by Emyl Jenkins
And the book, I started to say, but didn't. I hardly knew Sol, but I couldn't stand the thought that anything had could come to this dear grandfatherly gentleman. If the intruder, whoever he was, took the hook, he would know Sol's name by now, maybe his address and phone number, too.
I stepped over to the desk, this time under the pretense of straightening things up.
"Come, Joey," Sol said gently. "We'll get `Scheherazade' now. You and me, we'll go home. Everything will be all right." Sol looked over at me. "You should go now," he said.
"No. I'm fine. I need to help you straighten up," I said, thinking how I wasn't about to go out in that dark street with no taxis around and God knows who lurking in the alley? Not in this life. Or the next one.
"Bring `Scheherazade' to me, please," Sol said, taking me up on my offer to help. "See, Joey, you're fine, or you will be when your lip goes down. `Scheherazade' is still here. Everything is going to be okay."
So much for looking for the book.
Sol took the precious figure carefully, lovingly from my hands. He ran his hand over her exotic Persian costume and bejeweled headdress, then clasped her to his chest. He looked up at me, his eyes clear, his face calm.
"This is my finest figure. She's beautiful, like the story. Bold, yet graceful, like Rimsky-Korsakov's great music. Melodic. Seductive." He held the exquisite statue away from himself and tilted her toward me. "And mysterious," he said reverently. "Look at her."
He laughed. "It took me one damn week to get all those parts together! Didn't think I would ever find that feather for her headdress."
Remembering the many boxes filled with tiny pieces back in the factory building, I understood.
"Once I have a figure assembled, I bring it to Joey. He sells them. We split the money."
"How much does Joey sell them for?"
"Now `Scheherazade' costs a lot. Four hundred dollars. Some of the smaller, plainer ones, like that one"-Sol nodded to the broken figure-"not much. One hundred, two hundred."
I started to say that four hundred dollars was nothing. Even at four thousand dollars, the figure would be a steal. For a split second, I was even tempted to say I'd buy her. Oh, how I was tempted.
Get real, I thought to myself, remembering the life-threatening events of just minutes earlier. Funny, even those chilling memories couldn't wipe away the vision of Sol's four-hundred-dollar `Scheherazade' as the cover of a Layton's auction catalog.
"They sell quickly," Sol was saying. "Other people have asked Joey where they come from, haven't they?"
Joey, who by now seemed much more confident that he wasn't badly hurt, nodded. "We've never told anyone where they come from," he said.
"Do you call him? The one who was here tonight, when you have one finished?" I asked.
Joey perked up. "Oh, he's not the only one who has bought them. We-"
"No. We never tell anyone," Sol interrupted him. "I never know how long it will take to find the right parts and bolts and then put it together. Anyway, not knowing if there'll he one here or not, that keeps customers coming hack to the store. Sometimes they will buy other things. Joey gets some real good stuff from these old Brooklyn families when the last one has died out," he said. "I tell him he sells too cheap, but he says he likes to move things out, not keep them around. That's good for business, you know."
"I've got a good lead for tomorrow," Joey began.
I glanced around, wondering what Joey did with the good stuff. His repeat business was the last thing I was interested in at the moment. I was amazed at how Sol and Joey had seemed able to quickly dismiss the night's happenings and settle back into everyday life. Guess that was the difference between living in Brooklyn and Leemont.
"Do you think whoever that was tonight will be back? What would you two do then? Will you sell more figures?" My mind was racing forward.
"Now we have you, we won't need to. I'll just sell the molds and be set for life." Sol smiled contentedly.
I groaned to myself. I wanted to tell him to forget the molds, damn it. It was the figures. That was where the money was. Lots and lots of money. Why couldn't Sol understand that the gold mine he was sitting on was the figures, not the molds? Obviously now was hardly the time to launch into Economics 101 and Antiques 202. 1 did the next best thing: I smiled, albeit rather weakly, back at him.
"But you need to go, Sterling," Sol said. "All that can wait for another day. Joey and I live close to one another. We'll be okay."
I glanced out the window into the darkest night I'd ever seen. "Then let's leave together," I said.
