by Ray Deeg
Gwen eyed the tower. “Have you been here before?” she asked.
“No.”
As they turned onto the main road, the town’s charm became obvious. Gwen’s face lit up as landmarks emerged. The church across the street was just letting out a Saturday mass, and well-dressed parishioners smiled as they passed.
This place is rural, almost country. It’s adorable to visit, but I could never live here—too small and boring. Wait: there’s my own voice chiming in, Gwen thought.
The houses lining the street were strictly average but adorned with well-placed ivy, making them seem smarter and more charming than they really were. But either way, New Hope, Pennsylvania, was a classic American town.
After parking, Tom and Gwen walked up the main street, past an art shop displaying colorful glass sculptures. A cat lay sleeping in the sun on the other side of the glass. The sun shone brightly, and destiny’s breeze caught up with them, blowing through Gwen’s hair while Tom studied her.
His gaze was broken by movement, just feet away, when the sign on the door of an antique store flipped from Closed to Open. An older man standing behind the door smiled at the pair. But it was the display in the corner of the window box that captured Tom’s attention. He saw a glorious, poster-sized photo of Nikola Tesla standing next to his famous Tesla coil. Placed around the large photo were all types of electrical gadgets and gizmos from another era. Tom was fairly knowledgeable on the innovators of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, especially those who had filed patents like Tesla. He thought the imaginations of inventors from yesterday had been bigger. They had to be. Innovators today built onto existing technologies and infrastructures. The inventors of yesterday had had to build everything from scratch. They were true pioneers. Tom always had an obsession with Tesla. In particular, he was fascinated with the work Tesla did in the transmission of radio waves, data, and power delivery, all wirelessly. What a coincidence; this must be fate.
Gwen eyed the cafe across the street, but it was too late. Tom was mesmerized. Gwen realized his attention was in jeopardy, but destiny was pushing things back on track, and there wasn’t much she could do. “Tom,” Gwen said in a playful tone.
Tom glanced at the sidewalk cafe and saw that it was mostly empty. “It’s early. Let’s work up an appetite first,” he replied lightheartedly. He pulled Gwen’s hand gently and began walking backward, towing her softly toward the shop’s front door.
She liked the way he smiled as he pulled her; it reminded her of being together those many years ago. She relaxed and allowed Tom to pull her into the store called Monty’s Oddities.
CHAPTER 12
THE INSIDE OF Monty’s Oddities was not brightly lit, but the darkness added to the store’s mystique. Beams of sunshine snuck through the windows, forming golden corridors of light where specks of bright dust were suspended. The store seemed magic to Tom, filled to the brim with treasures of all varieties. He could detect a hint of something in the air, the smell of electricity. At the far end of the store, he saw the man who had flipped the sign to Open moments earlier. He was well dressed, sitting contently, reading a book and sipping coffee. He’s obviously successful—wait, there’s my voice again.
“Morning, folks. So glad you stopped by,” the man said.
“Thank you,” Tom replied. “I spotted your Tesla collection and wanted to have a peek.”
“I normally don’t open this early, but I saw you admiring the display outside. Please have a look,” he said, discarding his book, which had suddenly became less important.
Tom moved past shelves filled with troves of fascinating antiques and machines of all types. Some treasure, some trash. Tom was well versed on technology through the ages, from Egyptian architecture to the Baghdad battery to the Klerksdorp spheres to quantum computing. From the time he’d woken from his nap as a child and discovered the model train, Tom had been fascinated by machines of all types. His imagination soared when he was around technology. What he loved most was the way each of the things changed people’s lives and transformed the world. He spotted a boom box from the ’80s on a wall shelf next to an intricate French clock. Next to the clock sat an Underwood typewriter, perhaps from the 1920s, just waiting patiently for its next owner to arrive. In the corner, he spotted an ornate phonograph whose perfectly polished pavilion cast a gold hue on the nearby bookshelf. He raised the receiving end of an old wooden telephone to his mouth. “Hello?” he asked.
