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                               Chapter Nine
                                      Stones 1

New York Harbor

5/3/15

2:35 PM

The ship docking in New York Harbor, it took the moderately rotund man carrying his two suitcases an hour from the time of the disembark alert to step from the gangway and find his way to the passenger arrival immigration counter where, his passport handed to the officer in the grey uniform—forcing himself to remain calm— was opened and studied.

Tapping the counter. “Suitcases here, and opened, please.” Patting the contents, lifting some clothing and taking a quick look. “Okay. Close up. Name?” The man was asked.

Releasing his breath. “Solomon Berkowitz.” He replied.

“Your ship?”

Though the only passenger ship docked in the harbor at that time. Nodding his head backwards. “Lusitania.”

Comparing the grainy picture inbedded within the passport — Pleasant Mid-aged face and hair line appearing to be near the same. “Profession?” The officer asked.

Stretching it by two years. “Engineer.” The man somewhat honestly answered.

“People here to see?”

“Business associate.”

“Amount of cash you’re bringing into the country?”

Reaching into the inside pocked of his long, top coat, removing a leather wallet, the man removed seventy-six dollars, saying, “I've other funds at National City Bank.”

“Anything else to declare?”

“No…” nervelessly wiggling his toes “...nothing else.”

Having no idea how or when he was going to do it, Morris Pinowskiz, AKA, Solomon Berkowitz had been making telegraph cash transfers— having no idea how he was going to do it— under his own name to National City Bank in New York City, USA for the past year and a half.

“How long do you plan on remaining?” The US customs officer asked.

Shrugging his shoulders. “Two weeks, maybe three. Until my business is finished.”

Handing the passport back. “Welcome to America, Mister Berkowitz.”

2:57 PM

Outside the Harbor structure, hailing one in the line of waiting Ford Model T taxis, the man instructed the driver to take him to an address in New York City’s Diamond District on Manhattan’s 47th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenue.

Preparing himself for what he assumed would be, at the best, a slow five mile trip along the bumpy, uneven streets.

Out of sight of the cab driver, removing first one then the other size eleven shoes from his size ten feet, loosening the laces on one of the shoes and jamming his index finger sharply forward, his long nail catching onto a tightly rolled ball of cotton, Solomon Berkowitz— first one then the second tightly rubber-band ball of cotton was worked along the instep then out of both shoes.

Sitting back, taking a deep breath and noting the drivers face looking stiffly forward. Both balls of cotton placed on the tightly held junction of his thighs and paunch, Solomon Berkowitz AKA Morris Pinowskiz loosened the rubber-bands and carefully unrolled first one, then the second ball of cotton revealing eight, one- and- a- half and two carat diamonds..

Taking a small velvet drawstring pouch from his inner coat pocket, widening the pouches opening, the man carefully let the eight diamonds slowly fall in. Tightening the drawstring and placing the pouch deeply into his inner jacket pocket, Morris satisfactorily sat back watching the cities population drift by.

The diamonds removed from the showroom vault Friday evening shortly after sundown when old man Flischner, his despicable, holier than thou— pious employer would be at his synagog throughout that evening and all day Saturday unaware that the theft had occurred until reopening the jewelry store on Monday morning…

And as the Lusitania had left the Berlin dock at 8:05 pm, that same Friday; using a forged passport under the name of ‘Solomon Berkowitz’— that Morris man had paid dearly for— and by Monday noon, the Lusitania being near midway to America, there’ll really be no way for the pious one to discover if his X-employee, especially under an assumed name, would be aboard.

Thinking, Made it! Sitting back watching the cities population drift by. Morris Pinowskiz TNA ( Temporarily Known As) Solomon Berkowitz who was anxious to sell the eight diamonds for the best possible price and withdraw the ninety dollars deposited under his pseudonym at National City Bank, then destroy the fake passport and disappear—away from either coast —somewhere into America’s great mid-west.

3:22 PM

Turning on the seat, “Here we be, sir.”

The charge on the meter reading fifty cents for the first mile and ten cents per mile thereafter.

Coming from the cab, pulling his two suitcases after, “How much will that be?” he asked.

“Seven miles. A dollar, ten, sir.”

Handing a dollar and a quarter through the open window, “Keep the change.”

A near twelve percent tip not too terrible. “Thank you, sir.” The cabbie said as the Model T pulled from the curb.

Inside the marble walled and floored lobby of this old New York landmark building, Morris studied the names within the directory upon the wall and, Jesus! Having no idea where to start and certainly not wanting to present his diamonds to any familiar name he learned while in the employ old man Flischner where the cut of the stones might be recognized.

Searching for gentile names names only, and finding the name ‘Patton’ in room 220, and the name ‘Cleary’ in 312, then one name one flight of stairs up in room 402; the Italian sounding name of ‘Geneasta’.

