Experience is one thing you can’t get for nothing. Oscar Wilde

“And, the winner of this year’s competition is…”

Excuse me, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

This particular adventure actually began the previous evening. It was a beautiful spring night with clear skies and crisp air. I had checked into my hotel room an hour earlier. After making my way down to the ballroom, I now stood in front of a long table. Dinner was about to begin and there was barely enough time to sign in.

Sitting behind the long table was a lovely young woman. Blonde hair piled on top of her head and bright blue eyes and tortoise shell glasses. Every lad’s fantasy of what a librarian should look like. Before her was a computer printout of the expected attendees with name tags scattered over the table’s surface.

The young woman inquired, “Your name sir?”

“Picker.” I gave her one of my better smiles.

She took a few moments to find my name on the list and locate the appropriate name tag.

“Well, here you are Mr. Picker…”

“No mister, just Picker,” I interrupted.

The young woman was momentarily flustered. “Well then, Picker, this is your name tag. I hope that you enjoy your dinner.”

Thanking her, I put the tag into my pocket and made my way into the banquet room. Personally, I can’t stand name tags. Found my way to the assigned table. Sat down. Introductions were made all around.

They were all strangers. Antique dealers with stores, those that worked at high end flea markets, others that sold primarily at shows and one collector. But, no other pickers.

Oh, I neglected to mention that this was the annual National Antiques Association convention. And, my profession is that of a picker.

pick·er

noun

1. someone who picks antiques for a living

Basically, what I do is run around locating hidden treasures; purchasing said treasures for the right price and then sells them to someone higher up the food chain.

Case in point: Walking the flea market at 6:00am this morning (before driving up to New York) I came across a doll. Picked it up and examined it closely (Lesson 1: always hold the item in question in order that no one snatches it out from under you and Lesson 2: always look for damage and repairs, either will greatly affect the value).

Danny Boy Boyle is a young African American. He obtains all his stock from women that were previously maids employed by the wealthy of Main Line communities (Philadelphia suburbs). It was not uncommon for these domestic workers to receive discarded items from their employers. You would be truly shocked at the valuables found in North Philadelphia homes (not to mention that the houses themselves sell for less than ten grand). Literally, a cornucopia of antiques and collectibles: lamps; dishes; silver; oriental carpets and even furniture.

Anyway, Danny Boy’s wife; Mai, was working the tables when I spotted the doll.

“How much,” I asked.

“For you sweetheart, $800.00.”

Truth be told, that was too cheap. A Kammer & Reinhardt Toddler with a bisque socket head. Clearly marked “K*R-Simon & Halbig – 126 – 28″. She had blue sleeping eyes with feathered brows; an open mouth showing two upper teeth and tongue; a brown wig composed of mohair; and a jointed wood and composition body. Easily worth $3,900.00 – retail.

“That’s too little, Mai.” I removed some bills from my pocket and counted out thirteen one-hundred dollar bills.

She gently wrapped the doll in some white tissue paper and placed it into a paper shopping bag. Coming around to the front of the table, she stood on her tip toes and planted a kiss on my cheek.

“Thank you, Picker.”

You may not realize this, but honest antique people (not that you can find any) deal in thirds. With the doll being worth what it was, I should easily be able to pass it on to a brick and mortar dealer for $2,600.00. That leaves another $1,300.00 on the table for the guy or gal with all the overhead.

Now that you have a clear idea of what I do, we can get back to the story:

It’s true that I did not know anyone at the table. However, it does not mean that I didn’t know anyone. Rubbernecking the room I had spotted half a dozen pickers from across the country. At one time or another we had crossed paths. Plus, there were sure to be at least a few more that I didn’t know at all.

Within a short time dinner was served. Pleasant conversation ensued. Most of it lies, some bigger lies and thank God, no statistics. The dishes were cleared, coffee served and the president of the National Antiques Association took the podium.

George Dish stood there for a moment and scanned the room. A small, unassuming man with stooped shoulders; thick eyeglasses and a poor comb over. He had become president of the NAA due to one fact only: he was the least offensive choice from those available.

