Quest

by Richard Ben Sapir

  “We are all talking about Detective Arthur Modelstein,” said Mordechai Baluzzian. “I personally have never been able to do business with him.”

  Neither had the other two jewelers who formed this special little group, who had all known each other from the bazaar, where they had been merchants and their fathers had been merchants and their fathers before them, since centuries before Christ in the time of Cyrus the Great, whose name was still blessed around their dinner tables.

  Could they trust Detective Modelstein? After all, he had never arrested a dealer on the street to their knowledge. He ate with the Ashkenazi dealers. Had he ever eaten with an Iranian jeweler? Had he come to their homes? Would he ever marry one of their daughters? Would he take their money and then laugh at them, letting the rabbi’s son free?

  “He doesn’t take money,” said Baluzzian, who in Farsi had called Detective Modelstein a pig’s penis for refusing previous bribes.

  “I don’t trust that sort of policeman,” said another jeweler.

  “If we are not paying him, who is?” said the other.

  Any reasonable man might have assumed it was those he did not arrest. But Mordechai understood, perhaps better than the others, that this was a country of unreason.

  “Perhaps no one is paying him?” he ventured.

  There was laughter, as though a child had spoken. But it was obligatory laughter, not with feeling. Because all of them had encountered so many in this country who could not be reasoned with, some who even would throw them in jail for offering favors, money, special deals for reasonable people.

  Their problem was that while they were Jews and there were strict laws against any dishonesty, and while they had been Persians who also had strict laws against such dishonesty, and while they had lived in a Muslim land that also had strict laws against any dishonesty, they were also Bazarris, merchants of the bazaar. And that was the code they did business by and lived by.

  Dishonesty was selling stolen goods to another merchant without telling him they were stolen. Dishonesty was a public official taking money for a service and not providing it. Dishonesty was cruelly harming another merchant by reporting his infractions to authorities.

  This later dishonesty had been practiced by the Ashkenazi Jews of many sects, who, when these Iranians honestly came to them openly declaring goods as stolen, not only refused to deal with them, but turned and phoned the police, American police.

  One might have thought the blacks would show more compassion, but they were as bad as all the rest. One even brought charges on attempted bribery. Of course, through the mercy of the courts and a good lawyer, and the blessings of the Almighty, the merchant was not convicted. But it did show the mentality of the police. And it was to such a policeman now that Mordechai Baluzzian was suggesting they bestow their valuable information.

  “We will give him a gift such as the Ashkenazi will never match,” said one of the others.

  “No,” said Baluzzian. “We will give him only the information for him to perform his duties.”

  “And what happens when they give him a pittance? They will get him for practically nothing,” said another dealer.

  “Why should he take something from them when he has taken nothing from us?” asked Baluzzian.

  “Because they are his kind.”

  “Are the blacks their kind?” asked Baluzzian.

  “They got to them first.”

  “I will have Detective Modelstein to dinner. I will present him what we know. I will let him know how valuable the prosecution of this crime would be to all of us.”

  “And you will let him name his price?”

  “If he has one,” said Mordechai Baluzzian.

  “Of course he has one,” said one merchant.

  “He will bankrupt us,” said another.

  “I want to be there when the money changes hands.”

  “If any of us can pull this off with that pig’s penis Detective Modelstein, it is you, Mordechai.”

  “I want you all to come to dinner,” said Mordechai Baluzzian.

  “Keep your daughter locked up if that detective is in the house. They are animals. What if he rapes your daughter in your house? It is your word against his, and he has a gun,” said the man who had just listed as an injustice the lack of Ashkenazi interest in the same daughter.

  And so Detective Modelstein, Frauds/Jewels, NYPD, was invited to a dinner in the home of Mordechai Baluzzian for a discussion of great import.

  “I’d rather everything be out in the open,” said Artie, who had received this invitation upon being asked to come down to Baluzzian’s new store. The other one across the street had been closed down the week before because it had been proven to be selling necklaces from a shipment stolen at a Bayonne, New Jersey, pier.