"We can do that," Joey said, rising to his feet again, this time without help. He paused a moment to get his hearings, then went to his desk. Triumphantly, he held up a black composition hook.
"It's here," Joey said, tucking the notebook that I had overlooked in my state of fright into a tote bag. "Give me `Scheherazade: We don't want to leave her here."
WHILE JOEY DOUBLE bolt-locked first the shop door and then the protective metal door, I plastered myself flat against the building. I'd once read that to have shadows you must have light. There were plenty of shadows, but as far as I was concerned not one bit of light. Or at least not enough to do any good. In the distance a lone, dark something slunk slowly along the street. My heart pounded against my chest. Only when I realized it was nothing but a dog did I dare to breathe again.
We walked silently along until we reached a lighted intersection. It seemed forever before a cab turned the corner down the way and headed in our direction, and I walked out to the center of the street to be sure he saw us.
While Sol opened the door for me, I gave Joey a big bear hug.
"Thank God you're okay," I said.
"Sol, I'm going to be tied up a lot of the day tomorrow, but I'll call you as soon as I can," I said, opening my arms to encircle the old man. He eagerly returned my embrace.
"Take care of her now," Sol said to the cabbie, as he closed the door after me.
Always the gentleman, I thought.
I turned for one last glimpse through the back window of the cab. They stood huddled close in the darkness. While Sol pulled his scarf up around his ears, Joey held him by his arm. Then, as one, they began trudging along.
I tugged my coat tight around me in an attempt to settle down for the ride. We had pulled away from the curb and were starting toward Manhattan, or so I assumed, when abruptly the cab made a sharp U-turn in the middle of the block. I had no idea where I was. I looked out of first one side of the cab, then the other, straining to see a street sign, a store name, any kind of an anchor to ground me.
It was then I saw a dark-clad figure standing in the alley between two buildings.
I jerked my head around to see better. The cab slid around another corner. In this black maze, everything looked alike. Where were we? That building looked like Sol's. So did that one. And that one.
I cowered in the corner and closed my eyes. Was I dreaming this whole thing up?
Chapter 9
Dear Antiques Expert: I recently overheard an antiques dealer talking about provenance to one of her customers. Exactly what does this mean?
Sophisticated antiques collectors love the term "provenance." It helps give a piece credence, and sometimes, a pedigree. "Provenance" most often refers to where the object originated, but it can also refer to who once owned a particular piece. And that association can influence the piece's value. For example, people will pay more for a diamond worn by the Duchess of Windsor, or a baseball touched by Ted Williams, or a Shaker desk once in Oprah Winfrey's collection. Ultimately, knowing a piece's provenance, whether its origin or who once owned it, can make the difference of thousands of dollars.
I TOSSED AND TURNED all night and finally awakened long before the hotel clock radio alarm went off. On the street below, midtown Manhattan had come alive much earlier, way before dawn.
By 8 A.M. I had taken my bath, wolfed down a muffin from the corner deli with some lukewarm tea, and had gotten dressed.
Problem was, the New York I needed wouldn't come alive for another hour. I tried reading and rereading the Times left outside my door, but yesterday was all I could think about. Unfortunately, I hadn't dreamed it up. Not any of it.
I tried to put the events at Joey's store out of my mind and concentrate on Sol's problem. I figured I had seen maybe twenty of Sol's figures completely assembled. There were parts for ... how many? Scores-maybe hundreds-more? Who knew how many molds Sol had? Outside of Europe, one person knew more about these figures than anyone else outside of EuropeRichie Daniel, head of modern decorative arts at Layton's. Seeing him was my first order of business.
I'd come to know Richie when he was just beginning at Layton's and I had found a Baccarat black enamel and crystal liqueur set in a backstreet antiques shop in Venice, California. One look at the set and I was transported to Fred and Ginger twirling to "The Carioca" on the balcony of the Copacabana in The Gay Divorcee.
