Family Business

By Grant Marylander

Jimmy Fein is a smart-talking bodyguard with a penchant for violence and a slight inferiority complex when it comes to his Irish-Jewish mafia family. When Jimmy agrees to protect a diamond merchant from his murderous partner, he is placed on a collision course with his family's criminal enterprise. Before long, Jimmy is reminded of the lethal dangers of mixing with family business.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grant Marylander
• Release date: Dec 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465917287

Book preview

Chapter One

I try to live by one simple rule: don’t get shot. Unfortunately, I’m not very good at following rules. Today was no exception.

Initially, my morning had gone as planned. I tracked down the computer geek who was cyber-stalking my client through some clever detective work and the fact this moron kept leaving his return address on the emails he was sending to my client.

After determining he was holed up in his rat’s nest of an apartment, I let myself in by kicking open his flimsy front door and yelling in my best Ricky Ricardo accent, Lucy, I’m home. I paused at the doorway, stunned by the geek’s décor.

Every inch of wall space was covered with photos of my client. Not just head shots from her portfolio or clipped magazine covers. Half the photos showed Sara Phillips, the darling of primetime TV, in what can only be described as compromising positions. I don’t know how this guy did it, but he had photos of Sara that would have made Howard Stern blush.

I paused to admire several of the more interesting poses, mentally promising to take them home as evidence. I then turned to the computer geek who was cowering behind an enormous computer screen and screaming at me to leave.

Last year, an ex-girlfriend sent me a thousand books on relationships, mistakenly believing I dumped her because of commitment issues rather than the fact that her Chihuahua tried to hump me whenever we had sex. Most of them were yawners about listening, compromise and crap like that. I did find one helpful hint: physical contact enhances communication, a fact I’ve since incorporated into my business.

Accordingly, after lifting the geek off his chair, I held him by his shoulders and repeatedly slammed him into the wall while explaining the error of his ways. I was pretty sure the physical contact was working because his teeth rattled and his eyes would occasionally roll back into his head. I was at the point of threatening to rip off his arms and beat him to a pulp when my cell phone rang.

Don’t move, I said as I let the geek slide to the floor. I pulled my cell phone from my overcoat and glanced at the Caller ID.

It’s not a good time, Sid.

Find a bar that opens at nine?

Family. They always think the best of you.

I happen to be working.

Can you break free? I need you to meet me and a friend right away.

No can do. I’m communicating at the moment. What’s the big emergency?

My friend thinks someone just tried to kill him.

I mentally rolled my eyes. If he’s not sure, no one did.

Jimmy, he’s hysterical. He said a black Hummer tried to run him down while he was crossing the street this morning.

It’s New York. Call me when someone doesn’t try to run him down.

He barely got out of the way. And the car ran a red light.

New York… I said impatiently.

Sid lowered his voice. He’s been having problems with his business partner. Someone who.. ah… I think is in the family business.

Bingo. Sid’s friend just went from being paranoid to being paranoid with a reason.

Okay, I’m almost done here. I’ll call you from the car.

Thanks, Jimmy. Make sure you don’t get shot in the meantime, he added with a laugh.

Haha, I replied sarcastically and ended the call. When I returned my attention to the computer geek, I found that he had managed to sit himself up and point the world’s smallest gun at me.

You better not touch me again, man. I swear, I’ll frag you if come near me.

People with guns want respect. Just like rules, I’m not real good at respect. So, rather than giving this geek his due, I gave him my you are a pathetic loser look. Personally, I think it’s one of my better looks. I could have gone with my I laugh at death look but that one works best when I’m on a morphine drip.

For some reason, my lack of fear transformed the computer geek from scared to mad. I guess after twenty some-odd years of being, well, a pathetic loser, the geek had reached his boiling point. And, of course, he was getting the crap beat out of him.

Although he was only three feet away, his hand shook so much that he almost missed. Unfortunately, almost means I still got shot.

For the record, getting shot sucks. No ifs, ands, or buts. Forget what you’ve seen on TV or in the movies. It hurts. Always. I don’t care the size of the gun or the caliber of the bullet. At the end of the day, your pain receptors are going to kick into overdrive when that piece of lead hits your body at three thousand feet per second.

