A Fool's Journey

by Judy Penz Sheluk

  “I’d like to see one of those. Do you have anything with vintage flash?”

  “Vintage? How vintage? We have a few pages from the 1950s through to the ’80s. Nothing older than that.”

  Given that I was born in 1980, I didn’t like to think of the 1980s as vintage. “I’d say from the 1950s or ’60s.”

  Tash located a couple of binders and brought them over to me. “Have at it.”

  I started with a binder labeled “1950s.” There were pages of horseshoes, anchors, roses, mermaids, and apple-cheeked cherubic women. What struck me most was the innocence of the art; even the snakes and dragons were reminiscent of classic cartoons. I was still flipping through the pages when Sam slipped into the reception area. I took in the black leotards, denim skirt, combat boots, and Metallica T-shirt and felt an irrational flush of envy, knowing I could never carry off that look, even if I’d wanted to. Which, I reminded myself, I didn’t.

  Sam thanked her client, letting Tash take care of the payment, and motioned for me to go back to her work area.

  “I didn’t expect to see you again,” she said. “Certainly not quite this soon. I take it from your sudden interest in vintage flash that you learned about the ones Brandon purchased from Dave. I wondered if you’d find out about that.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Sam shrugged. “I figured if you were a decent investigator, you’d find out. If you weren’t a decent investigator, you didn’t deserve to know.”

  “And just how did you think I’d find out? Through a tarot reading?” I wanted to bite the words back as soon as I said them, but it was too late.

  “No need to get snippy,” Sam said, though she seemed unperturbed. “The newspaper article said he took his clothes, laptop, and toiletries with him. Nothing about a binder filled with sketches, which, I’m sure, would have been mentioned, right? So I assumed he left it behind, along with his ID. His folks would have mentioned it when you interviewed them, right? Showed you the things he left behind.”

  “No one has shown me anything, yet.” Including his ID, I thought, making a mental note to ask Lorna if she still had it. “And, no, he didn’t leave it behind.” I filled Sam in on my conversation with Jeanine, careful not to leave anything out.

  “Sheesh. Flesh art,” Sam said, when I’d finished. “The poor kid, thinking that about her brother all these years.”

  Sheesh? Not the language, or the response, I’d been expecting from this heavily tattooed, combat-boot-wearing woman. I dialed back my preconceived notions yet again. No matter how hard you try, sometimes you take on a bit of your parents, in this case, my father, who had a tendency to judge on appearance. I smiled at the thought. Was he, a year plus after his death, finally becoming less “perfect” and more “mere mortal”?

  “The point is,” I said, getting my thoughts back on track, “Brandon must have taken the sketches with him. If we can post something about them, it might resonate with him or with someone who knew or knows him. Can you remember anything about the ones he purchased?”

  Sam nodded, albeit with reluctance. “I have some of the artist’s vintage flash. He specialized in tarot and astronomy, but his main focus was tarot. Dave purchased a couple dozen sketches to help the guy out, and when Brandon expressed an interest in some of them, he was only too happy to recoup his investment and make a small profit. If I remember correctly, Brandon paid a hundred dollars for eight designs.”

  I did some mental math. Twelve-fifty a piece. It didn’t seem like much. “What would they be worth today?”

  “Hard to say, values vary on how well the artist is known and the complexity of the art, but they’d be still worth considerably more than what Dave or Brandon paid. Vintage flash is collectible, especially since Jonathan Shaw’s book, Vintage Tattoo Flash, came out in 2016. It represents roughly seventy-five years of American tattooing from the Bowery to Texas to Los Angeles. His collection is quite remarkable.”

  “Jonathan Shaw. I’m not familiar with the name.”

  “Shaw was a renegade with a history of heroin addiction. In 1987, he cleaned up his act and opened the first storefront tattoo parlor in New York City, back when tattooing was illegal. He’d be in his sixties now. Last I read he split his time between New York, Los Angeles, and Rio de Janeiro, with Brazil being his residence of choice.”

  “Tattoos were illegal?”