  “I am not offering you a bribe. I am offering you an arrest.”

  “Who, Mordechai?”

  “Baruch Schnauer, son of Reb Schnauer.”

  “From the street?”

  “The very one.”

  “Let’s have dinner,” said Artie. His stomach would regret it, but his job wouldn’t.

  There were countless little courses said to be the best of Persian food. There was lots of rice, and most of the dishes tasted as though they had incorrectly been thrown together from leftovers in the refrigerator, lemon and beef for one.

  Artie knew enough to smile at each one and say how good it was. Unfortunately, this was a signal for a middle-aged woman to put more on his plate.

  The conversation was of the world, of jewels in general, of life, of marriage, of good bargains, and of bad ones. Of the perfidy of human nature. Of the ultimate justice of God. Artie was glad they did not press him on whether he went to shul.

  And then after dessert, a jelly with an exorbitantly sweet cream on top, Baluzzian gave Artie what he came for. There were six diamonds for sale off the street, each of twenty karats or more, four flawless blue-white.

  “Might these stones be polished?” asked Artie.

  “They could have been. One of the sellers is a Tel Aviv cutter.”

  “You didn’t see them yet?”

  “Not yet. They want an agreement and then they’re ready to show. They want serious buyers. And being Ashkenazi they have the arrogance to ask almost a street price.”

  “I think I would know why,” said Artie.

  “You know of them?”

  “I want to get Baruch Schnauer and I want to get the person he bought them from. And I am sure if I get him he will give me the man who sold them.”

  “You will not let him go?”

  “I can’t let him go. I think he’s involved in a murder one.”

  Mordechai Baluzzian kissed his fingertips and blew the blessings heavenward in thanks at this unexpected gift.

  It was fairly clear what was on Baruch Schnauer’s mind. The rabbi’s son knew there was something wrong with the stones; otherwise he would have traded them with people he knew and trusted. But the temptation of six diamonds, more than twenty karats each, four flawless blue-white, was too much.

  Why? Because, Artie reasoned, he was sure he would never be caught. And why? Because the stones were polished in the ancient manner before cutting, before gem prints. He had succumbed to the greatest of all temptations, the lure that absolutely no one could ever catch him.

  But if he would not be caught, why not deal them on Forty-seventh Street?

  This question was asked by Detective McKiernan and his partner Sebastiano Marino of Homicide, who, because they were in charge of the Battissen death and were unknown to the street, were going to set up the buy. And Artie answered: “If this rabbi’s son messes up with the jewelers downtown, it’s still downtown, not Forty-seventh Street. There might be some embarrassment, and some legal action in a municipal court, and maybe some severe explaining to do all around. But if ever he messes up on the street, if he ever is found to break his word on a deal, much less sell stolen merchandise, then he faces the rabbinical court and their decision
is something else entirely.”

  Artie’s voice lowered. Marino and McKiernan leaned forward in the chairs of the Special Frauds section. They had heard of this court.

  “This court doesn’t have jails and it doesn’t have policemen, but when they find a dealer guilty, he will not be invited to Antwerp, where the rough diamonds are sold every season. His word and therefore his business will be no good, not only here in New York, but in London, Tel Aviv, Antwerp, wherever diamonds are traded. And not just for a year or two or ten, but forever.”

  McKiernan did not like it. He did not like busting a rabbi’s son. He suggested Artie bust Cardinal O’Connor.

  “There’s blood on those stones. Those diamonds are evidence in your case. What a great collar for you,” said Artie.

  “How do you know it’s the stones from the cellar?” asked Marino.

  “I know,” said Artie.

  “How?” asked Marino. He was shorter and stockier than McKiernan, with a soft, somewhat gentle face, but with a shrewd quick mind. Unlike his partner, he did not waste toughness in minor personal interchanges. Artie knew him as someone who would be tough only when necessary.

  “Do you know what a twenty-karat flawless diamond goes for? You’re talking a few hundred thousand apiece,” said Artie. “These things don’t go marching around the world in sixes every day. They’re from that saltcellar.”