Georgie, now in his sixties, got his start in the antique biz in quite an unusual way. Abraham Dizinovich had immigrated to this country at the turn of the 20th century. Abe had an encyclopedic knowledge of antiques but unfortunately seriously lacked funds. The obvious choice would be to get a job in the field. But no, Abe was independent, strong willed and had a serious problem with authority.

His solution was simple. Abe would take his five children when visiting an antique store with the pretense of selling some ‘rare’ find to the owner. In the process, the children would learn some real world skills. The most practical of these skills was shop lifting. It was in this manner than Abraham Dizinovich acquired his merchandise which he would then sell to other dealers.

Over the period of twenty years Abe was able to put a roof over their heads, put food on the table, send his children to college (producing two doctors, one lawyer and a university professor) and eventually open his own antique store.

Ironic side note: The one thing that Abe would not tolerate in his store was stealing!

There was; however, one hold out. Georgie. The youngest of the immigrant brood stubbornly refused all of his parents nagging and prodding when it came to higher education and becoming a respectable professional of any sort.

In his late teens he became a runner (scrounging antiques) and ‘running’ them to the smaller of the local auction houses. After accumulating some working capital, George anglicized his last name and took his show on the road. Traveling to small towns, taking up residence at Holiday Inns and placing full page ads in the local papers. Thirty-six point type at the top of the page read ‘Free Appraisals’. The body of the ad stated than an ‘experienced antique dealer’ would provide an honest evaluation on any of the items listed below. And, the list was, let’s say – inclusive.

To Georgie’s credit, the appraisals were relatively honest if not leaning towards the low end. When something of particular interest caught his eye (which happened quite frequently), George would make an offer to purchase.

George’s success in this business was due in no small measure to one thing that his father had taught him many years earlier. ‘Bought right is two thirds sold’ he always said. And it was in this manner that little Georgie Dizinovich, now George Dish, acquired a small fortune.

In time, George Dish was able to scrub his family name and reputation completely clean. Over the course of his lifetime he was able to accomplish what his father desired most and could not accomplish – being legitimate.

George Dish had a good reputation and was highly respected in the antiques community. After accumulating a lifetime of good will he became the president of the most respected antiques association in North America.

Where was I?

Mr. Dish had stepped up to the podium. Made some pleasant introductory remarks and a brief speech which was not memorable in the least. Then he got down to business.

“As you all know, each year at these gatherings we hold the Annual Picker’s Competition. The conditions are simple: (a) each picker begins the day with nothing; no money or jewelry or cell phones and (b) he or she may use any means possible, short of stealing, to acquire the most valuable antique or collectible and finally (c) IOUs are permissible but not with acquaintances, friends or known associates. All transactions must be with complete strangers.

“We’ll meet in this room tomorrow morning at 5:00am. Each of you will be inspected in order that you begin with little more than the shirts on your backs. Everyone will return here by 6:00pm with their newly acquired treasure.

“A panel of three judges will determine their value. The picker with the most valuable piece will be announced as the winner.”

And that was, as Alice said, that. Almost. George wished us all good luck and promised to see us bright and early. Everything was fine until I stood to leave the room.

Now, I realize that in this day and age that people do not have an arch nemesis. With that being said, across the room I spotted what was certainly the closest thing -

A Big Pain In The Ass!

Boris Andropov.

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6:00am

The sun was making its first appearance of the day. I left my home; crossed the street and entered the park. Running frees the mind. And for the next hour that is exactly what I did. I ran, breathed and sweated. But I did not think.

The shower scalded my skin. Before getting out I turned the hot water off completely. For five minutes the ice cold water reminded me that I was alive. I dried off and mentally began to prepare for the day.

Black hand-tailored suit, Saville Row, of course. White cotton shirt with spread collar, no tie. Italian loafers. And a Patek Philippe wrist watch.

While walking to the cafe the cell played John’s ‘Imagine’.

“Good morning Eckhart.”

