy agreed and decided to get two diamond necklaces for back-up. He then called the client, who said he was interested, but wanted us to meet him at his tenth floor suite at the St. Regis Hotel.

Richie Boy’s father was from Brownsville, very old school, and he immediately announced that we were being set up. Neither of us disagreed, since we would be carrying over a million dollars in jewelry into a hotel room to meet people we didn’t really know.

His father wanted to kabosh the entire deal. Richie Boy, however, loaded his 9mm. I told him to put it away. Richie hadn’t shot the weapon in years.

“You pull a gun and you have to use it. You don’t, then the robbers will.”
“You carry it.” Richie offered me the 9mm.

“No weapons.” I put the gun back in the safe.

“The goy is right. The merchandise is insured. If we get robbed it counts as a sale.” Manny was right, then again he was 100% right about 7% of the time

I rolled a newspaper.

“You’re bringing reading material.” Manny shook his head.

“No, it’s a weapon.”

“Yes.” Richie had seen me break someone’s nose at the Underground disco with a magazine. “He knows how to use it.”

“My heroes. Try and sell something.”

Richie stuck the jewelry inside his suit coat. “How do I look?”

“Like one boobs is bigger than the other.”

His father swore we were crazy. He was right, but said, “Sie gesund.”

With his blessing we set off for the St. Regis Hotel. We arrived at the hotel without incident. Two guests tried to get on the elevator with us, but both Richie Boy and I glared a warning for them to take the next car up. He pressed the button for the seventeenth floor.

There Richie and I walked down the corridor like we were being set up. All senses on 10. reaching the customer’s room, Richie rang the bell. A woman laughed inside and several seconds later the door opened. Both of us stared, because the blonde wasn’t wearing any clothes. Her boyfriend was on the couch, in a bathrobe.

“Lady, could you move away from the door,” I asked in a low voice, gesturing with the NY Times.

The tanned middle-aged man frowned, “Who are you?”

People like him weren’t used to taking orders.

“No offense.” Richie took the two diamond necklaces from his jacket. “He’s the protection for these.”

He draped the diamonds on the woman’s bare neck and she went over to the man’s side. Even though they weren’t dressed I still didn’t trust them, but by the end of an hour Richie had sold one of the necklaces. We took a cashier’s check for more money than either of us could earn in several years, but Richie wasn’t happy, because he hadn’t sold the ruby.

“There was no way you were going to sell that stone,” I said.

“And why not?”

“Because no man, and I don’t care how rich he is, will buy a million-dollar gift for another man’s wife,” I said.

“Don’t be so negative,” he said. “You never know.”

And that is the truth.