"I was posted in the Middle East for forty-eight years," he said. "Diplomat, you know. That's where I got the scimitars."
"Did you know Sir Cripps Crisp?" I asked, just curious.
"Oh yes, Jim, quite," he said, with a frown. Cleariy they were not friends.
After a little negotiation I bought the club for $8,000.
"Why are you selling it?" I asked.
"The wife's had an operation, that's why she isn't here to serve us tea," he said, not at all depressed that the family heirloom was leaving the family once again. For good measure he threw in a couple more cassowary leg-bone daggers. He had a bushel basket full of those.
In Seattle the next day, in a junk shop, I found a Navaho double-saddle blanket, very old, with a pattern I had never seen. It was a wonderful saddle blanket. I bought it for a few hundred dollars and later sold it to Boog for $5,000. The same day I bought a Paduan lamp in the shape of a pelican. I knew I was having a run and ran it for all it was worth. I kept moving south, buying wonderful things everywhere I went. I bought a Victorian cannonball, a Ming jarlet with a wonderful blackberry and lily underglaze, a lizard-skin drum, an amazing Inro compartment with a swooping crane design, a lacquered rosewood tobacco boon, a Lalique plique-a-jour gold enamel necklace, a Faberge carving of a mandrill, in jasper, and an extraordinary goldsaddle-frame that was probably late seventeenth century.
The run ended at a flea market on the south side of Portland, in a delicate Oregon mist. As I wandered around, waiting for the mist to lighten just a little, I spotted an old couple sitting in green lawn chairs beside what was probably the rustiest pickup I had ever seen. It was a '48 Chevy without a speck of the original paint, or any paint, on it. It belonged in a Rust Museum, if there was such a thing, and I stopped for a moment, mainly to admire the pickup. The old man and the old woman were just sitting there in the mist, working their gums. They had laid out a miserable little display on the tailgate of the pickup and were apparently content with it. Their stock consisted of six or eight insulators, a few old tools, some fifties Coke bottles, and a little pottery. What wouldn't fit on the tailgate was on a rickety card table set between them.
"Howdy," I said. "I like your pickup."
"Yes sir," the old man said. "We like her too."
"I don't," the old woman said. "I been tryin' to get him to trade it in, but he won't. If we run it much longer we won't get no trade-in at all."
"She wants one of them with that power steering," the old man said, spitting a squirt of tobacco juice into the wet grass.
"Got anything good you're hiding?" I asked.
They studied me for a moment, trying to decide if I could be trusted to handle the good stuff.
"Got a box of Depression glass in the front seat," the old man said finally. "You can look if you'll be careful."
I had been neglecting my commission to buy Depression glass for Momma Cullen, so I walked around and opened the pickup door. On top of the box of junky glass lay a dusty manila folder with a comer of something that looked like vellum sticking out. Just the sight of the vellum gave me a tingle of anticipation.
The folder contained a large leaf from a Moghul manuscript—a beautiful, delicate miniature showed a battle scene involving elephants. The elephants were surrounded by an army of small, stylized, but perfectly drawn people, their faces all calm despite the passion of the fight.
Some finds produce a stillness in you. Still, very still, was how I felt as I looked at the wonderful leaf, with its thin, elegant goldwork and its two tiny armies. After looking at it for several minutes I put it back in its folder and carried it and the box of glass back around to where the old couple were sitting.
"Nice glass," I said. "How much will you take for the whole box?"
"Three hunnert," the old woman said, without hesitation.
"How about this thing?" I asked, holding up the folder.
"Found that yesterday, down at Pleasant Hill," the old man said. "Hadn't priced it yet."
"We was thinking of giving it to our little granddaughter," the old woman said. "She likes elephants."
"I'd sure like to buy it," I said quietly. "That is unless you really have your heart set on giving it to her."
"Aw well," the old man said. "We could buy her some coloring books with elephants in them, couldn't we, Momma?"
"I guess so, Daddy," the old woman said. "That thing's got gold on it though. Must be worth something."
"Would you pay thirty-five dollars?" the old man asked.