Eckhart is one of my associates. We were putting the final touches on our most recent acquisition.

“Guten morgen, mein Freund.”

“Where do we stand Eck?”

“A million-five after expenses. One hundred and fifty deposited in Lux.” Luxembourg is well known for its banking secrecy laws including a well earned reputation as a tax haven.

“And the balance?”

“Distributed equally among the usual projects including the village in Nepal.”

The Gemma Fund is a registered CIO in the United Kingdom. The charity’s mission is to fund a variety of situations in poor nations. To date these have included providing food, medical supplies, wells for fresh water, educational materials and micro-loans. My position is that of CEO.

Unlike many organisations, our firm has a strict policy of limiting the overhead to ten percent. The rest, and I do mean all of it, goes directly into funding our projects. No waste, fraud or graft.

“Brilliant. We’re between jobs at the moment. Perhaps your wife would enjoy a small vacation.”

“Ja. The south of France for a week. You know how to reach me when something comes up.”

Eckhart is our resident computer whiz. He and Annemarie have been married for ten years and have two little ones.

I opted for a detour before breakfast. I entered the double-front Edwardian home on Marylebone High Street. Although it was early I didn’t bother to knock.

“Good morning, Mother,” I shouted.

The precise location cannot be divulged for obvious reasons. I can, however, provide an entertaining hint. It’s a stone’s throw from 221B Baker Street.

Mother glided down the center staircase. “Good morning, sweetheart.” She kissed me on the cheek and gave me one of those half-hugs so common in Europe.

Elisabeth Jones is still a great beauty in her mid-fifties. Raven hair down the back; sapphire blue eyes glittering with mirth and intelligence and a smile that has broken men’s hearts.

“Care for some breakfast, darling?” She floated to the sitting room; buzzed for a servant and invited me to sit.

“No thanks, Mother.”

“Where’s Wig?”

Charles Wiggins, aka Wig is always around; almost never seen and seldom heard. Relatively tall at 6’2″, brutishly strong without bulging muscles and completely bald. Always impeccably dressed. A former amateur boxer and petty criminal from Liverpool, he signed on approximately ten years ago. At that time he was embroiled in some serious difficulties. It so happens that I was instrumental in extricating him from said problems. Due to the nature of my work and his eternal gratitude he enlisted himself as my manservant/bodyguard. Haven’t been able to shake him since.

“I’m sure he’s around.” A decade ago my father was murdered by way of a car bomb. Mother worries because I have continued with his line of work. She worries slightly less knowing that Wig is about.

I pecked her cheek. “Have a good day. I’ll be about if needed.”

I was antsy. Time for breakfast.

The cafe is aptly named ’14′ for the address. Well situated in Marylebone, an affluent area of central London.

I sat at one of the outdoor tables and opened the morning paper. “Coffee please,” from one of the proprietors nine children.

The menu is an eclectic combination of British, French and Mediterranean cuisine. There is mix of popular Persian fare including baklava and meatballs and unfamiliar items such as Ashe Reshteh and Kookoo Sabzi.

One of the older daughters brought out a croissant and fresh juice along with the coffee. The result of being a regular practically every morning.

The headline that morning: Man Arrested after Armed Siege in Central London.

The story began:

LONDON (AP) — Police snipers and heavily armed officers put several blocks of central London’s shopping district into lockdown Friday after a man allegedly armed with gas canisters entered an office building and threatened to blow himself up.

Unbelievable!
Finished I lit up a Romeo y Julieta Cuban cigar. Churchill and maduro, of course.

I was drinking coffee.

“Mr. Jones, may I have a word with you?”

I’ve told him a hundred times, maybe better, call me Connor. Either his upbringing or cultural background won’t permit it.

“Habib, my dear friend, my time is yours.”

Habib Nasreddin and wife Adiba are the proud owners of this small bistro where I take my breakfast in the morning. Originally from Turkey, they have been here for close to a quarter of a century and raised nine children. Eight girls and the youngest Qadir, a boy.