On a high shelf, nearly out of view, a small wooden mannequin cocked its head sideways, standing with one hand pressed against the reflective side of a large cosmetic mirror. The wooden man was completely still, fascinated by his own reflection and destined to seek meaning there until a passing admirer might set him free from that endless gaze. The interest Tom found in these things wasn’t just their history or their intended use. It was the possibility of coming face to face with something divine, something that had been lost to the world. He noticed Gwen admiring a detailed Tiffany lamp, which struck him as familiar for some reason. Their eyes met from across the room, and they held each other’s gaze for a long moment before returning to browsing. As Tom moved forward, his eyes came to rest on a large antique globe. He allowed his fingers to brush over the continent of South America, feeling the mighty, sunbaked Andes breaking through the earth’s crust and pushing into the sky. His eyes moved to an elaborate French table. Sitting at its center was the most delicious orrery he’d ever seen. He gently cranked the handle and watched the intricate network of gears and spindles conjure a perfect balance of gravity and momentum, causing each of the planets to begin an orbital dance around the sun.
Just as Jupiter passed Mars, he noticed the Tesla collection in the distance. He spotted several black-and-white photographs that had been enlarged and put on display next to various machine parts, devices, and components. They filled two card tables and a bookshelf decorated with Hindu markings. On the table near the window where he’d peered in, he saw a pile of glistening copper tubes. They appeared to be pieces from a larger device, but he couldn’t immediately detect their purpose or function. And even though these things were covered in the patina from a bygone era, each of them glimmered like lightning in his eyes. These were treasures, technology from another time. Innovations and ideas born of their day. Tom ran his hands across a black transformer and thought about the decades that had passed since it was created. He thought about its creator. He’d long since departed from this place, but his work remained.
“My name is Monty,” the proprietor said from across the store. “We’ve been here nearly thirty years now. If you have any questions, please don’t be shy.”
“I’m Tom, and this is my wife, Gwen.” Gwen smiled at Tom’s foolery.
“Did you see the ad in the paper?” Monty asked.
“No, we just saw your display and couldn’t resist,” Tom replied.
“Well, if you like Tesla, you might like the Edison Medal he was awarded.” Monty pointed to something in a black clamshell case.
The store’s front door opened, and a new customer began browsing nearby. The man wore sunglasses, but it wasn’t exactly bright in the shop. Tom glanced back toward Monty.
“Right there,” Monty said again.
Tom glanced over at a shiny medal emblazed with a man’s bust. Like a gigantic penny, it was nestled within a hard, square piece of leather with thick stitching, resting inside a black clamshell case. Tom lifted the case; it was heavier than it appeared. The lining was green fabric bearing a squiggly pattern of metallic lines that shimmered along with the medal as Tom raised the case into the sunbeam. He removed the coin from the case. It was simply stunning.
“That’s twenty-four carat gold, one of a kind,” Monty offered. “The whole lot came from an estate sale just a couple of days ago. The family had connections with a scientist named Alfred Lee Loomis. He ran a lab in Tuxedo Park, I think—worked with people like Einstein and Oppenheimer. Just set up the display yesterday.”
&
nbsp; Gwen moved into range of the conversation. She glanced at the medal but stayed silent. She sensed the exchange was going somewhere and didn’t want to interrupt.
“The Edison Medal was awarded to Tesla by the American Institute of Electrical Engineers around 1917. You’ve heard of George Westinghouse and the Westinghouse Electric Corporation?”
“Westinghouse, of course,” Tom replied.
“A lot of people don’t know this, but George Westinghouse and Nikola Tesla were more than partners—they were the best of friends. Tesla and Westinghouse changed the face of the world with Tesla’s method of delivering electricity, the alternating current transformer system—or AC, for the layman. And when Westinghouse owed Tesla millions of dollars for contracts they’d signed, Tesla just let it go. Tesla could have put Westinghouse in the poorhouse, but he tore up those contracts. Money was never important to Nikola Tesla. He was an idealist of the highest magnitude, a true pioneer. Anyway, George Westinghouse served on the award committee for the American Institute of Electrical Engineers, so who did you think he would nominate for the Edison Medal? Yes, sir.”
