#37 (picker mysteries)

by Scott Soloff

  #37

  ( Picker mysteries )

  Scott Soloff

  Scott Soloff

  #37

  Shanghaied

  "Ouch."

  It was pitch black, reeked of garbage and I had just banged my head on something that very much felt like metal.

  It took a moment to orient myself. I used my hands to explore. It didn't take long; it smelled like garbage because it was garbage. I braced myself and forced my legs to push upwards. The metal door swung up and back exposing a mostly blue sky.

  Son of a bitch… I was in a dumpster. Touching my head revealed a lump the size of an ostrich egg. Hurt like hell. For a moment I had trouble focusing.

  After taking a deep breath, I scrambled out of the dumpster. I had to think. Where was I and how in the name of God did I get here.

  It was an alley with a row of dumpsters behind one very long building. Hotel, I bet.

  With some difficulty I managed to walk very slowly to the end of the alley. I looked left and then right. Shit! New York City… Ninety miles from home. On 7th Avenue between 32nd and 33rd Streets.

  My pockets… Nothing! No money, no phone and no ID.

  I suppose I could call someone… Screw that. I walked back down the alley, the way I had come. Reached into the dumpster and pulled out one of those blue and white waxed paper cups that are so ubiquitous in Manhattan.

  Shook out whatever coffee remained.

  Walked around the corner to Penn Station, sat crossed legged on the pavement and stuck out my arm with the nearly dry coffee cup.

  Believe it or not, it didn't take long. Not with the way that I looked and smelled. At the moment, I was doing a pretty good impersonation of a homeless person.

  Within thirty seconds I had made my first quarter. Twelve minutes later, there was a buck seventy-five in change and a single dollar bill. That was plenty and I decided to quit while I was ahead. Didn't want to get rousted by the cops.

  Stood up, made my way to the corner. Put the change into the New York Times vending machine and extracted twenty something copies of the paper.

  Walked back to the front of Penn Station. With the stack of newspapers under one arm, I removed one, folded it in half and held it up over my head. In a reasonably loud voice I said, "New York Times, one dollar, just one buck! Get your New York Times here!"

  You'd be surprised how easy it is to sell something below market value. In less than twenty minutes I had sold out and netted twenty-three dollars plus the original dollar some kind lady had contributed to my coffee cup. This gave me a grand total of twenty-four greenbacks, plenty of seed money for what I had to do next.

  Did I mention that it was Saturday?

  Time to go to work…

  It was a beautiful spring day and was quickly approaching 60 degrees. I stopped to glance at my watch before I realized that I no longer had one. Glanced up at a clock on a building and saw that it was just a little past 9:00am. In terms of doing business, at least for me, it was getting late. Hoofed it down 7th Avenue and ducked into a little coffee shop.

  Ordered a cup of coffee and a donut, forgot to tell the Middle Eastern guy behind the counter to make it black. In NY they always add cream unless you tell them otherwise.

  Back outside, wolfing down the donut and sipping the coffee, about a half a block up, I came across one of those street dealers that you will only find in Manhattan.

  Sitting on the ground with his wares spread out on a blanket, looking and smelling almost as bad as I did. There was an assortment of odds and ends, most of it junk. There was, however, a stack of books that looked as if they may have some age to them. I squatted down and began to go through them.

  The most interesting one was "Modern Magic, A Practical Treatise on The Art of Conjuring" by Professor Hoffmann, a cloth bound, turn of the century American edition. Not terribly valuable as things went, but if memory served correctly it should retail around the sixty-five to seventy-five dollar range. Depending on condition, of course.

  Without getting up, I looked the guy right in the eye, smiled and said "Good morning".

  He responded with a smile and a "Hi".

  Without touching the books I asked, "How much do you have on your books?"

  He was a young guy that looked as if life had beaten him up just a little too much. Nonetheless, he possessed a twinkle in his eye and a pleasant smile. Apparently he was only down but not yet defeated.

  His response was "Five bucks".