I paid them the $35, plus $300 for the Depression glass. In the process I learned their names: They were the Haskells. The old lady told me all about her grandchildren as she carefully wrapped each piece of worthless glass in two layers of newspaper. She and the old man were wildly excited—this was their biggest day as flea marketers, ever.
I walked away feeling sad. The run was over. I didn't know what the Moghul leaf was worth, but it was worth a lot. In a way I had cheated the Haskells. I should have bought them a pickup with power steering.
But if I had, what balance would have been disturbed? The thrill of selling $335 worth in one day was in itself a thrill that would sustain them for years, that they could talk about, probably, for the rest of their lives. Paying them a fair price for the leaf might just as easily have destroyed them. They would never again have had a nice time, sitting in the mist in their lawn chairs, waiting for a sucker who might give $300 for a box of Depression glass. They had invited me to come by their home, next time I was in Oregon, and I said I would.
"If you're down in New Mexico, buy us some arty-facts," the old woman said. "Arty-facts still sell real good, up here."
A few months later I sold the Moghul leaf to a dealer in Memphis for $ 115,000. But that part of it seemed commonplace, not really exciting, either to me or to him.
When I left the flea market I drove all the way from Portland across to Montrose, Colorado—it was a Sunday night when I pulled off* the road and hit a motel, in the shadows cast by the cold Rockies. Most of the drive I spent on the phone with Coffee, discussing various of her problems and trying to decide if we were up to a meeting. I had let Coffee's husky childish voice, talking endlessly, pull me slowly south and I was seriously thinking of paying her a quick visit before going back east to take the Arbers to Disney World.
As I was undressing to take a bath, I flipped on the television and was startled to see the freckled face of Uncle Ike Spettle fill the whole screen. Uncle Ike was working his gums, much as had old man Haskell back in Portland.
He was dressed in a clean white shirt and a $5 imitation-rawhide string tie. When the cameras rolled back a little I saw that he was in Cindy's gallery in Georgetown, being interviewed by Dan Rather.
Beside Uncle Ike, on a little pedestal, sat the boots of Billy the Kid. They were under glass, or maybe under plexiglass, with a solid security guard with a pistol on his hip standing nearby.
I could hardly believe my good timing. The boot exhibition was happening, right before my eyes. Cowboy culture had come to the capital of the land and Dan Rather was there to tell us about it.
"Uncle Ike, how does it feel to be here in historic Georgetown?" he asked.
Uncle Ike worked his gums for a bit, eyeing the security guard skeptically.
"You reckon that boy can shoot?" he asked.
The cameras swung to the fat guard, who flinched visibly. He looked as if he would rather run than fight.
"And you're how old, sir?" Rather asked, struggling hard to get Uncle Ike to bring the past alive.
"I thought the President was comin'," Uncle Ike said. "If he is he's late, and if he ain't then he ain't gettin' my vote, the next time around."
"Heh, heh, the Deomcratic party will be glad to hear that, sir," Rather said. "We've been assured that the President is coming. However, this is quite a crowd, even without the President."
It was a clear signal for the crew to tour the crowd and get him away from the baleful old man.
Aft
er a second the crew got the message and the camera began to pan slowly around the crowd, pausing for a moment at Lesley Stahl, who was trying to get Yves St. Laurent and Ralph Lauren to comment on the many pairs of Twine boots spaced tastefully around the room, each in its own plexiglass cube. But the two designers didn't want to be caught using the same mike and slipped adroitly from pedestal to pedestal, boot to boot, smiling constantly but saying nothing.
It was obvious that Cindy had done a beautiful job of getting out the A-list, most of whom had donned Western garb for the occasion. Senator Penrose and his wife Pencil were there, both of them looking ridiculous in white chaps and big Stetsons. Lilah Landry had come as a Navaho and was wearing half her weight in squash-blossom jewelry. She stood in a comer talking to Ponsonby, who was in pinstripes. He stared with evident puzzlement at a pair of Mexican boots which stood on a pedestal beside him. All the boots had been highly polished for the occasion.
