Three Strikes (A Picker Mystery)

by Scott Soloff

  "That's a different matter altogether. The taller one, unfortunately, has a broken wrist. My guess is that he'll require corrective surgery. I apologize for the inconvenience." Pretty funny, huh?

  For the most fleeting of moments Carmine gives me the bent eye. It passes so quickly one may imagine that it didn't occur at all. I know better. But even in his world, Carmine concedes that I hold the moral high ground. Did I say moral?

  "I'll take care of any medical expenses. Mr. Picker, I want to thank you for dropping by. To be honest, I always enjoy our little chats. And, I like you. You are my friend. If you ever need my assistance, for anything, please feel free to call upon me."

  I was being dismissed. Uncle Carmine handed me a business sized card. It contained a hand written phone number only. "My personal number Mr. Picker."

  "Thank you Mr. Santucci."

  "Please, call me Uncle Carmine."

  Time out

  It was almost three months to the day that Kato adopted me.

  The following is what happened.

  Another beautiful morning at the flea market. Looking for something to buy and perhaps turn around for a small profit. Walking up one row; back down another; scanning the tables and occasionally stopping to examine something up close.

  Googie Great Horse, some sort of American Indian descendent, is set up at a corner table. Now, if you have never been to an outdoor market, then allow me to briefly fill you in on the set up.

  Most fleas, but not all, have the dealer park his or her car, pick-up, van or even truck behind their table or tables. The tables are positioned in a long straight row, back to back. So, if you can picture this, when you set up you'll will have a dealer on your right, one on the left and several to your back.

  If you think that this is a little chaotic, you would be correct. Pulling-in in the morning is a major headache. Leaving when you’re finished can be an absolute nightmare.

  Back to my story. Googie is set-up on the corner meaning that no dealer is on his right. His tables, he rented two, are catty-corner to one of the co-op buildings. On the back of his pick-up truck is a crate with half a dozen German Shepherd puppies.

  "Good morning, Googie. How's business?"

  "Hey, Pick. Good, man. Really good. See anything that you can't live without?"

  "Not yet. What's with the dogs?"

  Picture this: Very early morning, the sun's not quite all the way up. Hundreds of dealers, both men and women, are walking about hunting for the next great treasure. What's garnering the most attention? Dogs! Six German Shepherd puppies.

  "My Angel had some pups. Gotta sell them. My old lady won't let me keep 'em. Hey, maybe you'd like one P. What do ya say?"

  I step over to the back of the truck and poke my fingers into the cage. One of them, a monster black and tan, begins to lick my fingers. "I'm not in the market. Out of curiosity, how much?"

  "A grand."

  "Like I said, not in the market." I’m looking at this one pup, I can't believe how big he is. Maybe forty pounds. "Googie, how old are these puppies?"

  "Six weeks. That one, the monster licking you, he's forty, forty-five pounds." Just as I thought.

  "Do me a favor. Let him out, I want to take a closer look."

  My Uncle Moe pops up out of nowhere. "Don't be doing it laddie. That beast gets out of there and it'll be all over."

  The old man doesn't know anything. I ignore him. Googie opens the door, wrestles with these hyper active creatures but manages to pull out the monster. The six week old bundle of energy leaps from the tailgate; dashes over to me and jumps up. He presses his front paws into my chest.

  This is where it gets interesting. Very quietly I say, "No." Down he jumps; sits and looks up at me expectantly. "Googie, we're going for a walk. Right back."

  "No problem, P."

  "Come." That's all I say. Go strolling through the market. Dog stays at my left side, quietly, never running off, no barking, nothing. Is that even possible?

  Together we circle the entire market. When we return Googie asks, "Well?"

  "I'll think on it. Let you know tomorrow. Don't sell him to anyone. Okay?"

  "No problem, Pick. For you buddy, anything."

  At the restaurant I grab a slice of cherry pie and a mug of coffee. Uncle Moe joins me. "Well, laddie, it looks as though you have a new friend."

  "No Uncle. I didn't buy him. Got to think about it."

  "Silly, boy. Trust me, it's a done deal."

  I walk up the hill to where the Morgan is parked. Sitting in the front seat, with his mouth slightly open and tongue showing is the monster. How did he know which car?

  "Come." And he does. We walk back to Googie's table. "What's going on G? I found this beast in my car."

  "Not my fault dude. Couple of minutes after you left he takes off like a bat out of hell."

  I close my eyes, shake my head and take a moment to think. "TJ will drop off the money in the morning. Come monster."

  And that, as they say, was that.

  Ball three

  "It's yours for ten thousand, P."

  Kato and I had arrived at the converted synagogue a few minutes before two o'clock. Antiquarian's Delight is located on S. 6th Street between South and Bainbridge. No sign of Chucky.

  "That's a fair price Crystal, but too rich for my blood."

  Crystal Ball, yes, that's her real name, was selling a woven wool rug with a linear border design. It included squares, ovals and rectangles. The colors were dark blues and tans; this collection of shapes framing a large circle in the middle on a gray ground. 8' x 11'5", made about 1905, possibly by Otto Prutcher. My best guess, fifteen or sixteen thousand, high retail.

