I had opened stores in New York, London, Paris, and Rome. I saved Beverly Hills until last because I knew it was the hardest nut to crack. People here were more used to hype than anywhere else. That meant the hype had to be mind-blowing to get their attention.
The Rona Diamond was still our mainstay, but Rona had quickly lost interest in diamonds as soon as she found out it was dull work, discovering that you couldn’t lift a hem or put a tuck here or there and create a different look. It took a guy with a magnifying glass and diamond cutting tools and machines several hours to make any difference.
Basically, I rented her name, which was fine with me. I was slowly weeding the Rona name away from my high-end customers, saving it for people who couldn’t spend a hundred grand on an engagement ring. My game plan was someday to take the Rona name national, selling engagement rings in the under-five-thousand market through retailers, but keeping the wealthy clientele for my exclusive stores.
I even picked up a trick from Beverly Hills banks that I was using in my stores. They called it “personal banking.” Small banks in downtown Beverly Hills—all six or eight blocks of it—had cubbyholes for its tellers. Rather than a customer walking up to a wide counter, they were assigned to a particular teller who they got to know by name. I did the same thing in my stores, turning my sales people into “gemologists” who were assigned rich customers and “advised” them as to all aspects of their jewelry. It added another layer of the mystique and vanity that surrounded the diamond trade.
The woman who was to manage the new store and my PR person were across the street from the store giving it the eye when I approached.
“It’s almost finished, Win,” Cameron Reed, the manager, said. “I’m so excited.”
She was a petite blonde, about five feet tall, not counting three-inch spiked heels. I didn’t know women still wore those things, you didn’t see them often, but I had to admit that high heels did something for a woman’s body that turned me on. But I didn’t hire her for sex. I stole her away from Bvlgari’s in London, where her British accent was wasted. A British accent went a long way in pretentious Beverly Hills, especially if there was a blonde with good T & A behind it.
“We’re talking about the window display,” Pat Weinstein said. Pat, who was six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than Cameron, was my PR person. She worked for a firm that handled stars and I stole her away because she brought with her a computer printout of the private telephone numbers and addresses for the top movie stars in Hollywood. If I was selling shoes, I’d put my money into advertising—marketing diamonds to the rich and famous called for a PR person who could shovel bullshit.
“Window display is an art,” Cameron said. “At Bvlgari—”
“Then let’s get an artist,” I said.
“We have display people.”
“I don’t want an ordinary jewelry-window display. I want something that will cause a sensation, something Pat can use to get us news coverage and a buzz on about the store.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean when you say an ‘artist.’ Display people are artists in their craft,” Cameron said.
“I mean a real artist, someone famous, an Andy Warhol. If we got Warhol to do the display, wouldn’t it be a sensation?”
“More like a miracle,” Pat said. “He’s dead.”
“Then find someone else—or dig him up. Listen, I remember my father telling me way back when that a New York jewelry store hired some top painter of the day to decorate the store window. It caused a sensation. Find out who are the best-known painters in the country. Hell, there are a dozen galleries within a hundred yards that can provide the information in five minutes.”
Cameron frowned. “To get a major artist to do a window display would be very expensive, probably something in the six-figure range.”
I laughed. “Good, you’re immediately worried about the store budget. This will come out of special promotions, not your budget. Let’s say we pay an artist a hundred grand or two to do the window, paint it, decorate it, whatever. What would it be worth in publicity?”
“Millions,” Pat said. “It’s a terrific investment. If you can do a window for a hundred thousand dollars that makes the news, the same coverage in terms of commercials or ads would cost you millions. More importantly, people actually watch news.”
“Exactly. So let’s get an artist with a name. And when it’s done, you can line up some out-of-work movie extras to stand around and gawk at the window, like paid mourners at a funeral. That’ll draw a crowd. Hell, throw some has-been actor in the crowd, someone we can get cheap but who would be recognized. Pretty soon we’ll need cops for crowd control.”
