Jim Nuffield

Making Diamonds — An Excerpt 

The classic late 1940s pin-up dress fit her curves like she’d grown into it, a seamstress masterwork of lapis polka-dot on a field of off-white silk. From the sweetheart neckline trimmed in narrow ric-rac, to the pinky-width leather belt encircling the tiny waist, her knee-length pencil-slim dress terminated with a naughty flare and a deadly rear slit. Men brave enough or shameless enough to turn their heads at her passing were rewarded; the center-seam of her barely-there stockings drew the eye to the bumblebee-yellow Jimmy Choo FM shoes, her footfalls confined to the balance-beam width of the sobriety test perfectly executed, powering the complex ballet of leg, hip and shoulder, all counterbalanced by the slightly rearward swing of her slender arms, tightly clad in opera-length sheer black tulle gloves, displaying the mirror finish of the ruby nails imprisoned within, perfectly matched to the brilliant slash on the indulgently full lips, her sole surrender to the art of makeup. Her midnight-black hair was folded up and under, and the smooth curves of her war-bride do hinted at its massive volume and length, simply adorned with a finger-long lapis velvet bow jauntily pinned above her left forehead.

By 6:30 p.m., the Campbell Apartment was filling up fast. The “secret” cocktail bar in Grand Central Terminal was a tribute to the railroad era of the 1920s, complete with the massive safe installed by the former builder of the enormous complex. The room was dimly lit and filled with plush chairs, areas rugs so thick a girl could catch a heel in them, dark wood and glass coffee tables, and an ornate Beaux-Arts bar complete with etched glass sconces and hanging fixtures to match. It smelled of money like a kitten smells of fresh laundry.

It was here that the city’s elite commercial real estate power brokers often came to soften up their clients with thirty-five-year-old Scotch and wagyu-beef sliders in their never-ending, passive-aggressive quests to get them to ‘Yes’. The deadly combination of atmosphere, camaraderie, and alcohol magnified the already sky-high self-confidence of the mostly male animals lurking within. Fresh from their victories at the financial battlefield of the front that was Madison and Park Avenues, these men considered themselves ruthless, street smart, desirable. In the eat-what-you-kill universe of the commissioned broker, the meek deserved to be separated from their wealth–their vulnerability sufficient justification for their fleecing.

Thirty pairs of eyes had tracked her from entrance to table; not a man in the room was immune to her presence. For fifteen seconds, the muted wall of background conversation had noticeably dimmed, resuming only when Maddy had finally taken her seat. At twenty-seven, with a mid-seven-figure investment portfolio, a condo in the sky, and a million-dollar income as a top earner in an all-woman team of grifters she loved, she was at the pinnacle of her superpowers.

As she settled herself in, the server appeared at her side. Maddy gave her order and settled in to scan the room.

The mark was Doug Taylor. He had just closed a huge commercial real estate deal in Hudson Yards. A one-million-square-foot lease, fifteen-year term. Commission: $10 million, in his jeans.

The problem was, Taylor stole the deal from Penny Strange, his colleague at Fuller-Jones, the city’s premiere real estate brokerage firm.

Georgia had met Penny through her Justice for Women Network. JFWN was an informal network Georgia had created years ago to advocate for women who had been physically abused, or who had been cheated in business simply because they were women. After all traditional avenues of appeal had been tried by the victim and subsequently failed, Georgia would consider the case. If she could make a financial recovery, or if she could extract value in kind from the aggressor, she would take half, which for the victim was far better than the nothing she currently had. Georgia’s reputation and contact information was in the contacts folder of a vast network of powerful women in New York, yet her name recognition among their male colleagues was virtually nil.

As one of Manhattan’s best female commercial real estate brokers, Penny Strange fought a daily war with her male counterparts at Fuller-Jones for credibility and fairness. She worked twice as hard and had twice the real estate acumen as any of the men. Her whip-smart ability to analyze the options and her encyclopedic knowledge of the market, coupled with an emotional intelligence that left her clients with the vague suspicion she was a genuine mind reader, made her eminently qualified to manage any transaction in New York City. In contrast, many of her male counterparts relied on their friendships, their season tickets, their golf outings and their Caribbean fishing trips to get their deals. She had even been abandoned at business dinners with colleagues and clients, as ‘the boys’ said their goodbyes and took their bluster and their bullshit to the Hell’s Kitchen strip joints. They referred to themselves as Shooters–high-end brokers with smooth silver tongues and gobs of connections.