  “Having a tattoo wasn’t illegal, but in 1961, after a Hepatitis B outbreak, New York’s five boroughs banned tattooing. It wasn’t legalized until 1997. I have Shaw’s book at home, if you’d like me to bring it in sometime.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I think it would be more helpful to see the vintage flash from the artist that Brandon liked. Do you mind if I take a look at it?”

  “I suppose that would be okay.” Sam slipped a key from her back pocket and unlocked a drawer in a steel cabinet, pulling out a black binder with a cardboard compass pasted on the cover. She handed it to me, the gesture tentative, and I thought about my journal books, and how reluctant I would be to share them.

  “Thank you.” I opened the binder carefully and slowly thumbed my way through a dozen pages, each one filled with vibrantly colored designs and stylized elements from tarot’s Minor Arcana, with multiple swords, wands, pentacles, and cups in various sizes, and three sketches from the Major Arcana: The Magician, The Hanged Man, and The World.

  “I’m no expert, but to my eye, these are really exceptional,” I said. “When would they have been drawn?”

  “The artist was active from the mid 1950s, though I believe his fascination with tarot intensified with age.”

  “Do you mind if I take some photos with my phone? One of our team members is quite knowledgeable about tarot. I’d like her to see these.”

  “You can take the binder with you, if you think it will help. Just return it when it’s told you all it can.”

  It was a generous offer, and not one that I might have made in the same circumstance. “Thank you for trusting me with it.”

  Sam shrugged. “I figure I owe you for holding out the first time.”

  “You had your reasons,” I said. “The artist, who was he?”

  “Nestor Sanchez. No relation to the famous salsa musician, Argentinian actor, or author. On the off-chance you made that connection.”

  I hadn’t, mostly because I’d never heard of any of them. I was about to ask if she and Nestor were related when Sam continued.

  “He was an itinerant tattoo artist with a snot-nosed grandkid he dragged along on his travels after the snot-nosed grandkid’s parents were killed in a car accident when she was five.”

  “And you are…?” I asked, suspecting the answer.

  “The snot-nosed grandkid, all grown up,” Sam said, smiling wide enough to reveal a glint of diamond sparkle. She brushed her hand against the tat on her scalp, the one that spelled Sanchez, and for the first time I took a moment to read the name written on the side of her left palm: Nestor.

  “Is your grandfather still alive?”

  “He’d be ninety if he was. When we arrived Marketville, I wanted to set down roots. We’d been traveling from town to town for the better part of twelve years, a different school every semester, sometimes more than one. Nestor tried to settle down, he really did, but it just couldn’t stick. He left right after New Year’s Day 2000, knowing Dave would look after me. There were postcards once in a while, for the first few years.”

  “Do you have the postcards?”

  “Of course. Why? Isn’t the flash art enough?”

  “To help with Brandon’s disappearance? Yes. To help with your grandfather’s…” I allowed the words trail off.

  “Are you saying you can find out if Nestor is dead or alive?”

  “I’m saying that I’m willing to try.”

  Sam shook her head. “Thanks for the offer, but sometimes it’s better not to know.”

  I thought back to my own experience of looking for my mother. The woman had a point.
r />   21

  Despite Sam’s reluctance to share the postcards, I emailed Shirley as soon as I got home asking her to add the name Nestor Sanchez to her search for obituaries. I then took photos of each individual tattoo in the binder, cropped them to uniform size, and created a digital photo album on my computer. It was slow, tedious work, but I knew I couldn’t keep the binder indefinitely. Finally, I composed an email to Misty, copying Chantelle and Shirley, and attached the photos.

  Misty, these sketches are tattoo flash, which is the term used for the art form. Brandon Colbeck purchased six originals the week before he left home. All evidence points to him taking them with him. Can you go through these and tell me what, if anything, you make of them, and how we might be able to use them on the website? Thanks, Callie

  I read it over, hit send, and called Arabella Carpenter. The call was picked up on the first ring.

  “Glass Dolphin, Emily speaking. How may I help you?”

  Emily Garland was Arabella’s business partner. “Emily, it’s Callie Barnstable. Is Arabella available?”

  “She’s with a customer right now, Callie. Is it urgent?”