“Great story,” Tom replied.
Monty grinned. “The medal is one of a kind. My wife thought we could sell it to the Tesla museum in Belgrade. There was a man in here yesterday before we set up who is very interested. Some kind of collector, I guess, East Indian fella. Said he’d be back today, as a matter of fact.”
Tom grunted a little. “Um-hmm, interesting,” he said, trying to sound as cool as possible. But staying calm was proving tough. Tom felt a growing sense of excitement and connection with the medal. Having worked with patents and technology for twenty years, he idolized Nikola Tesla. And the story is incredible. He sensed that entering this shop and stumbling onto this piece of history could only be some sort of strange karmic coincidence. Then, all at once, Tom accepted a profound notion. I might have to open my wallet up a little today. Tom tried to keep his cards close to the vest, but he wanted the medal—and Monty saw it. As Monty watched Tom inspect the medal, he turned away so as not to tip his hand, too. “What are you asking?” Tom said without looking up.
Gwen shook her head and moved farther away. As she did, she noticed that the quiet man wearing sunglasses was also taking interest in the exchange. “Well, like I said, that’s one of a kind,” Monty continued. “I’d need seventy-five hundred to part ways.”
“That’s a little steep for me,” Tom replied, still staring at the medal. “I’d need to have an appraisal first, make some calls about it, and come back.” Tom placed the medal back into its case. He began to replace it on the shelf but stopped short, holding it in his hand.
Just fifteen feet away, Randall Evans stared through his sunglasses, sweating. Randall’s eyes locked onto the medal. If only the highway traffic hadn’t been so slow. If only I’d left a few minutes earlier. Put the goddamn medal down, you idiot. You don’t know what you’re doing. Randall wanted the medal; he wanted the entire Tesla lot. After all, it was his legacy.
Tom looked up and made eye contact with Randall. Randall held his gaze with an intensity Tom found disconcerting.
“Of course,” Monty replied. “And you should make those calls. I’m no expert on that particular flavor of artifact, so I’d expect nothing less from a serious buyer. But if you really want it, you may want to make those calls today. Maybe now.” Monty sauntered away but knew the fly was caught, and it was time to wrap him up. “Or you might be interested in this copy of Time instead. It’s got Tesla right on the front cover,” Monty added. “These are from 1931. I have a few copies, and I’m only asking fifty dollars apiece.”
Tom felt the weight of the medal in his hand and then spoke. “OK, then, I’ll make you an offer: sixty-five hundred.”
“It must be speaking to you,” Monty replied as he turned to claim the day’s first sale. “I can see you two are meant to be. Sold!”
The man wearing sunglasses turned away and hurried out the door and then ran across the street and hopped into a nondescript car waiting at the curb.
“Looks like someone was in a hurry,” Monty observed.
Monty was writing up the sale when Gwen noticed a rack of fine pens at the front counter. “Oh, this one is beautiful. It’s a Montegrappa,” she remarked as she removed the cap and placed it gently on the tail. Then she wrote her name meticulously on the sample paper. Her penmanship was exquisite, graceful, and artistic. “This is so smooth. Try it, Tom.”
Tom took the pen and scribbled his name under hers. “Pretty smooth. Would you like to have it?” he asked.
Gwen eyed the pen again. “No, but thank you.”
Monty ran Tom’s American Express card while Gwen stared with seeming disapproval at his scribbled signature below her own.
Monty handed the card back to him along with a bag and a receipt. “Thank you for stopping in, folks. Have a lovely Saturday.”