  Jokingly I came back with, "For all?"

  "Each", he said, still smiling.

  I thought that a little rich for a guy on a blanket without any overhead, but on the other hand, everyone is entitled to a profit. Knowing that what goes around comes around, I pulled out ten dollars, picked up the magic book and told him to keep the change.

  He shoved the money into his grimy pocket, smiled and said thanks. In that brief moment he had the realization that the book was underpriced and for reasons unbeknownst to him, a complete stranger was attempting to play fair.

  I stood up with this small treasure, thanked him and told him that it was a pleasure doing business with him.

  The day had just begun and I was already in profit. You see, in my business, you make money by buying things. If an item is bought right then it is already sold.

  Fortunately, I was only a couple of blocks from Tannen's Magic Shop. If I remembered correctly, it was somewhere on West 34th. Tannen's is one of the oldest magic stores in the country. It had been years since I been there and I no longer knew anyone that worked there. Didn't matter.

  It was a couple of minutes past ten when I stepped into the building. The sign on the wall said that the shop was on the sixth floor. Took the elevator up and stepped out into a land of mystery and fantasy. Every wall had shelves with colorful magic paraphernalia. Glass counters ran around the room filled with an assortment of magic playing cards, silk handkerchiefs and a variety of close-up magic tricks.

  As I approached the counter, a young man probably somewhere in his twenties with dark hair, a round face and pink complexion wondered how he could assist me.

  I asked him who I could speak to about selling a collectible magic book. He turned and hollered "Tony" into the back room. A mature gentleman with white hair, shirt and tie came out.

  Apparently this was Tony. He seemed a little puzzled by my appearance and perhaps my odor and politely inquired how he could help.

  "I have an early edition of Hoffman's "Modern Magic". I reached out and handed it to him.

  Tony gently but thoroughly examined the book inside and out. When he was satisfied, he looked up and asked, "How much?"

  "Fifty."

  He came back with "Thirty-five."

  My turn. "Forty dollars, cash and a stripper deck".

  "Deal!" No hesitation. Tony hit the keys on the register, pulled out two twenties, reached into the glass case and pulled out a deck of cards. He reached over the counter handing me the money and the magic deck. A quick smile and "Thanks for bringing it in."

  "No, thank you," turned and headed straight for the elevator.

  I'm up fifty-four dollars plus one trick deck of cards. Not an auspicious start, but a start nonetheless.

  Next stop, the flea market.

  So far, I have been lucky. Well, except for being knocked on the noggin and tossed in a dumpster. Everything thus far has been within walking distance. It was a bright, sunny morning in Manhattan. New York City has some of the coolest flea markets in the world. One of the best was right around the corner.

  Hell’s Kitchen Flea Market is located on West 39th Street between 9th amp; 10th Avenues every Saturday and Sunday throughout the year, weather permitting.

  I get there and business is in
full swing. Slowly, very slowly, I start to wander around the market. The absolute best to way unearth antiques in a setting such as this is to take your time and to feel. Your job as a picker, someone who finds antiques for retail dealers, is to tune out everything around you and let the antiques talk to you. Actually, it's more of a whisper. With just a little bit of knowledge and an affinity for the old, it is astounding what treasures can be uncovered from a sea of dross.

  I'm making my way through the rows of dealers and my spider senses begin to tingle. There is an old man set up with two tables covered with an assortment of very old stuff.

  At a quick glance he appears to be in his mid-seventies. His hair is white and disheveled. His overall appearance is round; a round face and a round body. He can't be more than five six and must weigh in close to three hundred pounds. His hands are enormous.

  Right in the middle of the table is a pile of padlocks. Very old padlocks. Without touching them I ask, "What do you have to get on your locks?"

  "Ten each," comes with a grin.

  "What can you do for four?"

  "Ten each," a bigger grin.

  I decide not to be a pig, dig out the two twenties and pass them over to him. Select the four that I want and wish him a good day.