  “No, nothing that can’t wait. Have her call me when she gets a minute.”

  I hung up, feeling frustrated. Patience may be a virtue, but it wasn’t one of mine. I wiled away the time adding notes of today’s meetings with Jeanine and Sam into my journal, then set about trying to decide what to eat. I was still debating my options when the phone rang. I positively leapt at it.

  “Callie, what’s up?” Arabella sounded concerned. “Emily said to call you as soon as possible.”

  I laughed. “Actually I said when you get a minute, but now’s good. It’s about a case I’m working on.”

  “You have another case already? Wow, that’s great. Where do I fit in?”

  “I have a sketchbook of tattoo flash drawn by an itinerant artist by the name of Nester Sanchez. Some of the drawings date back to the 1950s. I was hoping you’d take a look at it.”

  “Vintage tattoo flash isn’t exactly a specialty of mine. I’ve heard of Norman Collins, a.k.a. Sailor Jerry, but that’s pretty much where my knowledge ends.”

  “Thanks, anyway.” I tried to keep the disappointment out of my voice and knew I wasn’t entirely successful.

  “There is a short video clip on the PBS Antiques Roadshow website from 2016, give me a sec.” I could hear the sound of her fingers clicking on the keyboard. “Found it. It’s with appraiser Bruce Shackelford in Corpus Christi, Texas. He even shows some of Sailor Jerry’s work. I’ll send you the link. It’s not much, but it might help.”

  “I’d love to see the video. Unfortunately, I don’t think it will shed any light on Nestor Sanchez or his sketchbook.”

  “But Levon has, or had, a modest collection,” Arabella said, and my spirits lifted. “Why don’t you bring the sketchbook by tomorrow afternoon? The shop closes at three on Sundays and I’ll ask Levon to join us if he’s available. We can grab dinner at The Hanged Man’s Noose afterwards.”

  Levon was Levon Larroquette, Arabella’s ex-husband, an antiques picker who still held the key to Arabella’s heart, and I was pretty sure the reverse was true. In fact, I suspected they would eventually reconcile. Some people are just meant to be together. The Hanged Man’s Noose was a pub with decent food and reasonable prices, owned by Arabella’s friend, Betsy Ehrlich. If nothing else, it would be nice to see them again.

  “That sounds great. See you tomorrow at three.”

  I hung up, feeling the first surge of optimism. Then I changed into my running gear and hit the trail behind Edward Street. It had been too long.

  22

  I skipped coffee after Sunday morning run club, eager to transcribe my journal notes on my computer. I thought of the journal entries in the same way an author might think about writing a novel: the handwritten notes were the first draft, the transcription the second draft, with the third and final draft edited for clarity and ready to be attached to the final report.

  Satisfied with the job done, I checked to find a “Will add Nestor Sanchez” email from Shirley and a “Working on the flash,” text from Misty. I’d start the family tree this week. A light lunch of poached eggs on toast to save room and calories for a meal at The Hanged Man’s Noose later, and I was ready to make the thirty-minute drive to Lount’s Landing.

  I took the scenic route, or at least the route that had once been scenic. Since my last visit to the Glass Dolphin, an entire forest had been razed to the ground, leaving nothing but dirt and a few rocks yet to be removed. An enormous billboard announced “Woodland Meadows Phase I: Coming Soon,” the developer clearly missing the irony of the bulldozed trees. Another sign boasted, “Towns, semis, and detached family homes on 30-foot and extra wide 40-foot lots” and I had to laugh. At what point did forty-foot lots become extra wide?

  The subdivision was less than ten minutes from Lount’s Landing, and I was reminded of the developer who’d come to the small, historic town in 2015 with plans to build a mega box store. Arabella’s business partner, Emily, then a reporter, had come to town at the same time, and soon found plenty to report on. I wondered how long it would be before Lount’s Landing could no longer stave off development and suspected the time was coming sooner rather than later. Hopefully this time the outcome wouldn’t result in murder.