“Mr. Jones, I don’t know where to begin. They stole all our money. Everything that I have saved. My poor wife, she is crying. I am lost, Mr. Jones. Adiba, she says that you deal in finance. She suggests, ‘Maybe Mr. Jones can help’. I say ‘No, it is not our place to bother him’. She insists. It is our life’s savings.”

I look up at the sky and blow gray-bluish smoke rings. These are nice people. Good people. Salt of the earth types. Hard working. Wouldn’t harm a soul.

“Tell me what happened.”

That is exactly what he does. Habib spends the next thirty minutes laying out in great detail everything that led to this moment. I take a couple more puffs; sit up and look Habib Nasreddin in the eye. I smile.

“Tell Mrs. Nasreddin not to worry. I’ll take care of it.”

End of Chapter 1

(By the by, how do you like the new cover?)

Strike one

It Saturday morning.

“Hey Picker. What have you got?” John, from the duo John and Fred, wants to know what I’m selling.

Like most Saturday’s, I’m at the flea market.

“Nothing.”

The Golden Nugget Antique Market was founded in 1967. Two miles south of Lambertville, New Jersey; dealers buy, sell and trade antiques, collectibles and art Wednesdays and weekends year round.

At four this morning I grabbed a painting from the stables; threw it in the backseat; called the beast and set off to the market.

Popped the trunk; removed and set up an easel; grabbed the painting from the backseat and set it up.

It was early summer. The sun was just starting to come up and it was about 70 degrees. Kenny, who specializes in early twentieth century smalls, asked “How much?”

‘Smalls’ are what we in the trade call antiques and collectibles that you can carry in your hands.

“It’s not for sale.”

The painting that I placed on the easel was an Anthony ‘Doo Wop’ DeAngelo special. Although Anthony was no longer with us, I still had dozens of his paintings in my workshop.

Sherry, short for Sheridan, because she primarily deals in furniture of the same name asked about the artist.

“Turner” I said and turned to leave. With a short whistle, the monster commonly known as Kato, leapt from the car. He fell into step next to me as I meandered through the market.

Joseph Mallord William Turner was born in England in the late 18th century. He was a landscape painter, watercolorist as well as a printmaker. Famous for his oil paintings, Turner was brilliant when it came to watercolors. He is often referred to as ‘the painter of light’.

My first stop was the little restaurant that sits in the middle of the market. I grabbed a cup of coffee and slice of cherry pie from the counter. Made my way to a table in the corner; Kato plopped down on the floor.

“Heard Bigfoot stumbled onto a treasure yesterday.” Danny Boy Boyle is a young black man that gets his merchandise from doing clean outs in North Philadelphia. He pulled out a chair and sat down; patted Kato on the head and took a sip of his coffee.

I was curious. Fully half of the antique business is conducted through whispers and rumors. Selling is easy, finding the stuff is what keeps us alive. “What did Hari find?”

Hari “Bigfoot” Henderson is a six foot seven inch Asian who also gets his entire stock from cleanouts. Unlike DBB, Hari has arrangements with better than a dozen estate lawyers. When an estate has to be settled one of said lawyers will set Hari up with the deal. For a small consideration, of course.

“Baseball card collection. Came out of a mansion on the Main Line.”

Hari’s non de plume, Bigfoot comes from both his physical stature and the unfortunate similarity of his name to the Sasquatch featured in a major motion picture.

“And how did you stumble across this lucrative tidbit Danny.”

Danny Boy is married to a beautiful Vietnamese woman, Mai. Together they purchase quality merch from retired African American women that once worked as servants for the wealthy on the Main Line. It was a common cultural phenomenon for employers to pass on unwanted furniture, knick-knacks and artwork to their servants.

“I ran into Rebel. You know him, he’s part of Hari’s crew. Saw him this morning, I did. Told me all about it. Valuable baseball card collection, he says.”

“Thanks for the dirt Danny. Got anything good for sale? Something I might be interested in?”