At the moment, my pain receptors were going crazy. Think about a hot poker going into your shoulder. Actually, I have no idea if that analogy works. However, since everyone else describes being shot that way, I figure someone must have done the comparison test.

I’m not sure who was more shocked by the sound of the gunshot, the computer geek or me. I grunted when the bullet seared my shoulder (I may have actually yelled a few choice obscenities but grunting makes me sound tougher). The computer geek gave out an eek followed by a nonstop mantra of I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

I leaned down and pulled the pistol from his limp hand. I seriously thought about shooting him with my much larger .45 but didn’t feel up to spending the day with the boys in blue. So instead of punching his ticket, I grabbed the guy by his hair and banged his head into the wall, leaving a baseball sized divot in the drywall. It felt so good, I did it a few more times until the divot became a cranium sized hole.

Wanting a bit more payback, I held the computer geek up with one hand and gave him a sharp jab to the solar plexus. With about two hundred pounds of muscle behind the jab, the computer geek flew back a couple of feet and collapsed on the floor in a fetal position. I must have really knocked the air out of him because he didn’t start moaning for about a minute.

My shoulder started that familiar throb and I could feel the blood soaking through my white oxford dress shirt. I thought about beating the computer geek a few more times but, despite the immediate pleasure it might bring, I needed to wrap things up.

Leaning down, I whispered into the computer geek’s ear, If you go near Sara Phillips again, if you contact her, if you send her an e-mail, if you attempt to snoop into her computer, if you see her picture on the Internet, if her name percolates in your warped mind, I will cut off your dick with a rusty can opener and feed it to you. Do you understand me?

The computer geek did some more moaning which could have been taken for a yes. To ensure we were communicating, I banged his head a few times on the floor and asked my question again. I’m not known for my subtlety.

Yes, he whimpered.

Good, I said, straightening up. Now, I really should kill you for shooting me. But I’ve got things to do so you get a pass. But my generosity comes with a price. I paused to give the geek my death is near look, causing him to shudder.

From now until eternity, you are my personal slave. That means whenever I need something from a computer, I’m going to call you and you’re going to do it for me. Addresses, phone numbers, porn, the works. If you don’t, I’m going to come back here and finish our little discussion. Got it?

The geek stared at me incredulously until I bent down to get his attention again. This act seemed to shake him from his stupor and he nodded vigorously.

And I expect everything you have on Sara Phillips destroyed. Today. Except, I tore several of the photos from the wall, these which I’m taking as evidence. If I come back and find one tiny shred of Sara floating around your apartment, I will shoot you.

I smiled, patted the geek on the shoulder and left the apartment. All in all, a productive morning. Putting aside getting shot, of course.

Blood continued to ooze from my shoulder and I needed a dozen stitches and a couple of inches of gauze. I didn’t have time to stop by an ER nor was I inclined to explain to the authorities how I came to be shot. Fortunately, I had a roll of duct tape in my car just for such emergencies. Between duct tape and Krazy Glue, I could pretty much handle anything short of an amputation.

I scowled when I saw the bullet had marred the parachute and wings of my Force Recon tattoo. Getting that fixed would be hell since scar tissue didn’t hold ink well.

Cursing the computer geek, I slapped some duct tape on the wound and threw on my overcoat to cover my blood soaked shirt. After climbing into my beloved ’68 Nova, I speed dialed Sid.

Okay, where are we meeting?

He’s got an office on Forty-seventh Street in the Diamond District. Meet me outside the parking garage at Rockefeller Center and we can walk there together

Twenty minutes later, I spied my cousin near the ice rink. Even from a distance, he looked like a GQ model: handsome in that preppy Chris Evans kinda way with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His hair was freshly shorn and dyed jet black, a welcome change from the blond tipped spikes he sported last week. He was nattily dressed in a charcoal silk suit over a pale green, open collared shirt. A folded teal scarf peaked above his jacket pocket.

More than a few women stared at Sid predatorily as he swayed obliviously to the music pounding through his iPod. I could see his lips mouth the words, Play that funky music, white boy as he started gyrating more aggressively to the music.

Before Sid could launch himself into a full Dance Fever production, I punched his shoulder to let him know I was there.

