Three strikes (picker mysteries)

by Scott Soloff

  Three strikes

  ( Picker mysteries )

  Scott Soloff

  Scott Soloff

  Three strikes

  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 amp; 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 W
op. 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."

  Ball one

  "Tell me what happened."

  Penelope Kelly Anne Lane is my long time girlfriend. Going on seven years. We're not engaged or married. Point in fact, we don't live together. She has a loft in town; on the river. My domicile is a carriage house on a twenty acre estate in the burbs. With all that said, Kelly is the woman to whom I am committed.

  "I drove straight to Amy's after she called."

  Kelly is relatively tall. Five eight or nine. She has long red hair and freckles splatter her nose and cheeks. Quite beautiful, really. Don't know why she stays with me. Perhaps it's my rugged good looks. Light brown hair; brown eyes; lanky build; my great posture? Who the hell knows? Oh, by the way, whatever you do, do not call her Penny Lane. She prefers Kelly.

  I continued, "Two days ago Hari did a cleanout in Chestnut Hill. From what Amy said, it was the dregs of an estate. The entire house was empty except for the kitchen, pantry, basement and an extra large garage. Hari told Amy that even the left over’s were worth about ten g's, possibly more."

  We were having lunch at La Fourno on South Street between 6th and 7th Streets. It is one of Philly's better kept secrets. Kelly had the Eggplant Parmesan; exquisite. Mine was Vegetarian Lasagna with a side of fresh sauteed spinach. We shared a 2006 Corvo, a white, medium bodied wine. It tasted a little like tangy citrus along with fresh apple.

  "Well, Hari talked with the lawyer handling the estate. Yes, go ahead and take the safe. No, we don't have the combination. Damn thing must have weighed four hundred pounds. It took Bigfoot, his two guys and some landscaping guy to load it onto the van. Amy showed it to me. It's sitting in their workshop with the door open."

  Kelly cracked a smile. "How did they get it open, tough guy?" She's been calling me 'tough guy' ever since our recent escapade involving international hit men; local, state, federal and international cops; and the sale of a forged Vermeer for a little over $260 million. Probably because we managed to come away from the whole incident relatively unscathed.

  "He called Punk." Punk is a sixteen year old street urchin who has gravitated to the antique's trade. In a nutshell, he steals, lies, cheats and runs scams in general. Reminds me a little of myself at that age. Good kid, I like him.

  "Punk cracks the thing in about two minutes. H gives him a Franklin for his troubles. Amy said that there was a cigar box with a bunch of very old baseball cards."

  "When did this happen?"

  "Yesterday. In the morning. She said that Hari took the cigar box and headed down to South Philly to see this guy with the sport's shop. He came home; said he left a few of the cards with the memorabilia guy and they went to see the twelve noon showing of 'Green Lantern' down on Delaware Avenue. Amy said that Hari didn't go to the market because it was raining."

  "What else?" All of these questions were good. It helped organize my thoughts.

  "This was funny. Hari really enjoyed the movie. He's like a big kid. They stopped at the T-shirt store at 3rd and South on the way home. Bought a Green Lantern shirt. Put it on right then and there. She said that he looked as happy as a pig in shit.

  "They returned to the shop. Hari spent the rest of the day restoring some chairs that came out of the Chestnut Hill deal. Tended to customers when they came in; didn't go out the rest of the day.

  "So, let me guess." 'Don't call me Penny Lane' is really getting into this. I can see the wheels spinning. "You think that there may be a correlation between the baseball cards and Bigfoot's demise."

  "It's possible."

  "And you don't think that's a stretch."

  "Of course it is. But one has to begin somewhere, don't you think?"

  "Here's the sixty-four thousand dollar question. Who knew about the baseball cards?"

  "Let's see. There's Hari's crew; Rebel and Chucky Cheese. Punk, of course. Danny Boy, who heard it from Rebel. Possibly someone connected with the estate. And then, there's the sports memorabilia guy over on South Broad Street. What's his name? Oh yeah, Leon Burger."

  "What's your next move, big boy?" You know, now that I think about it, Kelly doesn't use my name. I wonder why that is.

  "Guess I'll start with Burger. Head over there after lunch. How about you?"

  "Going to the museum and work on that Van Gogh exhibit. See you back at your place later."

  Miss Lane is a consulting curator. Various institutions hire her to arrange shows revolving around specific themes or artists. It is Kelly's job to deal with logistics; contact the owners; arrange for terms and shipping; handle the insurance; the promotion. In short, whatever is necessary to move from inception to completion on any given job.

  We ordered some cappuccino and split a cannoli. Said our goodbyes and went on our way.

  I headed down Broad Street near the stadium. Found a legal parking spot in front of Burger's Sports Emporium. Kato jumped from the car and followed me inside.

  "Is he friendly?" asked the short man behind the counter. Perhaps five-foot six. What he lacked in height was more than made up in muscle. Arms like Popeye. Large gut but solid. Bald on top with graying black hair on the sides. My guess would be former dock worker.

  "No. Mr. Burger, I presume." I knew Leon Burger by reputation only. Personally, we had never met or done business.

  "Yes, yes. I'm Burger. How can I help you Mister…"

  "Picker, no mister. I believe that my friend Hari Henderson was in to see you yesterday."

  "Yes, yes.
Nice boy, Hari. Been doing business with for some time now. Yes, yes. Sold me some cards. Very nice, very nice."

  "Forgive me for asking, it's really none of my business. What cards, exactly?"

  "No problem, no problem. Here, let me show you." The little man turned around; kneeled down next to an ancient floor safe and spun the dial. Swung open the thick black door; reached inside and extracted a metal box. Placed it on the counter. "Here we go, here we go." The repetition was getting old fast. Burger removed a half dozen baseball cards; spread them on the counter.

  This is what I saw: vintage baseball cards with names, stats and photos of Mickey Mantle, Shoeless Joe Jackson, Ty Cobb, Lou Gehrig, Babe Ruth and Jackie Robinson.

  "Mr. Burger, if I may ask, what are these worth?"

  "Well, well, Mr. Picker. These players, if they were the right edition and manufacturer would top a million easily. But, but, they're not. Doesn't mean they're not valuable though. A quick sale would be maybe $20,000.00. If I held onto them, perhaps $30,000, maybe a little more, maybe."

  "And the deal that you struck with Hari?"

  "Forgive me, Mr. Picker, Mr. Picker. Would you be kind enough to tell me what this is about."

  "Sure, we'll get to that in a minute. What was the deal?"

  "No problem, no problem. Hari comes in, see. Gives me this cigar box. Tells me to go through it. He walks around the store and looks at the comic books over there. Comes back over here and puts three or four comics on the counter. Green Lantern. I remember because he's wearing that stupid shirt. Full grown man wearing super hero t-shirts. Who would think, think?"

  "And…"

  "Oh yeah, oh yeah. Sorry. I offered him twelve grand. He wants fifteen. I think about it. Okay, I give him the fifteen. Threw in the comics. Now, now, please tell me. What's this all about?"

  "Hari's dead."

  Leon Burger stood absolutely still for what must have amounted to a full minute. No shock, no surprise, no nothing. A blank face. Then he said, "How?"

  "Murdered. Mr. Burger, I want to thank you for your time. You have been very helpful."