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Stealing With Style

Page 7

by Emyl Jenkins


  "I'm sure." I felt helpless to comfort him. "And so many of the figures lost, too. But you have a treasure trove. I'm close to speechless, Mr. Hobstein. You wouldn't know it, but that's saying a lot for me."

  "These, too, were almost among the lost," the old gentleman said, eagerly motioning toward the Art Deco figures grouped together across the room, "had it not been for my grandparents' earlier experience. Once again when the war came too close, the family hid those, too. The tunnel already was there. They fitted what they could into the space."

  "And your family?" I asked hesitantly.

  "Aimee was French, remember. She was old when the second war came but still revered. It was the French who helped them, and other Jews, this time," he said. "Not everyone in our family made it, but that is past now. This"-he swept the room with a wide gesture-"this is my heritage."

  His remark didn't surprise me. I'd found time and time again that people who cherished their material possessions as part of their cultural past were more apt to live in the present than those who claimed their family's genealogy as proof that they were somebody.

  "This is my legacy. These figures," he said. "And the molds. They are very precious. Some are made of porcelain. They are packed away very carefully and safely. Now, Ms. Glass, you will help me?"

  "How?"

  "To know what the molds are worth, so I can tell Kidders how much money I want for them," he said impatiently.

  "That's not a figure I can give you right off the top of my head, Mr. Hobstein. There are questions that must be answered first. How many molds do you have?"

  "Sol. Call me Sol. You've seen my life, my soul." He gestured around the room, then clasped his hands over his heart. "I should be Sol to you. How many molds? How do I know?" He shrugged.

  "And I need to find out if other old molds have been sold. If they have been, for how much. It's not a simple matter. And then, we can't forget the value of the figures as well."

  I shivered, partly from the cold and partly from the mixed excitement and strangeness of the situation that I did not clearly grasp yet, other than to know it was remarkable.

  "Let us go back to my office," he said, seemingly content that he had shown me what he needed to. It was then that I remembered what I had forgotten in the thrill of the moment.

  "Oh! Mr. Hobstein. Sol. The snow."

  "Yes. I forgot. The snow. And you, a Southerner. Yes. Hurry. We'd better move on."

  WE GATHERED OUR things from Sol's office and made our way through the dim coldness to the front door. Somewhat miraculously, as nightfall had descended, the snow clouds had moved off to the east and a full moon shone brightly.

  "So. The snow has stopped. But it is late. We must leave now that you have seen my treasure. It is great. Yes? You will find answers for me. Yes?" Sol asked as he locked and double locked the heavy gray door.

  "Yes?" he repeated.

  I nodded in agreement. I was too cold to talk. My jaw was beginning to shiver from the piercing wind.

  "Remember now, I have figures and I have molds to make more," Sol said like a child, eager to impress me with his toys. "Some of both have been broken over the years. But enough remain." His smile showed his satisfaction.

  Arm in arm, Sol and I walked slowly into the dark. The thin layer of icy snow crackled under our feet. We moved toward the corner three blocks away where he said I would find a cab. Eventually.

  "If I sell all the surviving molds to Kidders, many will be lost in no time. Ones they do not like," Sol continued, thinking ahead. "My little figures' molds have made it through two wars and the ocean crossing, in ... when was that now? Nineteen fifty. Yes. So many years ago. For what? Only to be lost now."

  The little man stopped to cough and catch his breath in the cold night air. He was still wheezing when his eyes met mine. "Look, I know they can't reproduce all the figures. And I'll have no say over which ones they use. I know which ones are the best ones, but they wouldn't be interested in quality. Only quantity. What the public likes." The more agitated and upset he became, the harder he coughed. "What the public will buy. But these are my family. Then again," he said hesitatingly, stopping his own tirade, "I should be glad that any are saved. Times have changed. Yes. `The old order changeth. "

  "Yielding place to new," I said, finishing the Tennyson line.

  Calmer now, Sol smiled at me. "I see the lady is as learned in literature as she is in antiques."