CHAPTER 13
THE CROSS HAIRS moved onto a red pinwheel stuck inside a planter at the side of Monty’s Oddities. The wind spun the pinwheel around while the shooter focused. The cross hairs scanned the area again until coming to rest on the front door of Monty’s shop. Randall would wait patiently for the door to open before squeezing. The man and woman who had bought the medal stepped out of Monty’s and began strolling up the street, and the rapid-fire sound of the SLR camera motor spun away. It was of little use, though. They were walking away, and without a face shot, Randall couldn’t run them through NGI—Next Generation Identification. Randall followed his targets, waiting for them to enter one of the parked cars along the side of the street. They continued walking, however, eventually crossing the street and entering the cafe. No face shot, no car, no license plate. Peachy! As he placed the camera on the passenger seat and got ready to go back inside and purchase the rest of Lemily’s lot, a black SUV drove up and parked directly in front of the shop.
Monty was still licking his chops when the front door opened again. He immediately recognized the man entering as the Indian man from the day before. He was joined by two other men, also East Indian. All three men wore what Monty recognized as traditional sherwanis, embroidered with a pattern of bright reds and golds. Monty offered his friendliest greeting, but the men ignored him and made a beeline for the Tesla display. They spoke to one another excitedly, and although Monty listened, he couldn’t make out the words. He moved closer, slowly, but was careful to keep his distance. He’d been doing this a long time and understood that the art of the sale was a science of closing distances, both physical and imagined. He watched the men point and speak among themselves and waited for a break in their banter.
“Hello again. It looks like you’re back with reinforcements,” Monty said playfully.
Without making eye contact, he replied, “Indeed, as promised.”
Monty watched the man as he turned his attention to several copper spheres stacked inside the machine's protruding pipes. He then checked a slit at the top of the machine. Esha gestured with his fingers as the other two men listened intently. The smaller and more slender of the two pushed his hand into his jacket pocket and retrieved his phone and then began snapping shots of the devices.
“Can I help you with anything?” Monty asked as he stepped closer.
“We think we can salvage some of these items, and I would like to make an offer for the entire lot,” Esha said confidently.
It must be my lucky day, Monty thought. “I’m all ears,” he replied.
“I’ll make you one offer,” he said. “One offer of fifty thousand dollars, cash, for all of these parts and pieces.”
“Fifty thousand for the whole Tesla lot,” Monty said out loud, repeating it to himself in disbelief. If he’s willing to offer that on the first go-round, I’ll bet I can get him to sixty-five. “Well…”
Monty was cut off by Esha’s louder, more authoritative voice. “I don’t like negotiating, so please do not take my already-generous offer as naïveté.”
Monty stared at the item
s, thinking about what he had paid. It was about half that. He did the math and quickly calculated that when added to the sixty-five hundred he had gotten for the medal, the sale would make this a very good day.
“Sold. You have a deal, Mr.…”
The other two men had already begun collecting the photos and machine parts before Monty had even accepted. Their leader turned toward Monty and retrieved a thick roll of thousand-dollar bills from his jacket pocket. His fingers mimicked the efficiency of a counting machine as he flipped through the stack and counted off fifty bills. Smiling, Monty stepped forward to collect. As he approached, the larger of the two helpers grumbled something in Hindi and gestured.
“Wait,” Esha said. “The medal and its case. Where is the Edison Medal that was here yesterday?”
All three of the Indian men scanned the tables and shelves. After searching for a few moments, their eyes settled on Monty. Esha retracted the cash.
“Yesterday there was a gold medal. It was set inside a black case with green fabric. This is a crucial piece—where is it?”
Monty’s eyes were still fixed on the stack of cash, but he managed to push out some words. “A man came in just a few minutes before you arrived. He bought the medal.”
Disbelief washed over Esha’s face, but Monty scurried to save the deal. “What I’d be willing to do is discount the sale proportionally based on—”
“I told you yesterday I’d be coming back today. I told you I was interested in the whole lot. The whole lot, I said.”