  Hint: The secret to success in the antiques game is (a) buying at the right price and (b) having a list of buyers lined up. The second one takes time, however, once accomplished assures that you can always turn a quick profit.

  She looked me up and down, glanced at my dog and asked, "What do you have in mind?"

  I have to confess. This carpet was very cool. Part of the Wiener Werkstatte or in English, the Vienna Workshops. This was a byproduct of the Vienna Secession movement; which in turn was a cousin to both the Art Nouveau and Arts and Crafts movements. The studio was founded in 1903 by Josef Hoffmann and Koloman Moser. Their mission was to design one-of-a-kind high-quality pieces involving all aspects of the fine arts.

  Wiener Werkstatte pieces are very desirable and bring big bucks. "I'm more comfortable at seven."

  It was going on a quarter past and still no sign. "Kato, find Chuck." Do not ask me how he does it because I have no idea. Any time I give that command; doesn't matter whether he has met that person or not, Kato always brings them back.

  "Seven-five and you've got yourself a deal."

  She stood on her toes and pecked my cheek. Back in the day; BK, we used to see each other occasionally.

  "TJ will pick it up in the morning. Thanks, Crystal."

  Where was that dog? A few minutes later he comes trotting up the stairs from the basement. He's alone. He lets out a moderate yelp. Turns and heads back down the steps. I follow. This cannot be good.

  Not all of the spaces in the basement have been rented to dealers. The booth in the back, on the right, is piled with stock. It must be the overflow from dealers that lack space in their own spots. At the very rear sits a black leather sofa nearly pushed up against the wall.

  Kato jumps onto the furniture and peers into the area between it and the wall. One quick yelp. I step up and look for myself.

  "Oh shit." Residing in that crack is the body formerly know as Chucky. I grab a flash light from the shelf; take a closer look.

  "No blood." I'm talking out loud to a dog. In my defense, he appears to understand every word. "Bruise marks on the throat. Strangled."

  Crystal comes running down the stairs. "Call 911,” I bark. I turn and head up the stairs.

  "Picker, where the hell are you going?"

  "I was never here."

  Back a
t the car I grab a cigar from the glove box; clamp it between my teeth and hit the road. No need to be tied up with the cops. I need to think. My gears are turning; there's something crucial there, in the back of my mind. The frustrating aspect is that I can't put my finger on it.

  "Thomas Jefferson, one of Bigfoot's guys is dead. Murdered." I was calling TJ from the car. Kato had his head out the window enjoying the scenery. "Find the other one, Rebel. Bring him back to my place."

  "Yes sur, Mr. Picker, sur" It was his way of telling me I was an asshole. Most of the time, with his Harvard degree, TJ speaks sounds very much like a New England Brahmin.

  I ignored the jibe. "If it's not too much trouble, get Jaw-long for back-up. It would be really nice to keep this one intact." Jaw is TJ's friend and Tai-Chi buddy. Practically every morning at dawn can find them performing this ancient Chinese exercise routine outdoors with dozens if not hundreds of Chinatown residents. I disconnected the call and headed back to my place.

  A half hour later Kato and I arrive back at my place. I live in a converted carriage house on a twenty acre estate. The second floor has been knocked out creating twenty foot ceilings. Walk in the front door, the living area is on the left, dining and kitchen in the center and bedrooms to the right. Original hardwood floors, an updated kitchen and two working fireplaces.

  Up the driveway around seventy-five yards you'll find the original stables. Nathan Burke; software and gaming magnate; owner of the property; and my second oldest friend converted them into a workshop and storage area for my antiques business. Picker Antiques, that's me.

  When I pulled the car up to the door, Kato hopped out and began to spin in circles. I quickly deduced that someone was in the house, but not an enemy. I stepped inside.

  Sonofabitch. Sitting with his feet on my desk; smoking one of my cigars is my brother. Half brother if you must know. Connor Jones.

  Same Dad, different Mums. He stands, walks over with saying a word and gives me a bear hug. Steps back and gives me the once over.

  "How you doin' brother. God, you look good. Where's that beautiful woman of yours? I'm hungry, can I take you both out to dinner?"

  He's more or less my height and weight. Older by a couple of years. Like me, his eyes are brown. His hair, however, is dark, almost black. Lanky build, but a wee bit broader in the chest and shoulders. Head is square-ish and his nose better sculpted than mine. Women consider him handsome.

  "Good, thanks, not here and yes, when I track Kelly down."

  "Whhhat?"

  "I doing well; thanks, I feel great; I don't know where Kelly is at the moment; and finally yes, we'll be happy to join you for dinner. My turn. I'm very happy to see you, but what are you doing here? Why didn't you call?"

  Connor Jones is a con man extraordinaire. A Robin Hood complex. Steals from the rich and gives to the poor, literally. He once told me that he only steals from godless people. When a job is complete he pays his expenses, keeps ten percent for himself and distributes the rest to those in need.

  Pretty cool, huh?