Play that funky music, white boy, Sid sang as he shook my hand. Play that funky music, riiight….

Disco’s dead, Sid. Let it rest in peace.

Sid smiled broadly, revealing a perfect set of choppers courtesy of his brother, Myron, the orthodontist. Turning off his iPod and depositing it within his jacket, he said, Disco can never die as long as it burns in my heart.

Thank you, John Travolta. Can we get on with this? I’ve got something else I need to do later.

Nooner? I thought your Viagra shipment wasn’t coming in until next week.

I gave Sid one of my don’t piss me off looks. Sid stared back, narrowing his eyes until they were slits. Then he gave me a wink and a grin. It’s not really one of your better looks, you know. It’s more like a gorilla deciding whether to eat his banana or shove it up his ass.

I scowled. You want my help or not?

Touchy today, aren’t we? What’s the matter, get shot again? Sid laughed and punched my shoulder, causing blood to squirt through the duct tape. I blinked back the tears of pain and started walking towards the Diamond District, hoping Sid didn’t see my grimace. Sid laughed again and fell into step next to me.

Hey, guess who I ran into at the gym? MacTavish. Can you believe it?

MacTavish was a sour elderly Scotsman who I had coerced into training Sid years ago when some high school jocks were harassing him for being gay.

No shit? I thought he was dead.

Me too. I mean, I never heard from him after I won the Golden Gloves but I figured he had to be near eighty back then. Remember when I told him I didn’t want to turn pro? Sid’s face assumed a squinty glare and he spoke with a loud Scottish accent. ’Look, ya fookin faggot. I didn’t train you all these months so you can become a fookin coin dealer. It’s the pros or nothing.’

I laughed at Sid’s imitation. Yeah, he yelled at me too. Told me I was nothing more than a ‘fookin Mick’ and I could go bugger sheep.

It was Sid’s turn to laugh. Oh, that’s perfect. When he came into the gym the other day, I was working the heavy bag. All of a sudden, I feel something crack against my legs. I turn around and there’s MacTavish waving his cane around and screaming, ‘ya fookin arsehole. You call that a jab. You couldn’t bugger a sheep with that jab.’

We both laughed at our memory of this crotchety man who punctuated every sentence with the words fookin and sheep.

Sid directed me to one of the generic office buildings lining the street. A jewelry exchange anchored the bottom floor, housing jewelers hawking their wares to the public who foolishly believed they were buying wholesale because the salesman looked like a refugees from Fiddler on the Roof.

The lobby contained a guard station positioned just in front of the bank of elevators. Two uniformed rent-a-cops manned the station. Despite their smart appearance and holstered .38s, these guys were plainly paper tigers. Neither gave Sid or me a glance as we signed the register and informed them of our intent to visit Marcus Roth in suite 1202. Nor did they notice the .45 in my shoulder holster or that I signed the register as Onedum Gard.

As we rode up in the elevator, Sid asked, What do you know about diamonds?

Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. Diamonds are forever. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Neil Diamond.

I can see you’re going to take this seriously.

I shrugged. I’m just the comic relief. I’ll leave the heavy thinking to you.

Suite 1202 was located at the end of a long hall populated by jewelry related businesses. A copper plate read, Marcus Roth, Wholesale Diamonds. Obviously, Mr. Roth was a man of few words.

The door itself seemed to be made of hollow steel with a small window in the upper center of the door. I knocked on the window and found that it was Lexan which is used to make airplane windshields and bullet proof windows. I peered through the window to see a small reception area with a single chair and a second door leading to the interior offices.

A keypad, intercom and buzzer were located on the wall adjacent to the door. This integrated panel also housed a small closed circuit camera that presumably gave the office staff a view of the visitor before he was admitted into the offices. Sid pressed the buzzer.

May I help you? a tinny female voice asked from the intercom

Sidney Fein to see Mr. Roth.

There was a pause before the tinny voice answered. Please come in Mr. Fein. One of the girls will take you back.

The steel door clicked and we pushed it open. I could see the door had an electromagnet lock along with a deadbolt, making most forced entries difficult. I figured it’d take me two minutes to break in.