Oblivia Brown had come with Halston; he was in a tuxedo, while she wore designer denims. As they were chatting, George Psalmanazar wandered by wearing a corduroy suit and loafers.
A moment later I spotted Eviste, looking dapper in a red satin rodeo shirt; he was stalking a waiter who carried around a plate of pat6.
Old Cotswinkle, also in pinstripes, was glaring at Khaki Descartes, who had dressed Western even to wearing a brace of cap pistols. Cotswinkle glared into the camera a moment and then the camera wisely moved on and picked up his wife Cunny, who was chatting with Bill Blass.
Andy Warhol wandered up and stopped in front of the enigmatic Sir Cripps Crisp—Andy looked like himself and Sir Cripps was in white tie. As a waiter passed he adroitly snagged a fresh glass of champagne. Except for that one movement Sir Cripps was still as a statue.
Nearby, John Kenneth Galbraith was beaming serenely down at Arthur Schlesinger, Jr. Boog, Spud, and Freddy Fu were within eavesdropping distance, but weren't eavesdropping. Boog was done up in full Texas regalia—he looked like an overweight hillbilly singer.
Amanda Harisse, dressed severely in black, stood near one of the pillars, close enough that she could keep an eye on Uncle Ike. Amanda looked depressed.
Then, suddenly, heads began to turn, the camera turning with them. The President and the First Lady were coming through the door, surrounded by Secret Service men. They were in their best Santa Barbara Western-wear, they were smiling, they looked happy.
And there to greet them was Cindy, their sometime neighbor.
I had been waiting, expecting to see her, and still her beauty caught me unprepared. Instead of dressing Western she had dressed Spanish, in the white dress that bared one shoulder. She wore a silver necklace, an antique concho belt, and a look of complete satisfaction. Her hair shone, her eyes were bright—in her freshness, youth, and health she made the President look suddenly leathery, the First Lady distinctly frail.
Indeed, she was so beautiful I felt the tears start: I didn't really see the President and First Lady greet Uncle Ike, or hear what they said to one another. Cindy stood to one side, serene in her moment, the summit finally won. For a moment it didn't matter that Jean was good, that Josie was generous, that Tanya Todd had a brain that worked at the speed of light. I knew Cindy's beauty was unearned, responsible to nothing, unaware. It didn't matter. I began to fantasize things that might happen—things that might bring her back. Then, not wanting to see her anymore if I couldn't have her, I clicked the TV off, only to click it back on a few seconds later, hoping to see her some more.
But Cindy was no longer in the picture. Josie Twine was in the picture, speaking to Dan Rather. She was decked out in a yellow cowgirl suit and new Tony Lamas, and looked right in them. She had dyed her hair a nice red and looked a lot more sophisticated than she had when I left, only three weeks before.
"Why yes," she said, "every one of these boots was used right there on the Twine ranch in Wichita County, Texas. Some was Big Joe's and some was his daddy's before him.
"Ain't you from Texas?" she asked, glancing at Dan's feet, which were in shoes.
"Yes indeed, Houston," Dan said quickly, turning back to Uncle Ike, who was still keeping an eye on the nervous security guard.
"It's a good thing the P.L.O. never tried nothing," Uncle Ike said. "I doubt that fat boy could hit the side of a bam with that hog-leg."
"Well, I don't think we need to worry about the P.L.O.," Dan said. The crush in the gallery had gotten worse, but the President was gone and it was plain Dan felt it was time to wind things up.
"You must be pretty excited, Uncle Ike," he said. "Coming all this way at your age, and getting to meet the President."
Uncle Ike did not look excited.
"Well, he ain't no John ‘Duke' Wayne," Uncle Ike said. "I knew the Duke. Me and him did a talk show in Albuquerque once. Nice fellow. Didn't know much about the Kid, though."
Then—one media legend to another—he reached up a freckled old hand and caught Dan's sleeve.
"Dan, see if you can catch that boy that's carrying around the goose-liver," he said. "See if you can get him over here. They run a little light on the vittles, up here in Washington, D.C."
Cadillac Jack Page 39