Not everyone had seen what I saw because the set was dusty from neglect. It was mixed in with some old Revere Ware skillets and a rattan picnic basket in such bad shape that it should have just been left in the woods. Obviously, the tattooed shop owner either hadn't bothered to check the decanter or glasses for a mark or had never heard of the world-famous French glasshouse. Each piece was clearly marked with a long-stemmed goblet encircled by the words BACCARAT, FRANCE. The tag looped around the neck of the bottle dated the nine-piece set from the late 1950s and would cost me twenty-five dollars. But actually the set had been made in the 1920s and easily was worth a thousand dollars. Today, it would sell for triple that.
Richie Daniel was a Texan who preferred his nickname to his given name, Richardson. And he couldn't have been any more unlike Nigel Rhodes if he were from the planet Bakelite. Richie was the black-turtleneck, designer-jeans, Ralph Lauren tweed-jacket type. He kept his dark hair buzzed, not too short, not too long. I'd never seen him pass by a mirror, old or new, without giving himself a sideways glance. Though Richie was way past the forty mark, maybe even at the half-century mark, he would have had people think he was a boy wonder, which he was back when he started writing articles and books on anything related to the Art Deco period-furniture, glass, silver, and bronze figurines. Before then, no one in America paid much heed to the style. After all, Art Deco wasn't all that long ago. Even now it still couldn't truthfully be called "antique."
Little matter. Art Deco was now the look for Hollywood stars, TV personalities, and anyone whose house was a backdrop for a People magazine personality photo. As they said in the trade, Richie Daniel made the market. His success even landed him a one-night stand on The Larry King Show and a guest appearance on Oprah when she did a segment on what the stars collected.
The moment 8:59 turned over to 9, I rang Richie. Yes, he would be happy to see me anytime in the morning. American antiques held center stage this week, he said, so he was pretty free.
I caught a cab right over. But unlike yesterday morning, when Nigel had whisked me upstairs, this morning I had to jump through Layton's hoops. I gave my name to the Versaceclad blonde receptionist wearing knockout gold earrings. For a brief moment I wondered who she might be. Or might be kin to. Society girls with gilt-edged lineages practically killed to get jobs in the New York auction houses. It was a status thing to say you worked there. You didn't have to know anything about antiques; just being there was sufficient. In the waiting room alone, she was surrounded by a pair of nineteenth-century Venetian blackamoors, each holding a flaming torche. On the high-gloss walls, huge color posters touted Layton's recordbreaking sales. An eighteenth-century American Queen Anne dressing table. An early Staffordshire polychrome salt-glaze arbor group. A second-century Roman marble sculpture. A nineteenth-century Navajo wearing blanket. A 1928 Le Corbusier chaise lounge. Just by being there one was anointed, by association, to all this wealth.
The pretty young thing punched in Richie's extension and said a few throaty words. Meanwhile, I paced about, worrying how much of what I'd seen I should reveal.
"Sterling. Sweetheart!"
I turned to see Dana Henchloe escorting a blue-gray-haired lady walking with a gold-tipped cane off the elevator. I groaned. Right behind them Richie bounded off the elevator and sprinted toward me. Anyone watching would have thought that I was the family attorney waiting to hand this man a check for his rich grandmother's entire estate. His enthusiasm triggered my caution button. I knew he couldn't care less about me.
Richie whisked me onto the waiting elevator up to the third floor and his corner office. At the desk outside his sanctuary sat another one of those gorgeous anorexic young things. She didn't have to stand up for me to know she was probably five feet ten and weighed no more than 120 with a heavy fur coat on. Everything about her was long and narrow-her hair, her face, her dangling earrings.
"Sterling, this is Anna. Anna, anytime Sterling Glass calls me, buzz her through," he said, winking.
Anna, who had no last name, peered up at me through eyes that suggested she'd had a little too much fun last night. When you've got those kind of deep-ocean blue-green eyes that guys get lost in, what do you expect? But other than her stare, she made no attempt to acknowledge my presence. My mother would have banished me from the house for such poor manners. She must really be someone, I thought to myself.
Once in his office, Richie seemed to turn it down a notch. Thank God. But when he asked me, "So, what do you have for me?" I felt more uncomfortable.