We waited for someone to lead us to the interior offices. I tonelessly whistled Play that Funky Music and then cursed Sid for allowing the song to get stuck in my head. A moment later, a young woman escorted us back to Roth’s office.

Marcus Roth was waiting by the door of his office when we entered, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot. A short, pot-bellied man, Roth had the look of a Keebler elf gone to seed. Aside from salt and pepper tufts of hair growing wildly above his ears, Roth was completely bald. He wore a dark blue three-piece suit which probably fit twenty pounds ago and now threatened to split apart. Roth’s blue tie bunched up above the vest, giving Roth the appearance of a third, blue chin.

Marcus, this is my cousin Jimmy. Jimmy, this is my friend, Marcus Roth.

We shook hands, an experience akin to shaking sweaty Jello. He smiled nervously at me and gestured to the leather client chairs facing his desk. As I sat down, I scanned the office walls, noting various certificates from such organizations as the Diamond Institute and the American Numismatic Association. Mr. Roth was definitely a joiner.

Roth sat down and wiped away nonexistent dust from his leather desk pad. The desk was surgically clean. I bet this guy never worked, fearing he might dirty his psychotically clean desk. I could tell he would be lots of fun at a party.

Roth looked at me expectantly, obviously waiting for me to break the ice. I let him wait. After several seconds of utter silence, Roth cleared his throat and looked at Sid who in turn glared at me. Sensing it was my turn, I looked over at Roth and raised my eyebrows, giving him my speak up, jackass look. My cousin, Mary Alice, claims it’s more like a I’m constipated, where’s the john? look.

Roth cleared his throat again and began twisting his hands together. I could see the sweat glistening on the back of his hands.

Sid tells me that you help people with difficulties, Mr. Fein.

I nodded. I had already decided the chances anyone would want to hit this perspiring Weeble of a man were nil so I considered this meeting nothing more than sport. I was already mentally betting that I could get Roth to sweat through his suit coat before the end of the meeting.

Roth looked pleadingly at Sid who shot me another glare. Since I was running out of appropriate looks, I said, Sid says you think someone’s trying to kill you?

Roth nodded, sweat accumulating on his upper lip. I figured in five minutes he’d be wringing out his suit.

Any particular reason? Boinking someone’s wife? Hand in the cookie jar?

Roth looked outraged, his already red face darkening several shades, a bad look for a bald, corpulent man who is sweating excessively. I rolled my chair back a few inches in case his head exploded.

I am an extremely respected diamond wholesaler, Mr. Fein. My customers are some of the most famous jewelers in New York.

You ever sell to Paulie Nolan?

Roth looked confused. Who?

Paulie Nolan. He’s a jeweler. Mostly he sells out of a furniture truck on the Lower East Side. He’s got some amazing stuff. He had this belly button ring with the biggest diamond on it. I was going to get one for my cousin, Mary Alice, but then I figured nuns probably didn’t wear belly button rings.

Sid glared again. Jesus, Jimmy, give the man a break. This is extremely hard for him.

Sorry, Mr. Roth. Tell me why you think someone wants to kill you.

Roth was still outraged by my earlier comment. For the record, I have never done anything illegal in my life.

Big radar flash. Anyone who has to say they’ve never done anything illegal means they’ve never been caught doing anything illegal.

Until now, I prompted.

Roth immediately deflated. It was as if his life’s breath had been sucked from his body. Looking downward at his immaculate desk, he nodded, saying, Until now.

Here’s where I should have walked out of the door. My shoulder ached, business was good and I was in desperate need of female companionship. I certainly didn’t need to help some pompous diamond merchant who had involved himself in something that I was sure was unquestionably stupid. But I told Sid I would listen to Roth’s story. And, truth be told, I was feeling slightly sorry for this pathetic wretch of a man.

Start at the beginning.

Roth looked up, a flicker of hope in his eyes. What do you know about diamonds?

Sid shot me a glance before I could repeat my extremely witty retort. I settled on paraphrasing Sid who always considered diamonds unworthy of his attention. They’re geological freaks which people mistakenly believe have intrinsic value.

Roth smiled. That is very succinct and accurate.