  “But if it was pros who did this job on Battissen, and I guess on the lady, too, wouldn’t they sell them one by one?”

  “A pro would know there were no gem prints on a polished diamond,” said Artie. “When diamonds were polished, they didn’t have gem prints. Therefore, if a modern cutter cleaves them to light he is really for all practical purposes dealing in new and untraceable stones. So they would think. That’s why they could come back to the same city they were stolen in.”

  Marino made a shrewd point.

  “To a city where you put out word for six large diamonds?”

  “I didn’t put out the word on the diamonds because if you don’t say you have the gem prints, that’s as good as saying they’re untraceable. Hey, it paid off,” said Artie.

  “I don’t know,” said McKiernan.

  “A gem print is like a fingerprint. If you cut a finger it’s still the same print. Same thing with diamonds. That’s why they got ’em. If anything goes wrong, you can lay the collar on me. I’ll stand for it. I’ve got my own pride in this. There are jewelers downtown who think I won’t make a bust on this kid. I said I would.”

  “Okay. If they’re not the same stones, it’s your collar,” said McKiernan.

  “Don’t take glass from this guy,” said Artie.

  “I’m a cop, not a jeweler,” said McKiernan.

  It was not that hard a buy to make. It just required an awful lot of cash. The agreed-upon price was four hundred and fifteen thousand dollars. A hundred thousand apiece for the flawless stones, and five thousand for the lesser dark Cape diamond, graded at third pique, and ten thousand dollars for the silver Cape, first pique.

  They had to bring one hundred thousand dollars to see the stones, whereupon they would be allowed to take one of the flawless blue-whites with them after examining all of them and return with the remaining three hundred and fifteen thousand for the other stones.

  Best of luck, Baruch Schnauer was the one who met them to take them to the buy. He wanted to be with the cash. McKiernan and Marino were not wired because they were undoubtedly going to be searched for guns, and if that happened they would be uncovered.

  They were to be followed by a plainclothesman and an unmarked car. They were to make the buy. It was hoped that the tail would be outside the place of exchange, and when they came out, they would give the high sign for the bust to be made by the others, who would of course carry guns. There was little doubt there would be some armor with the stones. This was neither a protected store nor “the street.” Everyone knew that if Artie were seen within blocks of this area, the quarry would scatter like quail.

  The buy was in a second-rate hotel on the West Side, in the Seventies. The seller was a diamond cutter from Tel Aviv. Neither Schnauer nor the cutter resisted arrest.

  In no way did the stones resemble the weights of the British claimant’s list. They had been cut brilliant from the polished rounds. Artie maintained the Rawson-Andrews stones lost the weight when they were cut. But they were still the same stones. Unfortunately, there was also some difficulty matching the gem prints to the Rawson–Scotland Yard list. The evidence Artie had promised seemed to disappear that very night.

  The rabbi’s lawyer was at the Tombs before McKiernan and Marino could consult the Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association on how to save their careers. Neither of them would listen to Artie explain that neither Schnauer nor the cutter, Avril Gotbaum, an Israeli citizen, had validation as to where they got the diamonds, and that that was unusual for established dealers and cutters.

  Even Marino, normally easygoing and rational, was screaming. He accused Artie of being not only not a cop, but, as it turned out, not much of a jeweler either. There were hints that the police might be let off with some form of a mild complaint, if the charges were dropped and if an apology were delivered, and if other amends as yet to be stated were offered. Of course, the Schnauers’ lawyer said this did not preclude a civil suit for harassment, emotional harm, and severe discredit to image and business.

  Into this awesome flurry, Arthur Modelstein pressed charges against both the Israeli and Baruch Schnauer for dealing in stolen goods, despite an additional whispered threat from both Marino and McKiernan that somehow, some way, if Modelstein went through with this, they were going to get him in an alley somewhere and shoot off his dick.

  Artie appeared before the judge, who set bail of over one hundred thousand dollars on each suspect and bound the case over to the grand jury.