“Sure thing, Pick. Stop by my table when you’re done. I stuck it in the van. You get first dibs, man.” And with that, Mr. Boyle got up and left.

Outside was a beautiful day. The Golden Nugget is on the Jersey side of the Delaware River. Travel a few miles to the east and you’ll come to historic Washington’s Crossing. I began to stroll through the tables of dealers to see what I could see. To be more accurate; to see what I could buy.

Hard Knocks, another regular at the flea, came running up to me. “How much you gotta get for the painting Picker?”

HK is somewhere in his mid-sixties and retired, like many dealers.  Perhaps four or five inches under my six feet; broken blood vessels on and around his nose. I don’t believe that I ever knew his real name.

Why was he interested in my painting? His primary interest is Militaria, especially weapons from World War II.

“Not for sale Knocky.” And, I kept walking.

In the course of the next thirty minutes, no less than a dozen dealers inquired about the Turner. My response to one and all; “NOT FOR SALE”.

“Eventually Kato and I ended up at Danny Boy’s table. Mai was there, dealing with another customer. She stopped what she was doing; came over; kissed my cheek. “How’s the infamous antique dealer doing this lovely morning?”

“Never better, Mai.”

“Heard about your painting. How much?”

“Not you too. Where’s your better half?” At that moment DBB came around from the other side of his van. He reached into the side door and pulled out an object wrapped in cloth. Handed me the bundle.

I unwrapped it slowly. A vase. Less than five inches tall. Ovoid body, irregular. Amber in color; distorted; decorated with thick amber iridescence haphazardly splattered on a deep cobalt textured background. Signed ‘L.C. Tiffany – Favrile 6025K’. Early twentieth century, probably 1916 or 1917. Off the top of my head I estimated it to be worth somewhere between twenty-five and thirty thousand dollars.

Louis Comfort Tiffany, son of Charles Lewis Tiffany; the founder of Tiffany & Co., is famous for designing and manufacturing stained glass windows, lamps, mosaics, blown glass, various works in metal and of course, jewelry.

By the way, if you think for a moment that valuable finds such as this cannot be found at a flea market, think again. It happens every day of the week at some flea market somewhere in the country.

My Uncle Moe appeared suddenly at my side and whispered in my ear. “It be the real deal, sonny.”

“Thanks Uncle.” Helpful, isn’t he?

I looked up and saw Danny’s bright white teeth smiling at me. I smiled back. “What do you have to get?”

He hemmed and hawed. Danny’s got great instincts, but his weakness is in pricing. “I’m thinking five grand.”

I laughed. “Tell you what Danny Boy. I’ll give you ten grand, not a penny more.” My thinking was that I could flip the vase to a retail art glass dealer and make a quick eight or ten thousand dollars. Everyone would be happy.

Danny stuck out his hand and said, “Deal.” Mai came over, stood on her tip-toes and kissed my cheek, again. “Thanks Pick.”

“TJ will stop by tomorrow with the cash.” I wrapped the vase back up and was on my way.

Thomas Jefferson Smith is my oldest friend. He has dark skin, an athletic build and stands at 5’10″. His full time job is that of my runner, despite his extensive education.  A runner is someone that sniffs out deals and runs errands. While the description doesn’t do it justice, the job requires a great amount of knowledge and skill. To be perfectly honest, I believe that the only reason he does it is to keep a protective eye on me.

Back at my spot dealers of all shapes and sizes, both sexes, are ogling my painting.

A chorus of “Where have you been?” rings from the crowd.

“Okay, okay. Everyone, take a deep breath and calm down. I told you, it is not for sale.”

O’Neil, an eclectic dealer, steps forward and places his huge paw on my shoulder. “Com’ on Pick. Give us a price so we can do some business and get on with our day.”

The particular painting that everyone was making a fuss over was an unusual choice for Doo Wop. His common medium was oil, yet with the Turner he chose to work in watercolor.

“Ten grand, cash, firm.” Kato is lying at my feet. Uncle Moe, standing slightly to my left, has a bemused look upon his face.

