by Alex Wellen
But if we intend on finding a deal, we won’t find it at the likes of Shreve’s, Cartier, Bulgari’s, or Tiffany’s. We need a back room. We need someone on the inside.
Enter Igor Petrov, Sid Brewster’s personal go-to-guy. The Petrovs have been supplying Brewster men with diamonds for generations. Sid bought his first diamond from Petrov’s father, Dmitry. More recently Igor hooked Sid’s son and grandson up with gorgeous stones.
“What sort of engagement ring would Paige like?” Sid asks.
“I’m not sure.”
All I know is what I have to spend. Between both my credit cards, some emergency funds in my savings account, and Friday’s paycheck, I have a total of about $4,500. This assumes I go a few months without paying down my student loans. I don’t know what this gets me, but I’m hoping I know it when I see it.
“Do you know her ring size?” he asks.
“I don’t.” Boy I stink at buying engagement rings.
“Okay, you’re just going to have to eyeball it,” he determines. “You can have it resized later.”
Sid knows San Francisco much better than I do. I read the signs for him as he drags me around Union Square. We take a right off Sutter Street onto Grant, and then a left down a quaint alley called Maiden Lane. Our undisclosed location is manned at the front door by a brawny, bald militant-looking security guard who checks our names against a visitor’s register (or a watch list), scans my license into a computer, and then walks over and punches in the six-digit code to the elevator.
We’re let off at the end of a long, completely white hallway. There is no floor directory. None of the offices display business names, just gold-plated suite numbers. To the right of the door to Room 304 is an intercom system. After a brief authentication argument, the man on the other side of the wall buzzes us through the double steel doors. I brace myself for the sudden blindfolds, black hoods, and cavity search. You’d think I’m here to pick up the Hope Diamond.
The teeny-tiny two-room office is bubbling with life. The prospective groom to my left taps his left foot nervously; he pinches the inside corners of his eyes to make the headache go away. To my right sit two couples. One couple is busy ignoring each other—him thumbing away on his BlackBerry and her yakking it up with a friend on her cell. The other young couple leans back shoulder to shoulder, half-asleep. In the center of the room there is a well-dressed, middle-aged woman and her teenaged daughter—they’re not speaking.
Igor Petrov’s assistant, an emaciated man in his twenties with a thick five o’clock shadow, looks up long enough to scowl and then goes back to crunching numbers feverishly on a ribbon-printing calculator.
Sid and I take a seat. An open doorway separates this room from Igor Petrov’s office. Sid peeks around the corner and gives his friend a quick wave hello. Leaning against the dividing wall I can hear the men next door arguing over—if I’m not mistaken—koala bears.
“Small fry, you ever play Texas Hold ’em?” Sid whispers.
“That some sort of Southern sex act? Zinger!”
Sid is stone-faced.
“You’re talking about ‘making whoopee,’ right?” I ask.
“Never say ‘making whoopee’ again. Even I don’t say ‘making whoopee.’ Texas Hold ’em is a card game. When we start negotiating for this sparkler, I need you to put on your best poker face.”
“No problem,” I say, rehearsing that face.
Sid is appalled.
“For crying out loud. Here,” he says, handing me his wraparound shades. “Wear these, leave the talking to me, and we’re in like Flynn.”
Where would I be without Sid.
“If you’re so ready to get married, then tell me about the Five Cs,” he quizzed me the other day.
“The five keys to marriage. You bet. There’s closeness … commitment … caring … compassion, and, uh … credit cards? Is that five or six?”
The diamond industry would be devastated to learn that I’d gone nearly three decades without knowing that diamonds are judged according to their color, clarity, cut, number of carats, and of course that fifth C—cost. But now, thanks to Sid, I did.
They’re sitting ten feet apart, but Igor still uses the intercom system to beckon his assistant. A moment later the assistant returns, walking right up to the mother and daughter in the center of the room. He cracks open the red jewelry box and sparks fly. Diamond earrings. The teenager is so delighted she throws her arms around her mother and cries.
I’m in the right place.
Petrov is now screaming at someone who has insulted him somehow. Before long, an overweight man in his forties, in heavy jewelry, storms out. Enraged, he tugs at the door violently; it’s locked. The assistant finally buzzes Mr. Bling out.