“The local stations love that sort of thing,” Pat said.
“Local stations, hell, I want the opening to go national. Get an artist who leans toward the risqué—quietly sexy, but definitely someone with modern tastes. And one of those Baywatch babes with a healthy chest. We’ll put her in the window as a display piece, maybe clothed in nothing but diamond dust.”
Pat laughed. “Bimbos on TV net more money every year than your store will gross. Remember, Win, sex came before diamonds.”
“Yeah, but diamonds stay warm when sex gets cold. Hey, something like that could be turned into a tag line for the promotion. Work on it,” I told Pat. “Figure out a way to use it. Send me a memo on it.”
I turned Cameron loose to argue with the construction people putting in a plate-glass window and led Pat down Camden.
“Walk with me, I have a meeting at Dream Artists.”
The talent agency, located off Wilshire near Santa Monica Boulevard, was the hottest agency in town.
“Planning on becoming a movie star?”
“Considering what you say Baywatch-types get paid, maybe I’ll try out for a part. From the looks of the newspaper ads I’ve seen around this town, if I don’t have the right body parts at the moment, there are doctors here who can provide them at no small cost, everything from penile enlargements to breast augmentation, and not always for people born with the original equipment. But speaking of blondes who make millions, tell me what that bitch is pulling with my necklace.”
Shelly Lane was a major star, but as a woman pushing forty in a town that never forgave age in a woman, she found fewer and fewer roles. She had been a presenter at the Academy Awards and wore a diamond necklace from my New York store. Between Lane and other women, we had over a million dollars in gems at the Awards, and got millions in free publicity.
The jewels were loaners. And unlike my cousin Yvonne’s method in Paris, where I learned the stunt, my gems were always real. Pastes didn’t generate publicity, it had to be the real thing.
“Shelly refused to turn over the necklace to the messenger. Your New York manager spoke to her. She said she considered the necklace as payment for promoting your store.”
I chortled. “If she doesn’t give the necklace back, I’m going to garrote her with it. How much free publicity would that be worth?”
“Plenty. And you’d also get room and board until they fried you. Or gassed you, whatever is in vogue in our prisons. I tried calling Shelly, she won’t return my calls.”
“I’ll go by her house and get it.” I hadn’t met Lane, but she had a reputation of being hard and tough.
“She has a couple hundred-pound dogs that eat intruders. And a bodyguard that eats anyone who survives the dogs.”
“Turn her over to the cops.”
“You’ll get sued. Her claim that she’s entitled to the necklace is bullshit, but it’s still a claim. You’re better off writing off the hundred grand.”
“I can’t let her get away with it. It’s not the money, it’s the exposure. If she gets away with it, every star we drape a necklace on will insist on keeping it. When that happens, I’ll have to drop the loaner program. It’s a great promotional scheme. I need that necklace back to keep it going.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.” She stopped in front of the parking
garage where her car was parked. “There’s a charity banquet tonight, one of those things for cancer or diabetes or something that stars attend to make it look like they’re raising money for a good cause when they’re only there to be seen. I know Shelly’s attending it and she might wear the necklace, since it’s her new toy. From what I hear, she sleeps with it. And whoever else she has around.”
“Get me on the guest list.”
Katarina was the reason for my meeting at the talent agency. She had come out to Hollywood seven years before, financed by my Bugatti. She made some movies, good and some bad, but was usually in a supporting role because she didn’t have that big star quality, that screen presence that some women and men had that permitted them to carry a movie and be “bankable.”
She had a movie deal, this time a leading role as a woman in a concentration camp during the Holocaust. Some guy with a chain of car dealerships in the Midwest had come in as the financing angel, in return for getting the VIP-sucker-bucks treatment in Hollywood for a few weeks. The financing went south when he got busted for laundering drug money.