  "I'm here to enlist your aid. Involved in a little job back home. Want you and the lovely Miss Lane to join me. All expense paid, obviously. What do you say? Oh, and I wanted to surprise you."

  I really like Connor. We're like brothers. I realize that sounds odd, but we didn't grow up together. His existence came as a complete surprise ten, close to eleven years ago. Since then we’ve forged an incredible bond. To the best of my knowledge, he is the only living family that I have.

  "I'll be glad to come. You'll have to ask Kelly if she can get away. Give me a couple of days. I have to straighten some things up here first."

  For the next twenty or thirty minutes I described the entire situation to Connor.

  "There's something missing here, P. Not enough money involved for one murder, let alone two. Find the missing link and you'll be very close to resolving this entire matter."

  Wouldn't you know, at that very moment TJ and Jaw show up towing Rebel along with them.

  Everyone settles in. I ask Rebel to fill me in on the events of the last few days.

  "No problemo, Mr. Picker. We do the clean out in Chestnut Hill. Took the trash to the dump. Got back to Mr. Hari's place and unloaded the stuff in the back. He sends for that kid, Punk to open the safe. The kid comes over and cracks that thing like it was a child's toy."

  "Rebel, who was in the room when Punk opened the safe."

  "Me, Mr. Hari and the kid, Punk. That's it."

  "Now, Rebel, think carefully. What did you find in the safe?"

  "There was a few hundred in cash. Some coins. Mr. Hari said they was valuable. Then he pulled out one of those metal fire boxes. It was locked. Mr. Hari popped it with a screwdriver."

  "Where was Punk?"

  "Oh. He was gone. Mr. Hari paid him and he left. Only me and Mr. Hari."

  "The metal box. What did you see?"

  "Mr. Hari pulled out a bunch of old baseball cards. He goes through them one at a time. Nodding his head and saying "This one is very good; Oh, this one is so cool; Shit, can you believe it, a Babe Ruth." Then he gets to this one card and says "Holy shit, I can't believe it."

  "Rebel, what was the holy shit card."

  "Gee, Mr. Picker, I don't know nothing about baseball cards. Mr. Hari said it was a Wagner something or a something Wagner. Honest Mr. Picker, I don't remember too good."

  Between 1909 and 1911 the American Tobacco Company inserted 2.5" x 1.5" baseball cards in their cigarette packs. I suspect that Bigfoot discovered a rare Honus Wagner. One of the best players of his time, Wagner is a Hall of Famer. His nickname was “The Flying Dutchman" and he spent most of his long twenty-one year career with the Pirates. He won eight batting titles and had a career batting average of 327. If this is the card in question it could fetch anywhere from $1 to $1.5 million dollars at auction. Maybe worth killing for?

  Connor piped up. "There's your missing piece Picker."

  What makes this card rare is that it was pulled from production after 200, give or take, were issued. Enthusiasts speculate that somewhere in the vicinity of sixty of the 1909 Wagner edition still exist. It is commonly believed that many of the remaining cards are in poor condition.

  "Rebel, thanks a bunch buddy. You've been very helpful. See me next week; I'll have something for you when this is all over." I turned to Jaw-lone. "Do me favor, take Rebel home." The two men got up and left.

  "I know what happened."

  I explained my thinking to my Connor and TJ. Both of them sat there nodding their heads in agreement. Neither of them was able to poke a hole in my theory. Finally, when all was said and done, I looked at them both and asked,

  "Who wants to go to work?"

  Ball 4 - Man on base

  The squad car drove slowly down the alley. The spot light roamed the walls and sidewalk. It settled on three men and three dogs. Two Rottweiler’s and a Shepherd.

  The officer observed Connor picking the lock to the back door. He shouted, "Hey you!"

  My brother handed me the picks and said, "I've got this."

  He took his time as he approached the cop. Connor offered his hand in an unthreatening manner. The cop, from ingrained habit, shook hands. I realize looking back that it's hard to believe, but you don't know Connor. Unbelievably charming; class wrapped in a five thousand dollar suit; it is not uncommon for ones' defenses to dissipate when he turns on the charm.

  Here's the hard part to believe: he introduces himself as Connor Jones. Actually uses his real name. My brother is either a criminal genius or certifiably insane. But get this. The cop introduces himself as well. James O’Donnell. “Call me Jimmy.”

  Connor reaches into his suit pocket and removes a white envelope. Hands it to the police officer. He says, "Officer, while it is true that we are breaking and entering, our intentions are neither to steal anything nor harm anyone." Suggestion: Imagine this being spoken with a posh British accent.

  I suppose that is technically correct. I mean, you're not
really stealing something if it has already been stolen. Are you?

  Connor spreads his coat and pirouettes for Jimmy. “No weapons Jimmy. No gloves to conceal our identities. What do you think?” Balls, real balls. The honest straightforward approach. Who would have thought?

  The officer peers into the envelope and sees five-thousand in brand new, crisp hundred dollar bills. "How long do you boys need?" We lucked out; thank God this guy is a veteran and not some idealistic rookie.