“Send in my dear, dear friend, Sidney Brewster!” Igor bellows.
We stand, take three steps to our left, and we’re inside his office.
There sits Igor Petrov in all his sweat and glory. The springs on his brown leather chair let out a desperate squeal when he shifts in his seat. He is forty, fifty, sixty; it’s impossible to tell behind that bushy red mustache. The three top buttons on his white dress shirt are left open while the rest are poised to pop. The black suspenders from his black pants bow out over his shirt. Igor’s toupee, dark brown and matted, is a few degrees off center.
Seated next to Petrov is a dead ringer for Mr. Bling—presumably Bling’s twin. Strewn about on the disheveled desk are hundreds of thousands (millions?) of dollars in diamonds and a gold scale.
Igor Petrov has on itty-bitty reading glasses, and his head is buried in a Wielder’s Beginners Crossword Puzzle Book.
“Iggie!” Sid greets him.
“Quick, Brewster,” Petrov yells without looking up, “A five-letter word for Australian native dog. Third letter is an ‘N.’”
Sid closes one eye. The other bounces wildly around in his massive noggin in search of the answer.
“DINGO!” Sid declares with a raised finger.
Igor fills in the answer. In pen.
“Last one,” Igor pleads. “A seven-letter word for deer. Last letter is ‘U.’”
Igor, Mr. Bling #2, and I study Sid like sport spectators. Sid mentally flips through the possibilities, and then squeaks out: “Caribou?”
“CARIBOU!” Igor celebrates, penning the answer and tossing the book onto his desk.
Igor takes his time getting up, but then pulls Sid toward him, swallowing Sid whole in a bear hug.
“So this is the grandson you mentioned on the phone?”
Sid is old enough to be my grandfather, but there is no family resemblance whatsoever. I’ve got reddish brown hair. Sid has none. I have a fair complexion and tend to blend in with eggshell-colored walls, and Sid is perpetually tan. I’m tall and soft. Sid is little and lean.
“God Almighty, you didn’t mention the kid was blind,” Igor cries.
As I reach to take off the clunky shades, Sid lunges for my hand.
“Birth defect,” Sid laments. “He can see, but just barely. Not much of a speaking voice, either,” he says, helping me to my chair. “Hasn’t uttered a word of common sense in years. Now those ears … that’s a different matter altogether,” he adds. “Super hearing the kid’s got. A regular Aqua Man.”
“Your grandfather’s a good man.” Igor talks to me like I’m a simpleton.
“You need to set this kid up real good, Iggie. The boy is proposing to my only goddaughter,” Sid says authoritatively.
“So what are we talking about here?” Petrov asks, slapping both hands flat on the desk and leaning in.
The oversensory experience, the stress, the sunglasses—I’m having a “senior moment.” I can’t remember anything Sid’s taught me about precious gems.
Sid answers on my behalf. “Andy is thinking a one carat, VS2 with no inclusions or blemishes, virtually colorless, round, ideal cut.”
I nod in agreement.
Petrov tips back in his chair and plays with his mustache, thinking it o
ver. Mr. Bling #2’s cell phone starts playing Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run.” He answers the call. Cupping the phone, Bling #2 asks Petrov whether he’d be willing to knock two grand off on a three-carat G stone.
Petrov slowly leans over and smacks Bling #2’s head smartly, causing Bling’s slim cell phone to fly across the floor.
“Richie, that’s going to be a no,” Bling #2 yells, searching for his phone.
Digging through his desk drawers, Igor finds what he’s looking for.
“Here,” he says, carelessly tossing Sid a small plastic envelope. “One point five carats, colorless, no flaws, no fluorescence. You won’t find better.”
Sid studies the stone through the plastic the best he can.
“Given your condition, and seeing as you’re family,” Petrov tells me, “I’ll throw the setting in, for free.”
Igor reaches for a stack of gem certificates and starts paging through them.
“Gorgeous stone,” adds Mr. Bling #2, tucking his phone back in his breast pocket. Then he hands Sid some tweezers and swings the magnifying lamp as close as possible given that it’s bolted to Petrov’s desk.
Petrov is back to his crossword puzzle.
