“Yeah, Jake Fonko, pleased to meet you, Mr. Millstein. I don’t know how much Chet told you. I’m going overseas on an assignment soon, and I’ll be posing as a carpet buyer. Chet thought you could explain them to me, at least enough so I’d be able to play the part.”
“Sure, no problem,” said Ben. “What kind of assignment? What overseas?”
“I can’t tell you the assignment, but it will be in Iran.”
“Okay, then you’ll want to know about Persians.”
“Persians? Wouldn’t it make more sense to tell me about Iranian carpets?”
“Persia,” Ben explained patiently, “was where Iran is now. So they call them Persian carpets.” Huh, live and learn! “Right. I knew that. Okay, so what is it about Persian carpets? What would a carpet buyer need to know?”
“Where to begin?” Ben pondered. “It gets a little complicated. Come on back to the desk, and I’ll explain you about it. How do you take your coffee?” I told him, and he leaned through the door at the rear of the shop. We took seats at a desk cluttered with invoices, letters, brochures and junk mail. A dark-haired girl, sexy-looking in a sharp-featured way, appeared with steaming mugs. Her dour expression morphed into a welcoming smile as she looked me over. I returned it. “Ah, Rachel, not to ogle the customers. Back to work already!” He gave her an affectionate pat on her firm but rounded rump, and she saucily turned and disappeared through the door, giving me the eye one more time as she went. Apparently the two of them had a running gag.
“Attractive lady,” I remarked.
“Yeah, well, it’s like those gals in the secretarial pool. They ain’t good typists, just hunt-and-peckers. Get it, huntin’ peckers? Not many young guys come in here, so Rachel makes the best of it when they do. Now, where to start from carpets? First of all, there’s city carpets, and there’s village carpets…”
Complicated is right. City carpets were made in factories, while village carpets came from out in the country, made on village looms. The city carpets had more complex designs—lots of whorls, flowers and pictures, all different colors—much more detailed. The village carpets had simpler and bolder designs with only a few basic colors—deep red, white, black, navy blue, occasional browns.
Then he explained how every city or region had its own style. Isfahans were the best, and Nains, Kashans and Tabrizes were good also. Village carpets came from places like Shiraz and Hamadan and Belouch. But, he told me, highly prized carpets could come from anywhere, depending on the design , the workmanship and the history.
Then he explained the materials. They made the carpets of yarns hand-knotted onto lengthwise strands—the warp. City carpets usually had cotton for the warp, except that Isfahans and some of the higher quality others used silk warp. Village carpets usually had wool for the warp. The knotting material was usually wool, but the quality varied, the highest being kurk wool, which was taken from the underarms of lambs. Some carpets used silk to outline the design. Some were entirely silk—those absolutely gleamed. Then there were the knots—two types, single and double. He showed me the difference, but I really couldn’t see it. Then there were the knot counts. The more knots per square inch, the sharper the design and the higher the quality. The way you could tell was to turn the carpet over and look at the back. Village carpets were about 100 or so knots per square inch. The best city carpets were 500 per inch, maybe 800 even. The really high-knot count ones looked almost as good backwards as forwards.
“You getting all this, Jake?” he asked after two hours of lecturing, unfurling carpets and hand-waving.
“Getting confused, is what I’m getting,” I admitted. “It’s a lot to absorb. I’ve never been any sort of artist, and obviously you need an artist’s eye for this.”
“Well, yes and no,” said Ben. “Artistic, they are, and the more you look at them the more you appreciate them. But in the carpet business, more than art, you need a good story. People who buy these things, they aren’t artists. They’re snobs. Don’t get me wrong, Persian carpets are beautiful creations. But some people make a little money, they want to show it off, you know what I mean? Cadillacs, cabin cruisers, all that stuff. They see these in the house beautiful magazines. They read about them in the papers—how the rich and famous live. If their friends don’t have a Persian carpet, they gotta have one. If their friends have one, they gotta have a better one. It should match the furniture and the drapes. No problem, these go just about anywhere. But it should also have a story, you know, something to talk about. Made by whirling dervishes. Last one out before they closed the border. Designed by the Shah’s wife herself. Five Persian virgins spun the wool. Some raghead’s family put a year’s work into it. The tribe that made it is now extinct. The weaver won an academy award for carpets. Liz Taylor gave one just like it to Eddie Fisher for his birthday. That kind of thing.”