  Now, three of the locks are nothing special. All four are old, very old railroad padlocks. Three of them I think are valued somewhere between fifty and a hundred a piece.

  But that fourth one, it's a beaut! This lock is round and very clearly marked D.K. Miller Lock Co., Railway Lock, Fairbanks amp; Company, New York, U.S.A. The retail value on this is close to a grand.

  My day’s getting better. Now I need a buyer.

  I already had somebody in mind. I hailed a cab from the middle of the block and headed to the Upper East Side. The driver wore an orange turban and drove like it was an Indie 500 tryout.

  I reached into my pocket and removed one of the locks, the best one to examine it in more detail.

  Did you know that padlocks have an interesting history? There is evidence of primitive padlocks dating from as early as 500 BC.

  There are padlocks from the 9th century with spring tine mechanisms that have been discovered in York, England.

  Here in the states, cast heart locks were widely used by the railroads because they were cost effective and reliable, even when dirty, exposed to moisture or cold.

  They were called "cast heart" due to their shape. This type of lock consisted of two important characteristics. The first was the spring loaded cover which would pivot over the keyhole. This kept dirt out of the lock. The second was a point that formed at the bottom of the lock. Here a chain was attached to the body of the lock preventing it from being either lost or stolen.

  Early examples of padlocks, especially those used by the railroads, are very collectable.

  Anyway, this particular padlock was in "good nick", as my brother would say. I returned it my pocket and retrieved the stripper deck. Broke the seal, selected one card and inverted it and then shuffled the deck. With the necessary preparation complete, the cards were returned to the box and slipped into my inner coat.

  The cabbie drops me at East 80th St and 3rd Avenue. The fare is just under ten and I pass him the remainder of my money.

  In the middle of the block jammed with cafes, delis, stores and apartments sits the Antique Emporium. Peering in the window the eye takes in more stuff, really cool stuff than the mind can process. I walk in, a bell tinkles and from what I can see, no one is there. At least not in the front.

  "Anyone working?"

  An ancient man steps out from the back room. He's hunched over at a forty-five degree angle, is missing most of his hair and has wire-rimmed specs perched on the top of his head. He greets me in a clear, loud tone that belongs to a much younger, healthier man.

  "Picker, you son of bitch. Good to see you son, where have you been, haven't seen you in a dog's year."

  "Nice to see you too, Dutch."

  Everyone calls him Dutch even though that isn't his real name. Decades ago, he purchased the Antique Emporium as an ongoing concern. In the front window, right there in gold lettering it says "Dutch Peabody — Proprietor". He never bothered to change the lettering.

  "What have you got for me son?"

  "Oh, a little something that I think that you'll like." I scanned the room softly as I approached the old man and the counter. Reached into my right hand pocket and removed one of the locks of lesser value. Placed it on the counter.

  He pulls the glasses down from his head and peers at the lock for a nano-second. At this point, I'm just sticking a toe in the water.

  "Fifteen bucks. Show the rest."

  Man, nothing stupid about the old man. Dig out the rest and place them on the counter alongside their cousin.

  He picks up the good one. Turns it over. Reaches down the counter and grabs a loupe. Examines it more closely. Slowly brings his head up and looks me dead in the eye over the rims of his glasses.

  "Three hundred for the lot kid."

  I scoop up my collection, turn around and start for the door. With a smile in my voice I wish him a nice day. Just as my fingers touch the brass door knob I hear an anxious…

  "Wait just one damn minute. Get back here. Now!"

  I had to smile. I turned around. He folded his thin arms across his chest asked, "What did you have in mind?"

  "Dutch, I'll tell you what. I don't have time to screw around. I’ll take that doll sitting over there in the corner and two hundred in cash."

  Honest to God, the old man looked at me like I was nuts.

  "That doll's priced at a thousand, are you out of your mind?"

  "Hey, old man, it's priced at a thousand but you only have two-fifty in it, if that. You want to play ball or don't you?"

  "Look kid, I tell you what I'll do. The doll and fifty dollars. That's it, take it or leave it."