I was back hanging out with Katarina, but not as lovers. I deliberately avoided the bedroom scene because I didn’t want to make any pillow-talk promises that I’d regret later—like financing a movie for her. She didn’t push me, in bed or for financing, which was one of the reasons I wanted to help her. Katarina didn’t have a greedy bone in her. When it came to money, she was more often the taken than the taker.
When she talked about making a movie and the financial woes, she piqued my interest. I hadn’t said anything to her, but I was also interested in getting a movie made. However, I had a game plan that was different than what she had in mind.
Not that I wouldn’t want to help Katarina out if I could. She was someone I liked, one of the few people in the world special to me. But Katarina was on one planet and I was on another. She was infected with movie fever. Once you got it, there was no place else in the world for you.
Even though I fit nicely into the town, Hollywood was a stopover for me. In a few months, after the new store was up and running smoothly, I was planning on heading west, across the Pacific, to check out Singapore, Tokyo and other points in Asia. I also wanted to drop in on Bangkok, which was becoming a major diamond-cutting center.
In the meantime, I’d do whatever I could to help Katarina. It just happened that what I had in mind would help us both.
68
Katrina was waiting in her agent’s office. She gave me a kiss.
“Thanks for coming, Win.”
Harry Kidd, her agent, was a fast-talking, nervous energy, Type A+, pushy runt. He was one of those guys who you always wondered how they managed not to get their heads knocked in and asses kicked by the people they annoy with their motor mouths. My guess is that the Harry Kidds of this world simply moved too fast for anyone to catch and punch out.
He came around the desk, pumped my hand energetically, and asked what I wanted to drink.
I shook off a drink. “Let’s get the meeting over with. Are the production company people here?”
“Let’s talk strategy before we—”
“Let’s talk turkey with these people.”
“Did you read the script? Fabulous, isn’t it? It’ll make Sophie’s Choice look like comic-book melodrama. Katarina would be a shoe-in for an Oscar. The movie would gross—”
“Can you turn off the bullshit and get the meeting going?”
Harry blinked. In this town, no one talked to a talent agent like that, at least not a Dream Artists agent. Except a guy with a checkbook.
“People don’t talk to me like that,” he said.
“I’m sorry.” I grabbed his arm. “I spent too much time in Angola where I had to kill someone once in a while to get my point across, so you’ll have to excuse me if I act a little uncivilized. Maybe we can get started and my nerves will calm down.”
“Sure.” He gave Katarina a look as we followed him.
We took seats in the conference room where two representatives from the production company, a man and a woman, were waiting. I had already been told the woman was the decision maker.
When we were seated, Harry said, “The script—”
“Is out,” I said. “I can’t wrap my head around it. If a simple guy like me can’t understand it, no one else will. I’m not going to finance a movie that’s going to play in art houses, get rave reviews, and doesn’t earn back ten cents on the dollar.”
“Win, but—what—” Katarina said.
“I told you I’d front some money for a movie, but the Holocaust thing is not the movie, it’s a work of art. I want a heist movie.”
“A heist movie?” The production company woman said. “That’s a tough sell nowadays. Who wrote the script?”
“There’s no script—yet. You people can take care of that. And it’s not going to be a fifty-million-dollar theatrical release that earns back its money in Asia if there’s enough action in it. I want a two-hour television crime caper.”
“I don’t understand this,” Harry the runt said. “We’re here to talk about a movie about the Holocaust that will be on the short list at Oscar time, not some TV crime drama.”
“You’re here to get a movie made. I have a sponsor for a TV movie. The international diamond industry is reeling from the all the bad publicity about blood diamonds. They’re afraid diamonds will get the same sort of taint from human rights groups that animal rights people gave furs. Remember when people wearing fur coats risked having a can of red paint thrown on them when they showed up at restaurants and plays? The diamond industry is in a panic, that instead of being a girl’s best friend, diamonds will be identified with atrocities and starvation in Africa.”
“The diamond industry is willing to sponsor a heist movie?” the production woman asked.