  "Thanks to my mother. She loved literature." I thought twice, but then spoke my thoughts anyway. "But I'm surprised you know English literature," I said shyly.

  "Like my little treasures, great words are universal, my dear."

  Sol began trudging along again but more slowly now.

  "Music, art, literature ... Antiques. My father, Julius, Karl and Aimee's son, once told me, when you know antiques, you know everything-history, technology, culture. Ah, Sterling, people who think objects are only things have missed a beautiful part of life. Antiques are a reflection, a mirror, of our lives and the lives of those who have gone before us. I know."

  Sol's words caught me totally off guard. "That's lovely, Mr. Hobstein," I said, fighting back tears brought on by the stinging cold, but more so by what he'd said.

  "Look, now," Sol said brightly, beginning to pick up his pace. "I walked this way to show you something. We cross here."

  We held gloved hands as we crossed the deserted street. The snow was perhaps no more than a half-inch deep but treacherous nonetheless. My feet had not warmed or dried from their earlier soaking, plus I was scared that at any moment my companion would slip. I knew I wouldn't be able to break his fall. A broken bone was all we needed under the circumstances. Thankfully, I heard traffic rolling by a block or so away. Unaware of my fears, Sol forged ahead, leading me along until we came to a dimly lighted building.

  "Arnold's. You see?" He pointed to the name arched across the window. "Joe Arnold is my friend. He, too, came from Europe. With a different name." He laughed, which started another cough. "We all did in this neighborhood," he said once he had regained his breath. "Young Joey runs his father's business now. So we just call it Joey's. Used to he just antiques. These days he sells what comes in and what people will buy. Look. See?"

  The front window was dimly lighted by a hay of ceiling lights inside the shop. Quite a contrast to the gleaming store windows of Manhattan so nearby.

  Pressing my forehead against the cold glass, I made out a mismatched collected edition of Mark Twain's works held up between a pair of old bookends shaped like violins. Next to them were a couple of old Avon bottles, a Nippon teapot, and what had to be a fake Tiffany lamp. I'd seen that Tiffany-imitation pattern in an antiques shop back in Leemont. Someone-Joey, I presumed-had tried to give the display a little artistic flair, but he didn't have much to work with.

  Behind the front window, the floor was cluttered with used furniture. Just what I expected.

  "See it?" Sol asked.

  I squinted, partly so I could see better, partly against the cold. "See? Ah." I scanned the display shelf, wondering what I was supposed to see. Then, in the far dark right hand corner I made out a bronze sculpture of a woman lying on its side.

  "Isn't she beautiful," Sol said. " `Scheherazade "'

  My mother had taken me to New York to see a lavish production of Rimsky-Korsakov's ballet Scheherazade when I was a child. I had later learned how the Art Deco sculptors were inspired by the ballet to create figures inspired by the dancers' exotic Persian costumes. These days those very figurines could fetch tens of thousands of dollars-and more-at the large international auction houses.

  "She's the best of all," Sol was saying. "We just put her in the window yesterday, there with the other ones. They're nice, but they're not `Scheherazade' She's the best."

  "I'm sure she is. Perhaps she fell over?" I only saw the one figure. Maybe the others he mentioned had been sold, but I didn't get a chance to mention that.

  "What?"

  "Perhaps she fell. She's not
standing up. She's, well, see? She's on her side." I stepped back to make room for him to stand where I was.

  "I don't understand. Joey would never let something happen to her. Not her."

  "Oh, I don't think anything's wrong," I said reassuringly. "I don't think she's damaged. Perhaps she just toppled over."

  Sol cupped his hands around his eyes and peered through the window. "Something is wrong. The others. Where are the other figures?" He turned to me. "What time is it?"

  "A little past seven."

  "I thought it was later." The fear in Sol's voice matched the look in his eyes. He clasped my arm. "Joey. Where's Joey? Do you have one of those ... those phones?" Sol put his hand to his ear as if talking on a cell phone. "He never closes up till eight."

  He turned and went to the door. He punched the doorbell, then frantically yanked at the knob on the iron bars.