“I’ve hit the saturation point. How about if I drop in again, and we could go over some more of it?”
“Sure, any time. You’ll make Rachel’s day.”
“You guys are Jewish, aren’t you? Isn’t this an odd business for Jews to be in? I mean, aren’t carpets more…Arabian?”
“Ah, business is business. I don’t know where they got that Arabian nights flying carpet bullshit. Iranians aren’t Arabs, and Arabs don’t make carpets—well, neither do Jews. But, hey, this is Beverly Hills. Most of the clientele are Jews. So, Al, Sol and me, we adapted a little. “Ali bin Suleiman”—Al, Ben, Solomon, get it? Sounds Persian, who knows the difference? Who cares? We got good carpets. We give a good price. Next time you come in, I’ll tell you about price.”
So I came in a few days later and got the lowdown on price—what determines the value, what the price ranges are, how they bargain with customers. And a few days later Ben showed me about quality—why, for every type, some are better than others. A few days after that I dropped in again, this time to hear how buyers do their job. “Hey, Jake, glad you came by,” he greeted me, a little flustered. “I got to run out and deliver some rugs, and Al and Sol are out of the office. Could you keep an eye on the shop for about a half, three-quarters of an hour? It’ll give you a chance to try out all your new knowledge, maybe you can unload a few carpets on some customers. I hate to ask the favor, but I’m a little bit stuck right now.”
“Glad to help,” I told him. “With all you’re doing for me, I owe you one.”
“That’s great, Jake. I’ll make it as quick as I can.” He bustled out the back, leaving me standing there amongst heaps of woven wool. I was folding back the carpets in a stack of 4’ x 6’ tribals, trying to guess the asking prices taped on the undersides, when the back office door opened and Rachel emerged with the usual mugs of coffee. She’d squeezed into a black leather micro-mini skirt, topped by a loose sleeveless T-shirt. Apparently she’d dressed in a hurry that morning, forgetting her bra in the rush.
“Hi, Jake,” she greeted me. “Oh, where’s Ben? I brought a coffee for him too.”
“He’s on a house-call. Didn’t you see him leave?”
“I musta not been paying attention.” She turned and bent to set the mugs on a low table to the side of the showroom floor. Her skirt hiked up to the cheekline, and the armholes on her T-shirt opened up like picture windows. “How’s the carpet lessons goin’?”
“Coming, coming. There’s a lot to keep in mind. I’m getting pretty good at the prices—usually within a hundred dollars or so.”
“That’s great,” she said. She turned and bent over the table, seemingly hoisting her ass about two yards in the air, and took up a mug of coffee. She offered it to me and then watched me quizzically as I sipped the first swallow. “Ben said you were taking a trip to Iran?” she ventured.
“Yeah, leaving in a couple weeks.”
“Iran, huh? That’s really something. What are you going to do in Iran?”
“Buy carpets. I’m going to Iran for a carpet buying trip. Ben is gi
ving me a little coaching.”
“Sure. And I’m Sheherazade. What is it, some sort of spying adventure?”
Where was this coming from? “What, you think I look like James Bond?”
“Well, you sure don’t look like a carpet buyer. They’re either Arabs or, I mean, don’t get me wrong, some of my best friends are gay, but…”
“Believe it or not, but carpet buying it is. It’s for a very particular client, who doesn’t trust the regular dealers. Me, he can trust, but I’m a little rusty on carpets. So that’s why I’m here.”
She looked like she believed it, not. “Hmm,” she said skeptically. “Yeah, I’ve heard of deals like that.” That quizzical look again. “So maybe you do look a little like a carpet buyer. Ben tells me you’ve caught on quick. Personally, I think these things are soooo pretty. I just love to look at them. Say, did Ben show you the $165,000 carpet we have in the back room?”
“What could make one of these worth $165,000?”