I looked over at Sid and gave him one of my smug looks. Like most of my family, Sid chose to ignore me when I got something right.

Roth continued. What do you know about the diamond market?

It’s basically run by a cartel which has artificially inflated the market by limiting the number of diamonds available at any given time.

That’s also very accurate though the price is not simply the result of the cartel’s monopoly. By the time you walk into a jewelry store, there have been several mark-ups in price, most of which have no relationship to the actual cost.

Despite myself, I was getting a little interested. After all, this was simply a variation of the criminal enterprises I grew up watching. I also thought I knew where this was going.

But almost all diamonds sold come from the cartel, right?

Oh, don’t misunderstand me. There are small operations that sell diamonds independently. But almost all join the cartel or are driven from business.

Have you run afoul of the cartel, Marcus? Sherlock Fein strikes again.

Roth looked shocked. If I had, Mr. Fein, I would already be dead.

The Great Detective strikes out. Then what’s your problem?

Marcus paused for several seconds, apparently contemplating what he was prepared to tell me.

No story, no help, Marcus. It’s your choice. As much fun as I’m having here, I could be spending time with a bottle of Jameson’s and a yet unknown woman dying to see my bottle cap collection.

Roth nodded slightly and took a deep breath.

About a year ago, I was experiencing some cash flow problems.

Does that mean you ran out of money?

Roth nodded.

Just checking.

Roth continued. Anyway, I was becoming overextended. While my inventory is worth a significant amount of money, I am not always liquid. Often I need to use my line of credit to cover my expenses while I’m negotiating with retail customers. However, last year, my line of credit was insufficient to cover my expenses. And the bank was unwilling to further advance my line. A business associate suggested that I could obtain financing from an unconventional source.

I smiled. Why Marcus, you went to a loanshark, didn’t you?

Roth nodded.

Who’d you go to? Matzoball Max? Danny the Lip? Harry the Horse?

Actually, Harry the Horse is a character from Guys and Dolls but I love saying his name.

Roth shook his head. Johann Bakker.

Who?

Johann Bakker.

Who the hell is Johann Bakker?

He’s a South African.

Now I was really confused. Are you telling me that you had the choice of going to some of the best Jewish loansharks in the business and you chose a South African?

Roth nodded.

No one goes to a South African loanshark. No one knows how to find a South African loanshark. I don’t think even South Africans go to South African loansharks.

I thought it was prudent to borrow money from someone outside the Jewish community.

What about the Italians? Or the Irish. The Irish have some great loansharks.

Someone suggested Johann.

I was getting really agitated now. How dare this guy go outside the families when he needed a loanshark. Whatever problem he had, I was convinced he deserved it.

Sid must have sensed how pissed off I was getting. Jimmy, can we get back to Marcus’s problem?.

I muttered something about loyalty and stupidity. Sid waved to Marcus to continue.

Well, Johann was quite accommodating. He agreed to loan me the money without requiring any collateral.

I rolled my eyes. What was the vig?

The what?

Vig. Interest.

Oh. Johann charged me 5% per month. I thought it was rather high but he assured me it was a standard fee.

My jaw dropped. That’s it? What kind of loanshark charges a 5% vig. He’s an idiot, right? I mean, he wears one of those helmets and people say he’s special.

No, Johann seems quite intelligent.

I bet. And let me guess. You couldn’t come up with a payment and now he’s threatened to break your kneecaps.

Not at all. I repaid him in two months. It was a very agreeable arrangement.

I rubbed my face in disbelief. Well then why the hell am I sitting here listening about your loan with the South African?

I thought it was important for you to know how I met Johann.

"Why?

Roth looked confused. I don’t know. Sid just told me to tell you everything.

I shot Sid a look. Look, just tell me the bare minimum okay?

Very well. After I repaid the loan, Johann approached me about a business proposition. He brought me five yellow diamonds which he wanted me to sell.

Yellow diamonds are cheap diamonds, right?

To the contrary, true yellow diamonds are extremely rare. They’re considered fancy diamonds and often sell for over $10,000 per carat.

So your buddy Johann had five of them, huh. Stolen, right? And now he wants you to sell more stolen diamonds.

No, these diamonds weren’t stolen.