Sid isn’t ready to take the stone out of its plastic bag just yet. He slides the rock over so he can read the card inside that lists the diamond’s specifications. Holding the baggie two inches from his face, he twists it so I can read it. The diamond is priced at $11,500. I am speechless.
“Pay no attention to the price,” Igor says, penning another answer in his crossword book. “All Brewsters get $1,000 off the top.”
“That’s very generous of you, Iggie, but I think this is still a little outside our price range,” Sid says politely.
I give Sid a subtle, shocked nod in agreement.
“What do you want me to tell you? Maybe you want to try Wal-Mart. I don’t think I carry the type of stone you’re looking for.”
Mr. Bling #2 dumps the $11,500 stone on the table, locks it in a pair of tweezers, and holds it underneath the magnifying lamp so we can see. I raise my shades to look. This is the sweetest, clearest, whitest stone that I’ve ever laid my eyes on. I bet Sid can talk Igor down to just under $10,000. It would be the deal of a lifetime and I still can’t afford it.
I’m inadequate.
“It’ll be sold by end of business today,” Petrov says matter-of-factly “This guy’s brother Richie is coming back for it. I shouldn’t have even shown it to you.”
Mr. Bling #2 nods in agreement.
Sid knows the drill. He thanks Petrov for his time; we get up and head for the front door. But like Mr. Bling #1, Petrov’s assistant won’t buzz us out. Petrov then calls us back to show us what he calls “the irregulars.” With each stone, I lift and lower my shades. These diamonds are a bit more reasonably priced, but they all look the same—smaller, duller, and yellower than that first breathtaking stone. Mr. Bling #2 does all the work showing us each stone one by one while Petrov projects frustration at us over his puzzle.
Ten minutes later, Sid’s really fed up.
“You’re showing us complete rubbish. Let’s go, Andy, plenty of other people will be happy to take your money.”
I don’t want to leave without a stone. Maybe I’ll just get this one, or that one. Either is fine. I’m ready to spend whatever it takes. You only get married once. How do you say “$6,000, one carat, S1, F stone” in sign language?
Sid helps me to my feet.
“Your father would be so ashamed of you,” Sid scolds Petrov.
This snaps Igor Petrov out of it. Mr. Bling #2 and I exchange worried looks. Sid and Igor stare each other down.
After a nervous moment, Petrov speaks first: “Always a pleasure to see you, Sidney,” he says, rising from his chair and extending a meaty mitt.
They shake.
“One more before you head out?” he asks.
Thank goodness. The bluffing is over. Petrov is ready to show us Paige’s ring. Then he reaches across his desk and picks up his puzzle book.
“Fifteen across. A six-letter word for ‘spotted South American feline.’ Second letter is ‘L,’” Petrov says.
“Enough already,” Sid demands impatiently.
Then someone blurts out the word “JAGUAR.”
“JAGUAR” hangs in the air. Sid, Mr. Bling #2, and Petrov are looking at me, astounded. Apparently I said it.
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!” Sid cheers, slapping his hands together. “It’s a goddamn miracle. The boy can speak. Is your vision back as well, Sonny?”
“Why, yes, I can see, Grandpa,” I say, ripping the glasses off dramatically.
“Praise the Lord,” Mr. Bling #2 screams sarcastically.
“What’s wrong with you?” Petrov screams. “There’s no ‘L’ in JAGUAR!”
Who cares? I can see and speak now.
“Wait!” Petrov shrills, his eyes darting around the puzzle. “I think I spelled gazelle wrong. There two ‘Ls’ in gazelle?”
“Yep, two,” Sid tells him flatly.
“Of course, the clue was ‘Loves antelopes’ and I wrote ‘gazelle,’ but it’s ‘hyenas,’ hyenas eat antelopes,” he says writing and rewriting his new answer. “That makes ‘jaguar’ work for fifteen across. Brilliant!” Igor yells.
It’s the first time I’ve seen Igor Petrov smile, dentures and all.
“Paige is crazy about the Animal Planet Channel,” I whisper to Sid.
Sid gives my arm a supportive squeeze. Petrov closes his puzzle book. Now that I have my vision back, Igor and I can finally see eye-to-eye.
“I have an idea,” he says, staring thoughtfully through me.