On the top shelf of his mahogany bookcase I saw the figurine of a dancer delicately balanced on an onyx base, arms outstretched, and dressed in a halter and shorts-remarkably similar to one I had held in my hands in Sol's basement. But this bronze and ivory figure was posed on both feet, not just one, and she wore a bandanna-style headband rather than a tight-fitting cap.
"Have? Ahhh." I had to tear my attention away from her. "Actually, I brought Nigel an exceptionally fine Paul Storr tea urn," I said.
Richie gave a low whistle. "Guess that made his day."
"He seemed pleased enough."
"But on the phone you mentioned some Deco pieces, right?" Richie hooked his left thumb into the waist of his jeans. Were we at Layton's or Texas? Richie tossed me a playful, comeclean-with-it look. I noticed the Ace bandage on his right hand. He caught my glance.
"Squash. Went for the ball. So did my partner. Nothing like stumbling over your own feet and getting hit with a racket." Richie laughed and I saw the light bruise on his lower left chin.
"Sorry," I said.
"So, back to why you called."
"Oh. Right. To pick your brain. That's why I called." I glanced back at the figurine. The resemblance between the pieces was truly remarkable. "Well, you see, Deco's not exactly my field. I'm more the eighteenth-century cherry chest and English silver sort. But then, you know that." I laughed, trying to figure out the best way to broach the subject of Sol's figures and molds. Back when I was a kid, I was the one always in trouble in grade school because I couldn't fib. When I did, it showed. Maybe that was what had kept me honest all these years. I tried again. "But you can always learn something new, right? Forget that old dog, new trick stuff. We're in the twentyfirst century. It's about time I caught up with the twentieth century." I hoped I just sounded silly.
"Take that Deco figurine, for example," I said more seriously, and pointed toward his shelf. "Are there lots of fakes of those out there?" I nodded in the direction of the world beneath his third-floor office.
"You seem to know enough about Deco to be able to spot a Baccarat liqueur set without any trouble. Come," Richie said patronizingly, ushering me toward his desk. "Sit down. Now, I must say I'm a little disappointed. You bring Nigel a high-fivefigure goodie and from me you want a lesson in Deco figurines? Tell me. Have you read any of my books?" I detected a mildly cynical tone to his voice.
Boy had I stepped in it this time.
"To he honest, I do have your book on Deco glass and china, but-" I tried to look penitent-"I haven't read it. Check
ed out all the pictures, though. That's exactly why I wanted to ask you some questions in person. You only write about and show examples of the real and very best objects. I'm curious about the new ones. The fakes."
"Ah, compliments. Can't get enough of them." Richie smiled, just a hint suggestively. "They always get results."
He took the captivating figure down from her high perch. Gently, he placed her on his desk between the two of us and settled back in his chair. He glanced at his Cartier tank watch.
"There's nothing new about this little girl," he said, the corners of his mouth curling up as he spoke. "Lesson number one: she's as good as they get. Original. Undamaged. The ivory is perfect. Not discolored or cracked. The bronze? Unscratched. And she has a perfect provenance. Came straight from the estate of a high-ranking family in Germany."
"Oh? Do you know which one?"
Richie hesitated. "I can look it up."
He made some motion toward a bottom desk drawer but stopped midway.
"Hmmm. Come to think of it, they had lived in Germany or maybe it was Austria-somewhere in Europe-but the figure came to us by way of Argentina." He flashed that maddening smile again. "One of those smart Jewish families who migrated while they still had wealth and could get their things out in the late 1920s."
"Back to the fakes," I said, trying to reel him in, only to be interrupted by his ringing phone. Obviously another client he had told Anna to ring through at any time.
"May l?" he asked politely.
"'Course." I smiled understandingly.
"Alicia! Sweetheart. How are you?" Richie spoke into the phone as he winked at me. Everyone who followed the movies knew who Alicia was. Of course she could ring through.
"How's the filming coming-ahead of schedule? Unheard of, but with a professional like you," Richie cooed. "Say, I have a good friend here in the office, someone you need to know. Sterling Glass. Yes, it is a great name, and she's a hotshot appraiser, too, knows her stuff. You might need her sometime. An ounce of prevention, you know." He laughed. "No, Alicia, no robberies, please. But your goodies are getting more valuable day by day."