  Then Artie helped the district attorney’s office prepare the case for the grand jury, even as Marino and McKiernan kept repeating they had nothing to do with the bust after a certain point; they were only interested in homicide, knew nothing about jewels, and had relied on Modelstein, a thing neither of them was prepared to do now or in the future.

  “I know those are the stones,” said Artie. “If I know anything in the world, I know they are. I know they’re hot. They’d be on the damned street if they weren’t.”

  “Unfortunately, we have to be able to prove it,” said the assistant district attorney, not in the least unmindful of the influence of the Linzer Hasidim at City Hall. These policemen he had before him had arrested the son of the leader of that sect. The homicide detectives seemed to understand the predicament.

  “I don’t know why the lab said they didn’t match,” said Artie. “But they didn’t say ‘totally not match,’ right?”

  The assistant district attorney shook his head. This was not good enough by far. To go against the son of the leader of the Linzer Hasidim, he would have preferred enough evidence to have convicted Moses on his way down from Mount Sinai.

  “Okay. That’s because the prints were taken while the gems were still in this stolen object for which I have not one complaint, but two. Claire Andrews of Carney, Ohio, reported it stolen just weeks ago in this city. Captain H. R. Rawson of London reported it stolen in 1945, with the accompanying gem prints. Stolen and stolen. They’re the diamonds from the saltcellar and they’re hot.”

  “Would that hold up in court?” asked the assistant district attorney.

  “Phone the lab and tell them. They’ll verify it. A print in a setting is different from a print when a stone can be turned to show all its facets.”

  “Fuckin’ jeweler we got here,” said McKiernan. Artie refused to be cowed while the assistant district attorney phoned the lab. But those minutes of waiting were done while enduring glares from Marino and McKiernan that could melt skin.

  Finally the district attorney looked to all three detectives and with the phone receiver still off the hook, said to Artie: “They say y
ou’re right.”

  Artie, familiar with sting operations, knew how to fake appearances. He just nodded, as though this were not a time to shout ecstatically, as though there had never been any question.

  Marino gave him an apology in the form of a playful punch in the shoulder and congratulations. They had their case. McKiernan, educated by nuns, still had reservations about going up against anyone dressed in black.

  Because there might be problems of defamation of character, the arraignment, the binding over to the grand jury, was done with no more fanfare than a traffic accident. No one went running to the press on this one. The Linzer Hasidim were still the Linzer Hasidim, and they voted in a bloc and they voted in every municipal election.

  Nevertheless, Mordechai Baluzzian thought the New York City Police Department was more glorious than the immortals of the Persian kings. Their mothers’ wombs should dance in joy for the blessed day they were conceived. Gifts were offered and declined.

  Artie couldn’t help laughing. He felt good. Baluzzian wanted to know if the Reb Schnauer himself had to come down to court to free his criminal son.

  “No. I don’t think so,” said Artie. “But I told you we’d do it and we did it. And we don’t need payoff. And any time you try to buy me off for something again, I’m gonna throw you in the slammer.”

  “Bless your name.”

  “Cause you understand now, this is the way we do things here,” said Artie.

  “I was the one who knew,” said Baluzzian.

  “If you do hear of some cop on the take, turn him in. We’ll do the collar.”

  “USA,” said Baluzzian.

  “I hope you believe it.”

  “I always believed it. Now I know it,” said Baluzzian with a delicate hand gesture signifying a precise but powerful point.

  “Okay,” said Artie, and it was one of those moments that he felt glorious to be who he was, as though he had justified a lifetime, as if a lifetime needed justification. It was as though firecrackers of joy were still going off inside him. However, he understood how dangerous it would be to enjoy this too much, to become addicted to this sort of feeling. Trying to repeat heroism, going out of one’s way to repeat it, needing it again, could lead him into dangerous situations. This had been a bonus of life, and he was not going to look for it as a regular paycheck any more than a bribe. The danger in taking any questionable gift was not so much in the single gift itself but in getting used to it so as to need it. Artie had seen it happen to other policemen, and he had known early on he was only saving himself inestimable grief by being absolutely straight. It made life more serene.