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The hub of the street's activity is the Diamond Dealers Club, which is on the ninth floor of one of the street's newer buildings. The club has 1,750 members, who are among the most respected and established dealers on the street. Election to the club is restricted, coming only after a person has secured a reputation and been fully scrutinized by club members.
Packets of diamonds in the rough, as well as polished stones cut by the street's manufacturers, are traded in the club's nondescript 200-ft. by 200-ft. room. Reports TIME'S John Tompkins: "You get into an elevator with a crowd of Hasidim and feel them staring, wondering who you are. All the brokers know each other by sight, if not by name. A set of electrically operated bulletproof glass doors leads to the room's lobby, and another automatic door, with the legend NO VISITORS ALLOWED, and operated by a guard, leads to the trading floor. As in every store and office in the area, there are plenty of closed-circuit cameras and hidden alarm switches. The windows are high, and there are dozens of 20-ft.-long tables, lit by fluorescent study lamps, where diamonds are inspected and traded."
A broker with a diamond to sell produces a small paper packet from a leather pouch. The method of folding the paper, white on the outside and pale blue on the inside, has been in use for generations, here and in Europe. For 25¢, the diamonds are weighed on one of the room's electronic scales, and the result written on the packet. The seller has told the broker what price he wants, and the broker wanders the room soliciting bids. When he gets a good offer, he "seals" the packet, which pledges that he will talk to no more potential buyers until he presents the offer to the seller. If the deal is closed, the broker says "Mazel" (luck in Hebrew) and the buyer replies "Mazel un brucha" (luck and blessing), a ritual used around the world, whatever the ethnic background of the participants.
Deals are also made inside the street's ground-floor stores, many of which are actually indoor public markets, where merchants can rent booths for prices of up to $2,500 a month. Unlike the hushed elegance of a room at Tiffany's a few blocks away, the market is a bustle of good-natured haggling, questioning and exhorting in many languages.
The trading also involves flocks of individual entrepreneurs, who often make their main living by cutting stones for manufacturers. A typical diamond cutter last week sat in his office, high above 47th Street, and dealt with an elderly broker standing before him. The cutter examined a packet of raw stones with his loupe. He shook his head, wrapped the packet up and handed it back to the broker. The old man wearily placed it in his old leather pouch, held together with tape and rubber bands, and produced another packet. The two haggled for a moment in Yiddish and then the second packet was also rejected. That day there would be no sale between the broker, who carried the diamonds around on consignment, and the cutter. The visitor took his worn pouch, holding stones worth thousands of dollars, and concealed it in an inside pocket of his coat. Then he headed off to another shop.