  I looked down at the floor, pensive, as though I was thinking. "Tell you what, we'll flip a coin. The doll and one-fifty if I win and just the doll if you win."

  "Okay, but no coins. I hate coins."

  Guess what. I pulled out my deck of cards. "One hand of poker, straight-up."

  I take the cards out of the pack, put them on the counter and tell him to shuffle. He says, "Screw poker! Cut the cards Picker."

  I cut, he cuts. Turns his over, Queen of Hearts. Dutch smiles. I turn over my half of the deck. Ace of Spades.

  The old man sighs. "Win some, lose some".

  He wraps my doll up in white tissue paper and puts her in a paper bag. A "little brown bag" from Bloomies. I tell him no checks, I'm pressed for time. He goes into his pocket and hands me a hundred dollar bill and a fifty. I thank him, tell him how nice it was to see him, wish him a nice day and am halfway out the door when I hear…

  "Hey Picker, still going to Tannen's?" Like I said nothing stupid about the old man.

  There's an old adage in the antique biz and it's this: 'No one knows everything!'

  And this doll was living proof of that.

  Kewpie dolls are based on the illustrations of Rose O'Neill which first appeared in 1909 in the Ladies' Home Journal. The very first ones were manufactured in the small German town of Ohrdruf, renowned for its toy manufacturers. The earliest versions were bisque dolls. Later ones were made of celluloid. Effanbee, the famous doll manufacturer, made the first hard plastic ones around 1949.

  The one that I now owned was a very early one. She had a bisque socket head, large brown glass eyes which glanced side-ways, brows more like dots; a closed smiling mouth; and a painted tuft of hair. The body was composition, chubby toddler style; jointed limbs with starfish hands. Clearly marked 'Ges. gesch. O'Neill J.D.K.' She was about 13" long. Best part, her current value at the right auction would be about $4,600.00.

  Why didn't Dutch know and why was she priced so low? Who knows? It's especially true that older dealers tend to lose touch with up-to-date prices. Another problem is that dealers are lazy. They tend to price things based on
what they paid for something and make what they believe to be an educated guess.

  In short, that's what makes the world go round.

  Time to get cleaned up, almost…

  I needed two things first. I stopped in a little bodega down the street from the Antique Emporium. Picked up a pre-paid cell phone for fifty dollars plus tax.

  One more block down I found an Old Navy. Ran through the store; selected a blue t-shirt, a pair of jeans, white socks and a dungaree jacket. Paid the overly pieced and tattooed, but very cute blond at the counter and was on my way.

  I went over to Lexington Avenue, turned right and went up about a dozen blocks. In case you have never noticed, the blocks in Manhattan are very long.

  There it was, the 92nd Street Y. I stood on the steps for a couple of minutes considering my options. I now had a phone and a couple of bucks in cash. What I should do is make some phone calls, try to make some sense of how-and-why I got here and head back to Philly. Or, I could finish what I started and continue working.

  Screw it…

  I walked in the front door and was greeted with a toothy "Hi" from a young man wearing a bright red shirt. Just a kid really. Still had his pimples.

  I went over, reached into my pocket and took out a fifty.

  "Kid, how long you going to be here?"

  He looks at the fifty, and looked at me with confusion. "At least an hour."

  "Good." I took the phone and the rest of my cash and stuck them in the little brown bag. I ripped the fifty in half and handed one half to the kid along with the brown bag.

  "I need a shower. Watch my stuff, I’ll be back in twenty minutes". Didn't say anything about the other half of the fifty, didn't need to.

  A big smile. "Yes, sir. No problem, sir."

  I took the bag with my new clothes, found the showers, purloined a towel and opened an empty locker. Stripped, threw everything in the locker including the remaining fifty half. Took a hot shower, toweled off and put on the threads. Threw the old clothes in the trash. Felt like a new man.

  Strolling back out front, the kid saw me and reached under the counter to retrieve my bag. As he passed it to me I palmed off the other half of the bill.