I was really sucking on my detecting. It’s probably why my partner, Elise, is the brains of the outfit.

Okay, I give up. Just tell me the frickin story and when you get to the part with the problem, wake me up.

Roth looked at Sid who nodded to him to continue.

I had no problem selling these diamonds. They had beautiful color and almost no inclusions. They had been graded and certified by the Diamond Institute which is one of the best grading services in the world. I sold all five for $15,000 each. Johann then paid me $5,000 which I felt was generous.

Did that seem a little suspicious to you?

Roth shrugged. Not necessarily. The diamonds were certified and I had no reason to believe they were stolen.

See no evil?

Perhaps. Johann then came to me with ten near colorless round brilliant diamonds. They were two carats each and certified to be no less than VS1.

Is that good?

Very good. I sold all of them in a matter of minutes. Johann was pleased with how quickly I sold them and paid me well for the transaction.

Are getting closer to the problem yet?

Yes, Mr. Fein. Johann then offered me a business proposition. He had created a diamond retail site on the Internet which sold loose diamonds to the public. Each diamond was certified by the Diamond Institute and the sale price was guaranteed to be no more than 10% above the Rap price?

The what?

I’m sorry. The Rapaport Diamond Report is a monthly publication which lists wholesale diamond prices. In very general terms, it’s the Blue Book of diamonds. In any event, Johann’s proposed pricing was extremely competitive with any retail source. Johann asked me to grade and sort the diamonds.

Wait a minute. Why would Johann need you to grade the diamonds if they were certified by the Diamond Institute. I paused and the light finally came on inside my tiny brain.

They were fakes.

Roth paled and slowly nodded. In a sense. By almost every measure, these are real diamonds. But they are man-made.

Like CZs?

No, they aren’t cubic zirconias. They are real diamonds. But they are made in a machine rather than by nature. They’ll pass every test a jeweler would use. The only way to know they’re man-made is by measuring the diamond’s refractory qualities. Only the grading services and some of the larger cartel members are qualified to test the diamonds that way.

So the Diamond Institute certificates are faked, right? Otherwise the fakes would have been detected when they were sent for grading.

Yes. Johann somehow managed to get certificates to match my grading. Since grading is so subjective, no jeweler would question the certificate. And retail customers almost never have a diamond regraded.

How many have you sold?

Roth looked up toward the ceiling, mentally calculating. I grade about a hundred diamonds a week. None of them would sell for less than $5,000 and I’d say the average is closer to ten. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one grading stones. So my guess is that Johann is selling at least $4,000,000 per month.

I whistled. How much does it cost to make one of these diamonds?

I have the impression each diamond costs about $100. They have cutters out of India who get paid pennies to cut the stones. When it’s all said and done, it probably costs Johann $200 per stone.

Finally, we got to the heart of the matter. No one wants to risk a $50,000,000 business when a worker gets cold feet. So now you want out of the business and Johann won’t let you go, right?

Not exactly.

Jesus, Marcus, did you bring me here to say you told Johann to pay you more?

Certainly not. My concerns aren’t about the sale of these diamonds. But Johann wants to expand the business to include numismatic coins.

Say what? I was sure I was missing something. How the hell did we get to coins?

Johann wants to start selling phony coins on a second website.

I thought I was going to have a heart attack, my blood pressure had risen so high. Let me get this straight. You’re part of a scam selling $50,000,000 worth of fake diamonds and you’re upset because your boss wants to sell fake coins?

Roth stiffened his back. Mr. Fein, diamonds are sparkling pieces of compressed coal. But coins represent art. They represent history. They represent civilization. Any attempt to diminish their value is an attack upon the foundations of our society.

You are a seriously demented guy.

Since you’re not a numismatist, I can’t expect you to understand. Sid does. We would rather die than be involved in the sale of fraudulent coins.

I noticed that Sid did not chime in his agreement with the death part. We Feins were way too practical to think about dying over someone’s trinkets.

I gather we have finally come to the problem, right?

Roth deflated again. His head dropped to his chest and he nodded slowly.

You told Johann that you wouldn’t deal in fake coins.

Roth looked up. "It just blurted out. I said that his proposal was out of the question. I may have made statements which could have been construed