  "Joey. Something's happened to him."

  A sick feeling started in my throat and crept down through my body. My legs went numb, except it felt like a million sharp needles were exploding inside of them.

  "Do you want me to call someone?" I managed to whisper.

  By now Sol was breathing so hard that once again I was frightened for him. "The back. Go to the back." He pointed into the dark. "No. Wait. I'll come."

  My own heart was racing. "Should I call 911?"

  "No. Come."

  Sol started around to the side of the building. I had no choice but to follow him.

  Chapter 8

  Dear Antiques Expert: After my brothers and sisters and 1 selected what we wanted from our parents' home, a lot of items were left over. When the antiques dealer came to purchase these things we were surprised to learn that some things we thought were really valuable weren't and conversely, the value of some things we thought were giveaways astounded us. What really makes one piece more valuable than another?

  Yours is a common experience. To accurately value an antique, remember this tip: age + condition + quality + rarity = value. Truly valuable antiques must meet all four criteria. For example, a poor-quality, commonly found piece in bad condition will not be valuable, regardless of its age. And even a fine antique in excellent condition won't be extremely valuable unless it is rare. Also remember that antiques have fashions, like hemline lengths and hairstyles. That's why, to learn the real value of an antique, it's wise to consult someone who is knowledgeable about current values as well as a particular object.

  BACK HOME I would have said I was scared shitless. But I wasn't back home. I was in Brooklyn. I didn't even know how scared I was.

  In the pitch-black darkness I groped along behind Sol, his heavy wheezing my compass. I stumbled about, navigating around pieces of broken pavement that jutted up beneath my frozen feet at my every step. We rounded the corner into the cobblestone alleyway behind Joey's shop. Thanks to the lightbulb burning above the back door, at least I could see. But considering that it was just this old man and me, or so I hoped, in this menacing place, the light was little consolation.

  Sol went first, motioning to me to hurry along.

  Fighting the urge to hang back, or run away, I reluctantly followed. At the back door, Sol fumbled beneath his heavy overcoat to get to his key chain.

  "I have Joey's key," Sol was hissing between wheezes when the screen door flew open, hurling him back against the building.

  Sol gasped and I shrieked as a thick black shape swept past us and darted into the alley.

  "Sol. Sol. Are you all right? Sol?"

  Bracing himself flat against the building, the old man looked pitiful and helpless. I expected him to slump forward at any moment.

  "Joey." He struggled to catch his breath. "We have to find Joey."

  He moved forward unsteadily, pushing back the screen door. It made a hollow sound against the cold bricks. Acting on instinct, I reached out to catch him, but he thrust my hand aside.

  "I'm okay. Come." He stumbled across the threshold into the dingy shop. Inside, he wove his way along aisles of furniture piled high.

  "Joey. Where are you? Are you all right? Joey. Joey?"

  Each time Sol called Joey's name, his voice faltered, until he was almost crying out.

  "Shouldn't I call someone?" I said.

  Sol shook his head vehemently. "No."

  I hung back while Sol forged ahead, groping his way in the dim light. Then I saw two shoes dangling just above the floor. I stifled a scream, but my fearful gasp echoed through the quietness. Sol heard it and whirled around.

  Sol saw what I saw. He threw himself forward, clutching at pieces of furniture for support. "No. Joey."

  Joey lay sprawled out in an overstuffed La-Z-Boy in its full reclining position, his feet dangling off the footrest. He stared straight at us, his mouth open, his lip bloody and swelling, his eyes glazed. He raised one arm as if to point to where his assailant had fled.

  "Are you all right? Did he hurt you?"

  I steadied myself against a tall chest of drawers and began searching around the bottom of my pocketbook, trying to find my cell phone.

  "Please, Sol. Please let me call someone."

  Joey looked first at me and then at Sol. He shook his head.

  "Why not?"

