Vladimir Rostov was, as he put it, “gone to the stone.”
And so he had to force himself to be careful. He could function but sometimes he went right to the edge of sane. And now he was feeling that cringy-crawly sense, as he observed the street, filled with Jews and Indians and Chinese, who sold their cheap crap to the masses.
Proletariat! he thought with a grim silent laugh. Then stanched the, yes, manic grin. Thank you, Lenin. You were a mad fucker too but you understood.
As he glanced into the windows, he could see the gold, the sapphires, the emeralds.
The diamonds.
The earth’s blood. Forty-Seventh Street was a hemorrhage. Like the blood on the floor of Patel’s shop.
The Indian dealer walked to Fifth Avenue and turned north, oblivious to being followed. Will you help me find my little kur? Rostov thought, thumbing the utility razor knife in his pocket, resting right next to the pistol.
His little kur... In Rostov’s universe, the word meant more than “hens,” the literal translation. A kuritsa — the singular — included in his definition blyad, “whore,” and dobycha, “prey” and prezreniye, “contempt,” but always filtered through a sense of amusement.
One kuritsa he needed to find was the boy at the diamond dealer’s. Name unknown but initials probably VL. And the other one, the Jew who’d met with Patel before the dealer’s shop erupted into Stalingrad.
Two kur.
On the trail of his prey now.
Rostov lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply a few times and stubbed it out. Collar up, hat pulled down low over his blond crew cut, Rostov kept up his pursuit of the Indian. Where was he going? Was he taking the subway somewhere, a bus? Or did he live on the Upper East Side, the posh area of New York? The man owned a jewelry store, so he’d have money. But Rostov didn’t think many Indians lived in that part of town. It seemed exclusive and he assumed they wouldn’t be welcome.
Rostov’s gut thumped a bit as they passed Harry Winston, the famed jewelry store on Fifth Avenue. The modest gold placard beside the gated doorway read:
Harry Winston Inc. Rare Jewels of the World.
Now that, kur, is putting it mildly.
Rostov studied the ornate building, speculating about the amount and the quality of the gems inside. Unimaginable. Winston, who died in the 1970s, was perhaps the most famous jeweler the world had ever known. The owner of the Hope Diamond and the massive seven-hundred-carat Vargas rough, he was the original jeweler to the stars. (Winston came up with the idea of lending magnificent pieces to actresses to wear at the Academy Awards.)
Rostov thought of a particular diamond the company had acquired a few years ago at a Christie’s auction: the Winston Blue, the largest vivid blue diamond ever sold. The stone was in a fancy cut (any diamond shape not a round brilliant is called “fancy”), pear-shaped. About thirteen carats in weight and, according to the Gemological Institute of America standards, it was flawless. Rostov had only seen pictures of it, of course, and wondered if the stone was presently in the store.
What had struck him about the diamond was that the press stories mentioned only in passing its rarity and its perfection; the focus of the articles was that it had sold for nearly two million dollars per carat, a record for a blue. The world appreciated the diamond not for what it was, but for what it cost.
Fucking media.
Fucking public.
Was it inside these hallowed halls at the moment? he wondered. His heart pounded at the possibility. Even if he hadn’t been following the Indian, Rostov would not have been able to go in, of course. Every square inch of his face would be on video. A dozen times. He had even heard that some cameras were of such high definition that they could capture your fingerprints.
That would not do.
A pity.
Rostov endured a coughing fit, trying to keep the noise down. The dealer didn’t hear, and the Russian brought it under control. The prey continued north for twenty minutes, then turned east and walked for four more blocks — not so exclusive here. The street was deserted and when he passed a brownstone, with a garden apartment entrance below street level, Rostov moved fast and shoved the man down the stairs, displaying his gun then shoving it back into his pocket.
“No! What—”
Rostov cuffed him on the head, a blow more startling than painful. “Shhhh.”
The man nodded, cowering.
Always so eager to help...
They were in front of the lower-level apartment window and door but the lights were out inside.
“Please, don’t hurt me. I have a family.”
“Ah, good. Family. Good. What is name, family man?”
“I... I am Nashim.”
“You are Indian?”
“No, no, Persian.”
Shit.
Rostov was angry. “You mean fucking Iranian.”
His eyes were wide. “Yes, but my grandfather was a friend of the shah’s! I mean it, it’s true!”
“Do I give fuck about that?”
This made the mission more difficult. Well, he’d have to make do.
“You have wallet?”
Nashim’s voice was stuttering. “Yes, yes, I have one. Take it. I have a ring too. A nice ring. My watch is not so nice but...”
“Just open wallet.”
“I don’t have much cash.”
“Shhh. Open.”
With shaking hands, Nashim did.
Rostov plucked the driver’s license out and took a picture of it with his phone. Then he noticed a photo. This too he pulled out. It depicted Nashim and presumably his wife and two round, pretty teenage daughters.
“You are family man. You are lucky family man.”
“Oh, please.” Tears in his eyes.
Rostov took a picture of the photograph too. He handed it and the license back to the man. He wasn’t able to put them back into the wallet, his hands were shaking so badly. Rostov did this himself and tucked the wallet back into the man’s breast pocket. Patted it three times. Hard.
“Now, I am needing to find some person. And why is not your interest. If you help, all will be good. And I won’t have to come to Fourteen Hundred Twenty-Two First Avenue, apartment five C, and pay your pretty family a call.”
“Yes.” The man was crying harder now. “I understand.”
Rostov had not asked if he understood.
“You are knowing Jatin Patel?”
“Are you the man—” His voice stopped cold.
Rostov lowered his head, fixed Nashim with his blue eyes. The dealer blurted, “Not well. I met him once. I knew about him. Everybody knew.”
“There are two peoples he knows. Someone, VL, also Indian, like him. Younger. May work for Patel. Or worked for Patel. And Jew named Saul Weintraub. He has business in diamond trade in someplace, Long Island City. But I would like his home place. Okay? So, easy for you. I make it easy. Who this VL is? And where I am finding Weintraub?”
“Oh, I would tell you if I could. I promise you! But I don’t know. I swear. We all work in the Diamond District, Jews and Indians and Chinese and us. But we don’t talk among ourselves so much. We sell to each other, we buy from each other. But that’s all. I don’t know who they might be, these people. Please don’t hurt me or my family! I can get you money.”
“I ask for money?”
“I’m sorry.”