Petrov plops down in his chair, spins ninety degrees, hunches over, and begins unlocking a small safe on the ground.
“You fill in the blanks, I fill in the blanks,” he mumbles.
Then Petrov hands me Paige’s diamond. This is the one—and the platinum setting sounds perfect. I give him a deposit and arrange to bring the rest of the money when I pick up the ring tomorrow. I’ve drained my savings and maxed out my credit cards, but right now I feel like the richest man in the world.
Then it hits me like a ton of bricks: I know Paige’s engagement story.
CHAPTER 7
If the Shoe Fits
THE way my voice bounces off the porcelain tiles, the pulsating warm water on my back, only now do I feel truly relaxed, invincible. If I could just lure Gregory to this shower stall, it would be so easy. Then again, maybe I don’t need to be stark naked when I ask for his blessing.
My plan is to corner Gregory tonight at Paige’s birthday party. I’ve put this off for far too long. If I practice this speech one more time it’s going to sound too rehearsed. I twist the shower faucet off. When in doubt, flip to the flowchart. I drip-dry for a moment. Flip to the flowchart in your mind’s eye.
Step 1: Hit Gregory at the zenith of fun: right around birthday cake time.
Step 2: Lure him into a false sense of security. “Business was good today, wouldn’t you say?” That’s how you remember your opening line, Andy—it rhymes. As it turns out, business was good today; there were plenty of paying customers and none of our arguments registered above a magnitude 2.0.
Step 3: Suck up. Tell Gregory how much you love your job, how much you’ve learned, and how you’re ready to take on new responsibilities. Teach me, oh Mayor of Pomona Street. If that doesn’t work, go with Plan B: lighten matters by poking fun at Cookie. Then butter him up. How about those Oakland A’s? Don’t you just love the chicken and portobello mushroom alfredo at the Olive Garden? Tell me again how you drove the North Koreans back past the thirty-eighth parallel?
Step 4: Blame. With his guard down, finish him off with a one-two punch. First a body blow with some pandering: You’ve always believed in me (Mental note: this would be a good place to insert his name). I just want to thank you again for giving me this job, Gregory. Then a right hook with some accountability: If you think about it, Paige a
nd I really have you to thank for our reunion. At this point he’ll be dazed and confused, in a public setting, unable to react, and that’s when you drop him.
Step 5: With your permission, I’d like to ask Paige to marry me. The lights will dim, he’ll say yes, she’ll blow out the candles, and we’ll all eat cake.
I ATTEND the party fashionably late. There’s no room to park in Sid’s driveway so I pull into Gregory’s across the street. With her back to me and her hands full, Paige bounces open the screen door with her hip. But when she turns toward me, I realize it’s not Paige at all, but Lara, her older sister, in from Los Angeles.
Lara is her father’s daughter in every way. She has the same oval-shaped face, pointy nose, and cleft chin. I suppose Lara’s attractive, but all I see is Gregory.
Lara thinks I’m a loser. I wish it were more complicated than that. Lara made up her mind about me long before that football careened into my skull sophomore year. The fact that Paige was wearing an eye patch (thanks to my makeup applicator) the first time Paige introduced me to Lara as her boyfriend didn’t help, either. “You’ll see,” Lara told Paige loud enough for me to hear. “This thing with Andrew Altman is already on CPR: you’re dating him out of ‘convenience,’ ‘proximity’ and because you’re on the ‘rebound.’” Lara’s never gotten over the fact that Paige and Tyler Rich didn’t go the distance.
“Party’s across the street,” Lara apprises me as if I didn’t know.
“Welcome home,” I say, tucking my shoebox-sized present underneath my arm and offering to take something from her.
“I’ve got it,” she says. “Can you believe Cookie reuses her plastic utensils?”
“You should see her paper plates after one cycle in the dishwasher,” I reply.
I wish I were kidding.
Lara and I cross the street and we walk up the Brewster lawn. There are cars everywhere. We can hear the music from here. The house is packed.
“Why am I not surprised that it takes all of Crockett to celebrate Paige Day’s birthday?” Lara remarks.
I hold the door open for her.
“Expensive?” she rhetorically asks me of my gift. But before I can answer, Lara tells me how absolutely thrilled I’m going to be with her present.