  Joey shook his head again, this time not to protest, but to bring himself around. He held on to the chair arms and strained into a semi-upright position. He was so diminutive that he seemed swallowed up by the cushy velour of the chair. Sol pushed the footrest down, bringing the chair up straight. With his help, Joey slid up to the edge of the chair. Seeing the slight young man, I thought that only the most heartless criminal could want to do him harm. His growth of dark stubble didn't make him look tough, just unkempt. In truth, a stiff breeze would've knocked him over.

  "Water," Sol commanded, as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to dab the blood running down Joey's chin. I looked around in vain for a glass or one of those upside-down water jugs or a spigot.

  "The desk." Sol pointed to it just a few feet away.

  On Joey's desk lay another one of Sol's beloved figures, this one broken. Her ivory arm lay a short distance from her body. Near it was the tambourine she had once held in her hand. There, too, a water pitcher was knocked over, the glass broken. Books were scattered about. Obviously there had been a scuffle and Joey had been on the receiving end. If his attacker had a scratch or a bruise, it was only because he had hit poor Joey, not because Joey had put up any resistance.

  "I think he took the figures, the ones in the window," Joey moaned as the old man helped him to his feet. "I didn't know what to do." He looked as pitiful as he sounded. "I'm sorry, Sol," Joey said, swaying forward. "I told him he couldn't take the figures. Not without paying."

  "Sit back down and forget the figures, Joey. It's you that's important. How badly are you hurt?"

  "He only hit me once." Joey chuckled softly. "All it took, Sol. All it took." He touched his lip ever go gently. "Ouch." Leaning forward, Joey opened his mouth as best he could. "My teeth?" he asked.

  Sol laughed. "They're there. Wouldn't take much to put you away, little man."

  I was so relieved at the lighter turn in the conversation that I sighed out loud. Hearing me, they looked my way.

  "The water's spilled. The glass is broken." I threw my hands up in the air.

  Sol's eyes rested on the broken figure. "Bring her to me," Sol said.

  I picked up the figure and the pieces and put them in his outstretched hand.

  "Who do you think did it?" I asked Joey. "What happened?"

  "It all happened fast. So fast. I was in the back when I heard the doorbell ring. I came up to the front of the store and buzzed him in. Thought I recognized him. He started asking about the figures and walked over to the front window. I followed him, but he didn't wait for me. He reached right in, took two of them out. That one"-he pointed to the broken figure-"and another one. I told him to be careful. Do you think that was my mistake?" he asked as he raised his hand to his mouth again.

&nbs
p; It was then I noticed Joey's huge ring. Four wide rows of diamond chips were set down deep between high parallel gold ridges. The ring covered his ring finger from his middle knuckle to his fist. The sides were so thick that his third and fifth fingers were spread apart, making his hand appear deceptively large.

  "What happened then?" Sol asked.

  "He wanted to know how much they were, so I started over toward my desk to look up the prices. I didn't want to cheat you, Sol."

  Sol shook his head sadly. "Go on."

  "I starting looking up the prices and he put one of the figures down. I guess it was that one." Joey motioned toward the broken one. "That's when I think I heard the doorbell again," he added.

  Sol gave me a knowing glance. His calmness was reassuring. "That was us," he said.

  "He grabbed at me and asked where I was getting them. It all happened so fast. That worried me. I didn't want him to see the list. I thought fast, didn't I? I didn't want him to know, so I told him I didn't know, but he grabbed for the hook."

  "Did he get it?"

  "I don't know. I hit at him." Joey thrust his balled-up ringed hand in the air. "That's about all I know for sure. I don't know if I hit him or not."

  Joey stopped and looked around him as if trying to reconstruct what happened.

  "I think the doorbell rang again, but he hit me so hard I'm not sure. And then the next thing I knew I saw you ... I'm sorry about the others."

  "Don't worry, Joey. Those figures he took from the window-" Sol wrinkled his brow.

  "There were two of them. Plus `Scheherazade,"' Joey said. His eyes searched Sol's for forgiveness.

  Sol laughed. "That's right. They weren't the fine ones. They weren't worth much. And `Scheherazade' is still in the window. Two figures? What are they? Nothing. No. It's you I'm worried about."

 

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