  I arrived at the parking lot behind the shop at the same time as a large black pickup truck. Levon hopped out, a lopsided smile lighting up eyes the color of denim. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the attraction Arabella felt for her ex, though I couldn’t help but notice the first strands of gray weaving their way through his signature shaggy brown hair. We were definitely all getting older. Wiser, maybe not so much. I grabbed my briefcase from the trunk of my car and sidled up alongside him.

  “Hey, Callie. It’s been too long,” Levon said, giving me a quick one-armed hug.

  “It has indeed. Thanks for making the time.”

  “Arabella was vague about what you were looking for. She mentioned tattoo flash, but nothing specific. I hope I can help.”

  We made our way to the shop, Arabella waiting by the door to let us in. Walking into the Glass Dolphin was like stepping back in time, It should have looked cluttered, but it looked cozy, wide pine plank floors, wooden desks, chairs, and bookcases, walls lined with antique clocks, vintage posters, embroidered samplers, and old maps; every shelf, nook, and cranny crammed full of dishes, duck decoys, and decorative objects, everything from paperweights to perfume bottles.

  “This is new,” I said, pointing to a rack of quilts and a corner hutch filled with contemporary pottery, burl fruit bowls, silk scarves, and silver jewelry.

  “New since the last time you were here. I never dreamed I’d sell anything that didn’t have age to it, but after meeting an antiques dealer in Thornbury, I decided to promote local artisans. With the exception of the quilts, everything in that corner is on consignment. Emily handles all the details and it’s been well enough received that we’re considering taking on another couple of vendors. But you’re not here to talk about our attempts to keep the lights on. Let’s grab a seat at the appraisal table at the back of the shop.”

  The appraisal table reminded me a lot of my own multipurpose table. In addition to a computer and printer, there was a mason jar filled with various writing implements, a magnifying glass, and a jeweler’s loupe. Behind the table, a bookshelf was filled with old auction catalogues and reference books of every conceivable size and color, filed not by author name, but by type: Clocks, Depression Glass, Paperweights, and so on.

  “I see you still have your reference books. Google not good enough for you?” Levon knew I was teasing and grinned, but when it came to antiques, Arabella could be short on humor. She turned around and selected a thin paperback titled the Bulletin, 1978.

  “This was published by the National Association of Watch and Clock Collectors. When I first opened the store, a man came in with a Sessions Regulator ‘E’ clo
ck made in Forestville, Connecticut, what collectors would call a square regulator. They aren’t particularly rare, or valuable, but what made my appraisal special is that the clock is pictured in this issue of the Bulletin. So I was able to provide him with the exact cost of his clock when it was made.” She flipped to the page. “See? The article says these clocks were produced between 1903 and 1908, with a retail price of $7.35 as a timepiece and $8.30 as a striker in 1915. A calendar attachment was forty-five cents extra for either model. That’s the sort of thing you don’t find on the internet.”

  “Point made and taken,” I said. “I don’t suppose you have anything on tattoo flash?”

  “Sadly, I don’t. Until you called, I hadn’t even considered selling flash, but Levon tells me it’s the kind of thing that attracts younger buyers.”

  Levon nodded. “I’ve built up a small personal collection, mostly vintage stuff, but a few by contemporary artists. When I started collecting I was in a small minority. But flash art now gets top dollar. At the July 2018 Ripley Auctions in Indianapolis there were six original tattoo flash art sheets attributed to Charlie Wagner and Sam O’Reilly which sold for more than forty-thousand dollars.”

  “I have no idea who they are,” I admitted, “but that’s a lot of money.”

  Levon warmed to his subject. “Sam O’Reilly learned tattooing in the Navy, patented the first tattooing machine in 1891, practiced in the Bowery in New York City. Charlie Wagner apprenticed with O’Reilly, patented his own tattoo machine in 1904, sold his machines and his own brand of ink. He died in 1953, but was a tattoo artist for fifty years. But it’s the backstory that’s a picker’s dream.”

  “Do tell,” I said, leaning forward. The man could spin a story.

  “The sheets were found by an antiques collector in the bottom of a trunk in the attic of an eighty-four-year-old career Marine Corps officer. The collector paid $10 for it.”