Thinking it easier to work his way down, Morris walked the four flights of wooden steps upward where he entered through the wood and frosted glass door of room 402 where the name ‘Geneasta: Fine Diamonds’ was lettered in heavy black scroll on the frosted glass.

Most showrooms in his ancient building little more than a small, glass countered showroom with a like size back room used for bookkeeping and the creation of jewelry.

“Hello!” A thin old man coming from the back room with a jewelers loupe hanging from a silver chain about his neck appearing within seconds of Morris entering the Geneasta shop. “How cam I help you?”

Working at Flischner’s for three years, knowing what diamonds the size he had in the velvet bag were worth retail, but having no idea their worth wholesale. Simply stated, “I’ve some diamonds I’d like to sell.”

Studying Morris a moment. The old man’s practiced eye sizing him up as a moderately heeled, well dressed early to mid thirty year old man with a notably British accent. Coming to the counter, moving a small, black velvet covered tray forward. Simply stated: “May I see, please?”

Removing the drawstring bag from his coat pocket, using but the tip of his thumb and forefinger, carefully removing one each of the two sizes. Placing the two onto the velvet tray. Sternly stated: “Listen…” Morris said “...you’re the first place I’ve been to since looking to sell, but let me tell you, I know their retail value, so please don’t bullshit me! If you’re interested tell me what you’re willing to pay, and if I don’t like what you have to say, I’ll pack up and talk to someone else downstairs.”

“Like a man that speaks his mind.” Geneasta said. Using large tweezers, picking the larger of the two, bringing the loupe to his eye the old man studied the ‘European Cut’ diamond, turning it, looking for flaws. “This is nice,” he said. Picking the other up, studding it also. Seconds passing, until. “These are good!” Gesturing to the small velvet pouch in Morris’ hand “You’ve more?” Anton Geneasta asked.

“Yes, six more.”

“Let’s see.”

Upturning the pouch, the six remaining diamonds now lay alongside, the first two.

One by one. Taking his time, each stone brought to within an inch of the jeweler’s loupe.

Watching closely— a trick he’d been taught by Flischner— watching the pulse in the customers throat as they’d studied whatever piece of jewellery they might consider purchasing, looking for the increase of excitement telegraphed by their increase of breath... and Geneasta’s pulse had increased; at least enough for Morris to notice.

Using the tweezers, picking one after the other, placing them into Morris’ drawstring pouch. “Here’s what I offer…” the old man said “...and if you don’t like, go! Go downstairs.” Studying the younger man’s face — although a fairly accomplished poker player, Morris was able to hold a bland appearance. “Three thousand, ‘cash’!” Geneasta declared…

At the most, Morris had expected two thousand, possibly twenty-five hundred U.S, dollars. But, Three thousand U.S.! He thought. A fortune!

Taking but a moment to consider, extending his hand across the counter.

“You’ve a deal!”

“Okay. Give me a couple minutes.” Going into the back room— because once the safe is open, one ‘never’ knows— the old man positioned a .38 police special revolver between his belt and back. Within three minutes returning to the showroom with a large stack of cash held in one hand and a three pocket canvas money belt in the other.

Laying the money belt pocket up on the counter, Anton Geneasta began counting hundred dollar bills, and reaching ten handed the thousand dollars to Morris, who placed them into one of the money belt pockets.

One, two and three thousand U.S. dollars safely enclosed within the three pockets, removing his topcoat and Jacket, securing the belt about his waist and tightening it, Morris replaced his jacket and, buttoning it from hem to throat, the topcoat. Turning to the old man. Nodding his head, “Thank you!”

Well aware of the triple price profit the eight diamonds would bring. “No!” Anton Geneasta said. “ ‘Thank you’!”

4:05 PM

Outside again, onto the street, desperately anxious to get the cash held about his middle safely to the bank before it closes for the day.

“Hey!” Waving a passing taxi to the curb. “You know the way to the National City Bank?”

“City Bank! Yeah, sure!”

“Okay. Not worrying about what it cost, actually the faster the better, how long you think?”

“To get there? Traffic starting to build, maybe twenty minutes or so.”

“Take me there, please.”

Now being the time. No longer needing the old one and having a few minutes before getting to the bank. Opening the larger of the suitcases, prying a corner of the glued lining with a fingernail, Morris removed the legitimate passport— the passport in the name of ‘Morris Pinowskiz— and no longer needing the forged passport, slipping it back into the open corner of the suitcases lining, then licking the ball of his thumb, Morris reactivated the mucilage that had been holding it shut.

4:22 PM

“That’ll be seventy-five cents.”

“Here you go.” handing the driver a dollar, feeling extravagant. “Keep it!” Morris said as the man attempted to return his twenty-five cents change.

Suitcases held one in each hand, his elbows protectively pressed tightly against his sides, Morris entered National City bank, at this time of day crowded with late afternoon banking business.

Wanting nothing more than the rental of a safe deposit box to contain the three thousand dollars until he discovers a need for the money.