“It’s all silk, and the master weaver signed it. You mean Ben didn’t even tell you about it? Well, come on—you’ve just gotta see it!” I followed her into the back room, wondering how any carpet could possibly be more intriguing than the wiggle of her round behind in that straining leather wrapping. She pulled a rolled 6’ x 9’ carpet away from the wall and unfurled it flat onto the floor with a professional snap. It had a floral design, as intricate and delicate as a pen-and-ink drawing. Even in the dim light the colors glowed. “See what I mean?” she said. “But you’ve gotta see it close up to really appreciate it.” She took my hand and, dropping to her knees in the center of the carpet, guided me likewise. The carpet—glistening silk, and thicker than most—had an amazingly sensuous feel to it . “Up here at the top, that’s where the weaver’s signature is, see?” She stretched my hand toward it, flopping one of those braless boobs over my arm as she did so (and a mighty big bra it would have to be!) All I could see were some black squiggles in a little box among the borders—no reason why an Iranian master weaver would sign his name in English, come to think of it. “Jacob and Rachel,” she murmured, hot breath flooding my ear. “Just like in the Bible.”
“I don’t know that story,” I remarked. “I’m a Sunday School dropout, sorry to say.”
“In the Book of Genesis. Jacob fathered the twelve tribes of Israel.”
“And Rachel?”
“Rachel,” she replied softly as she slid beneath me, stretched her arms up around my neck and pulled my face down toward her wide, dark eyes and parted lips, “was his woman.”
Fortunately, Ben stayed out longer than he’d estimated, and we finished our re-enactment of the Book of Genesis—not all twelve tribes, but we got a good start on it—well before he returned. Rachel had reassembled herself and retired to the backroom, where she actually worked, and I had time to price-check a stack of assorted 5’ x 8’ city carpets. Those, I had a tendency to underestimate, so learned to tack on an extra 30% to my first guess at the price. Ben bustled in from the back, seeming a bit out of breath. “Customers!” he exclaimed. “Well, you gotta keep ‘em happy. They take one batch on approval, they don’t fit the wallpaper, okay, you bring ‘em another batch, maybe they’ll go better. So, any business while I was out?”
If he only knew! “No, things were pretty quiet, so I worked on pricing. Want to check me out on a few?” He took me to a different stack and quizzed me on asking prices, folding them back, each in turn, over the previous one. After we’d done a couple dozen he told me, “You got a good eye, Jake. There’s more to learn, but so far you’re a quick study. A couple more sessions, and you’ll be the terror of the bazaar. Okay, now let’s get down to the carpet business. The thing about the carpet business is, it’s just like selling cars—haggling is the lifeblood. When you’re buying, you gotta haggle. When you’re selling, you gotta haggle. Especially in Iran, for them haggling is a way of life, it’s a game you gotta play if you want to get any good deals.”
“Actually, Ben, I wasn’t really going to buy any carpets. I’m just going to pose as a carpet buyer while I’m over there. You know, check out the goods, kick the tires—but who am I going to buy carpets for? I have about four rooms where I could use one, and then what?”
“How better to pose, than you buy carpets? We can always use good carpets, if the price is right. You got a good eye for our asking prices for the customers. You figure, we sell them for 30 to 40% of asking price, so you see a carpet you want to buy, you take our asking price and pay no more than 10%, maybe as much as 20% of that much if it’s a real find. That leaves enough for shipping and a little profit. Now, those bazaar guys, they’re going to start by asking close to our asking prices. That’s where the haggling comes in. Hey, I’ll tell you some tricks of the trade…”
Two hours later I’d learned enough to know that I’d never want to buy a used car from Ben Millstein. But I also was starting to think that this gig promised to be more interesting than I’d first anticipated. Shoot, it might be fun spending other people’s money buying carpets in the Tehran bazaar. “Has Rachel been around?” Ben asked me, off-handedly.
“I saw her earlier. She brought out some coffee.”
“She’s a nice girl, Rachel,” he said. “Very zaftig. You know what that means? That’s Jewish for sexy as hell. You two ought to get together some time, you know? She’s got an eye for you, I can tell.”
“She’s a looker, all right,” I agreed. “What is she, your bookkeeper?”
“Yeah, she keeps the books, does a little of this, and a little of that. Also, she’s my daughter.”