“It’ll have a happy ending. And show how human and humanitarian people in the gem business are. I sold them on the idea of sponsoring an entertaining movie. A heist shows people just how valuable their own diamonds are.” That was a great bullshit concept I used during a meeting in Antwerp when I sold the concept of a TV movie to an international diamond association.
“I’ll give you a list of points about diamonds that the script has to include. The title of the movie is The Liberté Heist. My new Beverly Hills store will be used as the prime set.”
“Ah, I see,” said the runt agent. “In a two-hour TV movie, there is about an hour and a half of movie time, provided by advertisers who spend millions of dollars. Your firm is not going to be a sponsor, but the main star. Hell, do you know what an hour and a half of prime-time TV commercials would cost a sponsor—and you’re getting it free?”
Yeah, I knew. But I said, “Katarina’s the star. I don’t care if she’s the thief, a customer caught in the robbery, the store manager, a cop, whatever you want, but she gets top billing. I’m sure she’ll give an Emmy performance. And, of course, my store will be displayed throughout the movie.”
“Jesus,” the production woman said. “I can’t even imagine how that much prime television would cost if it were paid commercial time. And even if a company had that kind of money, half the people watching get up to hit the bathroom or kitchen while commercials are on. They won’t do that if the commercial is part of the movie. What a hell of a deal for your store.”
I nodded modestly. “It’s rather a catchy title, don’t you think? The Liberté Heist.”
“It sucks,” the production woman said. “But,” she spread her fingers on the table, “that doesn’t mean we can’t come up with something. How about The Liberté Ice Heist?”
“The Great Liberté Diamond Robbery,” the runt agent said.
“The Man Who Shot Liberté—”
Katarina and I left them throwing titles across the table.
In the hallway she said, “I’ve got to go back inside and make sure that I don’t end up on the cutting-room floor.”
“Disappointed?” I asked.
&nbs
p; “No, actually I think it’s great. Really. They never would have let me play the lead in the Holocaust movie. What people say in this town, and what they mean and do, are not the same. Lying and bullshitting is considered part of doing business. They would have strung us along until it was time to shoot and then suddenly make a script change that they had planned from the beginning. I would have gotten a small supporting role and a woman with box-office clout would get the top billing. I knew that, but I would have been satisfied just playing a significant role. But this TV thing is great. It breaks me into TV and that’s a better market for female roles.”
“They’re not going to leave you on the cutting-room floor, I’ll make sure of that.”
“Did you really kill people in Angola?”
I kissed her on the cheek. “The CIA won’t let me talk about it.”
69
As I walked down Wilshire, a car honked as it passed me and I flinched. It was just traffic talk—horns, shouted insults, and flipping the bird were the music of L.A. streets. But I was still cautious from an incident two days before when a car honked while I was walking. I looked over as the car went by. A woman in the front passenger seat stuck her head out the window and grinned.
It was Jonny, Simone’s daughter.
It had been a long time since I had heard from my Lisbon friends, almost five years since I was almost killed in Paris, and three since Jonny spent the night with me in a Bel Air hotel room and Simone showed up the next morning. But I knew my duel with João over the Heart of the World wasn’t over, that it was the quiet before the storm.
João had gone undercover for a while after the Paris fiasco. His Portuguese thugs left fingerprints in the limo that the Sûreté and Interpol traced back to his employees. Soon after that, the blood-diamond trade got hot after the wars in Angola and Sierra Leone heated up. But there were outcries about the sale of blood diamonds and an “anonymous source” (the same one who turned my cousin Leo in to the feds) made sure that every humanitarian and police group in the world who were interested in the smuggling and sale of blood diamonds had João on their list. That kept João busy as he got eighty-sixed from diamond exchanges. Diamonds were a multibillion-dollar business, worldwide, but it was still a cottage industry in which everyone knew everyone else.
Heat of Passion Page 32