Standing at the shortest lines end, waiting for the bank tellers window to be available.

4:28 PM

Slowly moving one person at a time. Approaching the barred window, Morris was able to see the teller was a woman, and coming one person closer saw the dark haired woman was thin and— in his opinion— a point or two below pretty and a point or two above attractive. And for some unknown reason Morris felt a heart twitching attraction to this completely unknown woman.

Finally: “Hello,” he said “I’ve an international account here, and would— feeling he had to do something other than just ask about the rental of a safe deposit box— like to make a withdrawal.”

Occasionally, in the strangeness of God’s creation, absolute strangers might feel an awareness of internal warmth brought about by possibly nothing more than a meeting of eyes.

Their eyes meeting. Looking at the fairly attractive, well dressed man standing on the other side of her barred window. “Hello…” she said “...I’ll need some identification for an international withdrawal.”

“Oh, yes…” starting at the sound and tone of the woman’s voice “...I’ve my passport here.” Reacting into the jacket pocket, removing the legitimate passport— his hand trembling— Morris passed it through the bars.

Opening and looking at it. “How much will it be, Mister…” looking again “...uh?”

“Happens all the time…” assuming “... Miss. Name’s ‘Pinowskiz’.”

“Oh! I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be. Twenty dollars will do.”

Looking over his shoulder, noting three people in line behind this man with the hard name as, opening the cash drawer, “How would you like the bills?”

Studying her face, the woman’s features becoming more attractive by the second. “Bills? Oh, yes! A ten and fives, please.”

Removing the bills from her drawer, sliding them beneath the bars…

“Thank you. Oh, yes…” Morris said “...I’d like to rent a safe deposit box.”

“Sorry, that’s not my department…” motioning to a desk at the far side of the lobby “...Mister Baker, there, he’ll help you with a safety box.”

Hearing the clearing of the throat of the man standing closely behind.

“Thank you, Miss, uh…” noting the name plate directly behind and to the side of the bars, reading ‘Agnes Longstead’ “...Longstead.”

The impatient clearing of a throat again.

Reluctantly turning from Miss Agnes Longstead, walking across the lobby.

The money belt now cutting into his stomach, sitting alongside of Mister Baker’s desk as, having given the man his passport, Morris impatiently waited until the paperwork authorising the rental of a safely deposit box was completed. Then, following Mister Baker into the huge steel vault, taking the two keys handed him to ‘Box 1314’, as Baker, using a ‘master’ third key, opened the vaulted cover and removed the safety deposit box handing it to Morris. Taking the box, the banker led Morris to a small private room containing a desk and two chairs.

“See me when you’re through, please…” Baker said “...so I can sign you out.”

Alone in a private room, removing both topcoat and jacket, breathing a sigh of relief for both the security and removal of the tight, bulky money belt.

Taking the cash, a thousand dollars at a time from the three belt pockets and laying then, still in stacks of a thousand dollars each, into the shallow, rectangular steel box, and thinking he would need it again: tightly folding the money belt, it was laid atop the cash.

Replacing his jacket and top coat, standing a minute staring the means to his future, whatever his future might be, and what he’d made of himself to do it, Morris then closed and latched the steel box.

Leaving the privacy of the private room and back into the vault, Morris slipped the box into slot 1314, then, using both keys, double locked it.

Approaching Mister Baker’s desk, Morris signed the ‘exit’ sheet for box 1314.

4:52 PM

Deciding to wait a while. Sitting on one of the small lounges scattered about the floor, it was but four or five minutes until Miss Agnes Longstead exited the ‘Employees Only’ door.

5:06 PM

Standing, crossing the room. “Hi!” He said. “Don’t mean to bother you, but today’s my first day here in town.” Laughing. “Or even in this country, as a matter of fact.”

Having no idea why, but she’d been thinking about this man, this man she knew nothing about other then he was British and had a last name she couldn’t pronounce. And, You’re not bothering me. she thought, saying, “How can I help you, Mister, uh…?”

“ ‘Morris’, please. Please call me Morris, and I do not mean to accost this way, but apparently you’re the only person I seem to know… sort of know, and I was wondering if you might direct me to a close by boarding hotel…” Seeing a look come to the woman’s face. “No, no!” Becoming flustered. “I don’t mean…” his hand fluttering between their two bodies “...that way. I mean I have no place to sleep tonight, and hoped that you might suggest…”

“Morris…” holding her hand forward “… I know what you mean and also know that you’re a gentleman and would never make that sort of lewd suggestion to a lady you hardly know.”

“Or ‘any’ lady, for that matter.” He said.

“Yes, I believe you; and as it so happens I’m living at my aunt’s boarding hotel, and it’s only a few blocks from here. So If you’d like to try my aunts place, I’m going home now.”

“How very kind of you! Yes, please, Miss…” attempting to remember.

“Agnes.” She said. “My name is Agnes.”

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                                                     Chapter Ten

                                    Stones 2