Ooops! And Ben just happened to leave us alone together. Did he also just happen to have ambitions to be grandfather of a few tribes of Israel? “Yep, a real nice gal,” I allowed. “I hope I’ll be able to find a free evening. Pretty busy, what with preparing to ship out overseas.”
“Hey, no problem. Call her here or at the house, whenever you find some free time. You’d make her day.”
Already did, but better not to tell Ben about it. Well, I know a honey-trap when I see one. The next two times I went in for further instruction on carpet buying, I made sure there were other people around. Ben, meantime kept dropping heavy hints, and Rachel somehow found even tighter skirts and looser tops to wear. I don’t fancy that kind of pressurizing, but I needed to keep on good terms with the proprietors of Ali bin Suleiman Palace of Fine Oriental Carpets. That was my cover, after all. This carpet caper had to pass for real. The situation was crowding my capacity for diplomacy, and the time before my departure was growing short, when one night at home my phone rang. It was Charlie Goldenmitts!
“Hey, Charlie, long time no hear,” I said—and thank goodness for that, I thought. “What can I do for you?” Would the assignment carry a ten-year sentence, or just five with time off for good behavior, I wondered. He had in mind the same kind of job, and soon, as his previous assistant had met with unforeseen problems. I demurred on grounds of prior commitments. “Sorry I can’t help you , Charlie. I really had a great time down there in the Caymans last time. Hey, how’s what’s her name, Sheree wasn’t it?”
“Ah, that bitch,” he snarled. “They’re all alike—turn your back on ‘em and they’re running off with the first guy in from out of town.”
The bright-idea-bulb flashed above my head. Talk about killing two birds with one Millstein. “Sorry to hear it,” I sympathized. “But say, if you’re at loose ends just now, I know a zaftig little number you really ought to meet…”
My carpet-buyer lessons came to completion, and things started moving apace. A contract and letter of authorization arrived from Iran, along with an advance on my fee, a “retainer” (larger than I would have dared ask for), a line of credit and instructions. I was to arrange a flight to Tehran as soon as possible, and on arrival I would be met by the Shah’s representative. The advance cleared up all my outstanding debts and then some. Owning a house complica
ted extended overseas assignments in ways I’d not faced before. I asked around of my movie biz neighbors how they handled it when they were away on a shoot or other extended business, and the horror stories I heard about house-sitters, oh my ! (I’d been to a few of those orgies myself) I came up with the name of a security agency that would keep an eye on my place and see to maintenance while I was away, checked them out with Evanston and hired them. My Vette I left in the eager hands of Eddie Lipschitz, who’d developed a lust for one while tooling around L.A. in it with me but hadn’t yet reached an appropriate salary bracket. He vowed that he’d guard it with his life until I returned. I put a rider on my insurance to cover him, just in case.
I tried out my line of credit on the local travel agency: the gal made a quick phone call, then assured me that there would be No Problem. Figuring the Shah wouldn’t want his minions looking tacky, I booked first class to D.C., with a three day layover and then on to Tehran, connecting through Paris. Seemed a good idea to break up the trip, which would eat up more transit time than was endurable for a continuous flight, even in first class. Plus I had some business to conduct, and it was a good opportunity to drop in on Sarge Wallace. We’d talked over the phone a few times, but I hadn’t spent any time with him since I departed Bangkok in 1975. He was now stationed at Fort Belvoir, working in logistics management, one of his several areas of expertise.
The evening before I left I sat down with Evanston to bring him up to date. I’d been boning up on the situation in Iran, but there were still matters I was not clear on.
“Those demonstrators I saw at Chet Alverson’s office looked pretty serious. They were worried about getting killed by the Shah, in fact. Is the Shah really some sort of monster?” I asked him.
“No worse than any other Middle East despot, probably better than most, from what I hear. He is making an earnest try at modernizing Iran, I’ll give him that. He wants to institute a more open, broader economy, diversifying beyond oil. Women enjoy a lot more freedom there than in the Arab states—don’t wear burqas, get an education, are free to pursue careers. In fact that’s part of his problem. Some factions in Iran are dead set against modernization, the Islamic Fundamentalists, for example. Those students you saw think the Shah is heavy-handed, but that Ayatollah they’re campaigning for would be worse, I’m afraid.”
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 1 - 3 Page 28