Penny had been working with her client for nearly three years and the huge leasing deal had been hers. Taylor had tried to weasel his way in near the end, but the client had wanted no part of his involvement because he hadn’t added any value. Miffed at his exclusion, Taylor had gone to his bosses at Fuller-Jones and told them a woman couldn’t possibly close this important deal. The male leadership, worried that they could lose one of their shooters to the competition, agreed, and Penny was pulled off the account and given a token 20 percent referral. It wasn’t fair, but it wasn’t illegal either. When Penny confronted Taylor, he had laughed in her face. ‘That’s just how the world works, girl.’ he’d said to her. ‘Go strong or go home.’

“Your Vesper, Madame.” The server broke into Maddy’s thoughts as he laid down her drink.

“Thank you.” She settled in to watch the mark at the next table, all her senses in tune. Taylor was ripe for a lesson in how the world really works.

In discussing the problem with Penny, Georgia had discovered that Fuller-Jones had a strict morality clause. Moreover, Georgia’s research had proven that Taylor liked to play around. Even better: he was the senior partner’s son-in-law. Something to work with.

Maddy sipped her drink. An impatient look at the art-deco diamond watch on her wrist. Big audible sigh. She tapped her toe on the footrail of the adjoining empty chair, the picture of an impatient woman, of a woman stood-up. Another look at her watch. She picked up her phone and dashed off a text, tossing it back onto the table in vexation.

Her senses were tuned to the next table. Three men. The mark’s shoulder was inches from her own. She fumbled with her clutch. Her lipstick fell to the floor and rolled to his feet.

Taylor turned to look at her full in the face. Mr. Haircut-a-Week Madison Avenue Shooter. Flawless spa skin. Lantern jaw. Thousand-watt smile. He reached down and retrieved the little gold-embossed tube.

Maddy smiled. “Why, thank you.” She looked at her watch. Again.

“You’re very welcome. Has someone stood you up? Now who in God’s green earth would do that to a gorgeous young thing like you?” Sea Spray cologne. Check. His smile was easy and perfect, every brilliant white tooth bought and paid for.

“Very kind of you.” She held back, offering just a hint of a smile. She was the wealthy sophisticate, old money royalty from whom such favors were selectively bestowed.

Be who they expect.

He held out his hand. “Doug Taylor.” She noticed his eyes darting to the swell of her bosom, artfully framed in silk, and to the flawless pale skin of her long slender neck, gaily decorated with a choker of brilliant pink tourmaline stones.

Maddy held her gloved hand to him and he pulled it to his lips. Instantly, she snapped it back. That may work in fairy tales, she thought, but it’s no way to greet a lady. “Miss Monroe, Doug.” She hesitated, as if deciding something. “Shelley Monroe. Pleased to meet you.” She returned to her drink.

“What brings you here, Shelley?”

He hadn’t bothered to introduce her to his friends. That told her a lot. He didn’t want to share. Okay. Pay out the line a little more, let him flail and then reel him in.

“I’m waiting for someone. I was actually late, and she’s not here. I don’t know if she’s been and gone, or just really late.”

“Why don’t you join us while you wait?”

Maddy made a show of looking at her watch, then her phone. As if deciding, she let out a deep breath. “Why not?” She shifted her chair around and gifted him with the barest hint of dewberry lemon. Looking up at the other two men, she raised her eyebrows in query.

“Tony Salma, Shelley.”

Maddy smiled and looked in askance at the other man.

“Pete Jacobs. Nice to meet you.”

“So.” Maddy leaned forward with a tulle-clad elbow on the table. “Are you gentleman co-workers? Friends? Idle rich?”

“Actually,” Taylor said, “I work for Fuller-Jones. Tony and Pete here are my clients.”

“Fuller-Jones?”

“Real estate brokers, Shelley. My team handles some of the biggest deals in the city.”

“That sounds like a lucrative business Doug.” Maddy knew that brokers hated to discuss commissions with their clients. She wanted to keep him on edge, get him willing to separate himself from their company. She remembered her Sun Tzu: “If his forces are united, separate them.”

“We do okay,” Taylor said in a laughable attempt at modesty. He looked over at Tony and Pete. “And we work very hard for our clients.”

Maddy bestowed her full attention on Pete. “And what do you do Pete?”

“Oh, I run the finance department for Crystallic Enterprises.”

Maddy smiled sweetly. “You’re very modest, Pete. Crystallic is a very large company, I understand.” She sat back and bounced her toe, pretending not to notice as it lightly caressed the broker’s pant cuff. Fixing Pete with a lingering, hypnotic stare and a knowing smile, she hooked her drink straw between two sheer-nylon-clad fingers and drew in a driblet of her Vesper, puckering her glossy ruby lips down and around the lucky straw. Pete froze in the spectacle.

“What about you, Shelley?” Taylor said, clearly wanting to shift her attention back to him. “What do you do?”

“At the moment, I’m waiting for someone who doesn’t seem to be interested in seeing me.”

“Can I buy you another drink?”

Maddy paused for a moment, to make him think she was deciding. “All right”.