Part of Doo Wop’s genius is that he never copied a known painting. The work of art in question was one that the brilliant Turner at no time painted. But, it could have been. A common theme with Turner was shipwrecks; and this was a beautiful example.

A huge ship; sail extended on a rough sea with sparkling sun light. Anthony DW DeAngelo perfectly captured the master’s style. Simply put, it was breath taking.

“Picker, are you out of your mind. The damn thing is a copy. Who in their right mind is going to pay that kind of money for a copy?”

“Hey, guys, I’m selling the painting, not the signature. You don’t want it, don’t buy it.” Any moron worth his or her salt could easily double their investment. What were they pestering me for?

“I’ll take it!” Molly Malloy, a dealer that has an art gallery in the town of Lambertville pushed her way through the crowd. At one time, we spent a couple of evenings together. She reached into her handbag and pulled out her checkbook.

“No checks Molly. Take it with you. TJ will stop by today or tomorrow for the cash.”

“Thanks Picker. You’re a doll.”

Meanwhile, the other dealers are shuffling away bellyaching about their misfortune. One thing that antique dealers love to do is complain. I swear that I could hear, “Grumble! Grumble, grumble.”

I threw the easel into the trunk; Uncle Moe hopped into the front seat; Kato into the back. Started my yellow Morgan Plus 8 and took off like a bat out of hell. I caught the first traffic light en route to Interstate 95. The cell phone vibrated in my pocket.

“He’s dead.” Bigfoot’s wife Amy.

“Dead? Tell me what happened.”

“This morning, around three o’clock, I wake up. Hari’s not in bed, he’s nowhere in the apartment. I go downstairs to the workshop behind the store.” Harry and Amy have a little antique shop on Bainbridge Street in South Philly. “I can’t believe my eyes. Hari’s lying on the floor, dead. I called 911.”

“And?”

“I thought that he had a heart attack or something. The paramedics and police arrived. They talk in a corner; I can’t hear anything. Next thing I know, they drag me down to the Round House. Put me in one of those rooms like you see on TV; you know, for interrogation.

“Turns out that Hari was strangled. Picker, somebody murdered my Hari. I got home five minutes ago. I don’t know what to do. Will you help me?”

“I’m on my way.”

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Prologue

Time is what prevents everything from happening at once.

“I think he’s dead.” The words were clear but I couldn’t identify the voice. “Someone call 999. There is no pulse.”

Here’s the funny bit. I felt great. Never better. For some inexplicable reason I was at peace for the first time in my life. Although I could not see a thing my hearing was crystal clear. Lots of voices but I was not able to untangle the thread. It did not matter. I was completely unphased.

What occurred next was more than a little disorienting. My body was lying on its back; leaking blood and I stood some eight feet away while observing it. There was no hot or cold, no pain, no nothing. The only thing that I experienced was detached calm.

Then, in a flash, I was elsewhere. I couldn’t see a thing yet sensed being in an entirely different place. It was dreamlike. Foggy; dark; the lack of control; in a daze but utterly peaceful. For the moment time ceased to exist. Before/after were irrelevant. Everything in the universe was occurring simultaneously.

Without warning the darkness exploded revealing a thousand, no, a million suns. It was not blinding. It was beautiful.

This brilliant light went on forever. Love began to well up in my chest to the point where it was almost overwhelming.

Knowledge suffused my being while not being either presented or weighed down with specifics. The experience was full of grace, holiness and the divine. And to this day I could not tell you if God was involved.

I flew. Unfettered without weight or worry. Joy seemed to radiate from my center to the far reaches of creation.

A voice whispered, “You have to go back”. I turned and looked into my father’s eyes, now gone almost a decade. The world imploded.

A sharp explosion in my chest sent me plummeting. I was cold. A voice shouted, “He’s back!” The siren pieced my skull as the ambulance raced towards the hospital.

I couldn’t help but smile. I was alive. I could finish my work.

My name is Connor Jones. This is what happened.

“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 & 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 & 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.

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