Antiques Maul Page 5

  “Young man,” Mother said in her most grandiose theatrical voice, “we seem to be locked out of our room.”

  “Yes, I know,” the guard responded. “Several guests called about the racket.”

  As he fished out a pass card from a pocket, Mother asked ridiculously, “Do you need to see some kind of identification?”

  An eyebrow raised on the guard as he looked us over, in a manner that might have been inappropriate if Mother hadn’t just suggested we might be carrying ID in our drawers.

  Then the guard smiled. “That won’t be necessary . . . I noticed you both when you checked in.”

  Mother preened. Touched the side of her face. “Why, thank you.”

  He didn’t say “you’re welcome,” too busy sneaking peeks at the younger idiot in the pink scanties.

  Safely back in our room, Mother remarked cheerfully, “Well, wasn’t he nice?”

  “Yeah . . . he’s probably used to dealing with all kinds of drunks and dopers in the middle of the night.”

  “Well, we must have been a pleasant surprise, then!”

  Rolling my eyes, I retrieved my covers from the bathroom and quickly jumped into bed hoping to beat Mother back to sleep.

  For once, I won the race.

  When the alarm clock shrilled at 7:00 AM, I about had a heart attack. Catching my breath, I shut it off and looked over toward Mother, who wasn’t in her bed.

  Nor was she in the bathroom.

  I was beginning to worry, when the door to our room opened and Mother, dressed again in the emerald outfit (it’s her favorite) entered, carrying a tray with coffee, fruit, and muffins.

  I said, reaching for the steaming java, “How nice!”

  “Yes, and it was free!”

  “Really? Complimentary breakfast came with the room?”

  “No,” Mother replied munching a muffin. “Not exactly. There’s a convention of morticians downstairs having a buffet, and I just got in line and pretended to be one of them. Made use of my improvisational skills, blending in.”

  I nodded, making a mental note to send the Morticians of America—if there was such a thing—a donation. I mean, flowers would be redundant.

  After hurriedly checking out, we followed the directions Chief Cassato had provided to an old armory on the south side of the city where the federal auction was being held.

  A good football field long, the massive brick and mortar structure gave no indication of its military past (or, for that matter, present) other than a few cement barricades around the front entrance. An orange-jacketed guy directing incoming traffic stopped us and we paid him five dollars for the privilege of parking a quarter of a mile away from the building. Mother and I should have rolled out of bed a lot earlier.

  We got hit up again entering the building—ten bucks!—and then once more when we signed up for our white-numbered bidding card.

  Despite my Prozac, I was getting annoyed, mentally calculating how much money this venture had cost us so far, what with hotel and gas, when I glanced over at Mother, who was taking in the aisles and aisles of merchandise with big, wide kid-in-a-candy-store eyes.

  Mother started to move away from me and I yanked her back by the sleeve of her jacket.

  “And where do you think you’re going, young lady?” I asked sweetly.

  She looked at me with feigned concern. “Have you been taking your medication, dear?”

  “Yes . . . have you?”

  “Of course! But we must shake a tail feather if we’re going to see everything before the auction begins. . . .”

  I put a hand on her shoulder. “I realize that, Mother, but we also need to stick together. We’d never find each other in this crowd if we got separated—understand?”

  “You are not dealing with a child!”

  “Mother . . . we need to be on the same team. Lots of competition . . .”

  She drew in a breath and nodded firmly and I held out my hand, which she took, and together we began the hunt for the wonderful treasures that would make us a fortune and transform our lives.

  However, as we jostled by each exhibited lot, I soon began to realize that Mother and I might just be in over our heads . . . way over.

  This was no ordinary auction.

  The items for sale, in fact, were quite extraordinary: Cadillacs and Hummers, exquisite artwork by names you would recognize, beautiful homes (displayed by photos), and even a helicopter!

  Nor was an ordinary crowd in attendance. The women were well dressed, the men nattily attired. The younger participants appeared to be corporate minions, dispatched to do a boss’s bidding, some with a cell phone at either ear.

  I’d been thinking flea market and found myself in the middle of a James Bond movie.

  But Mother didn’t seem fazed by either the well-heeled people around us or the high-ticketed items up for sale. And as we walked along she began to announce loudly her best guess as to how each item got confiscated . . . that is to say, under what circumstance they were pinched by the feds.

  “Bank heist.” Black Caddie. “Securities fraud.” Picasso painting. “Drug deal.” Miami condo.

  I tried to shush her. Guess how much good that did.

  Among the unattainable (by us, anyway) were little pockets of antiques and collectibles that could possibly be within our reach, and we would pause and examine them, making notes in our booklet, and agreeing upon a ceiling price for each—as if Mother would keep her word....

  As auction time approached (noon) the excitement and tension in the air intensified. While a few undecided bidders dashed up and down the aisles for a final look, everyone else had already left for the auction arena, which was located in one far corner.

  Even though Mother had gone ahead to get us seats, I should have known better. The lucky hundreds who had their butts in chairs must have camped out all night, or had some insider’s advance ticket.

  As I approached the cordoned-off area, I spotted Mother standing along the periphery with a mass of others; judging by Mother’s pained expression, the corns on her feet were killing her. I squeezed through the crowd to be next to Mother, who then did a despicable thing.

  To an older, silver-haired gent seated next to where we were standing, Mother leaned over and whispered, “Sir, I believe something fell out of your pocket.”

  She pointed helpfully to a wadded-up bill a few feet away in the aisle.

  The old gent fell for Mother’s cheap dodge, scrambled off his seat, his eyes on the green, and Mother slid into his place.

  All is fair in love and war . . . and nabbing a seat at an auction. To the gentleman’s credit, he didn’t call Mother on her trickery. Instead, he took her standing-room-only place beside me, a tiny bemused smile on his face, a now-unfolded one-dollar bill in his hand. He was a candy bar or maybe a soft drink to the good, and shy of one chair....

  I looked away, pretending not to know Mother. She could have at least given the old boy a five-spot!

  After instructions by the auctioneer—a tall, thin, black-suited Ichabod Crane type—the auction was off and running.

  The atmosphere was fast, tense, and a little scary. I watched in amazement at the frantic pace and pitch at which the first item—a silver current-model Mercedes—was sold. This must have been what it felt like on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange the day Enron tumbled. I could barely keep up with the bidding, my own card limp in my hand.

  When the woman seated directly in front of Mother won the car, and stood and edged for the aisle, I sprang into action, beating a paunchy middle-aged man for her vacated seat in a round of musical chairs.

  Settled in, I checked my booklet. Next on the docket was an item Mother and I wanted: an old brass steamer trunk with wood trim and leather straps.

  By way of reminder, Mother slapped me on the back of my head with her booklet, making me regret taking the seat in front of her.

  “I’m on it!” I snarled over my shoulder.

  As Ichabod opened his mouth to begin the biddi
ng, Mother’s voice carried over the crowd. “Oh my, I do hope they got the bloodstains out. . . .”

  Funny how I won the bid with very little competition—paying less than budgeted.

  A good half hour passed before the next item Mother and I coveted came on the block. The rolltop desk was small enough not to be cumbersome, but large enough to have all the wonderful cubbyholes and drawers that make such a piece special.

  Again, seconds before the bidding began, Mother gave another pronouncement. “And to think that very desk was used to write the ransom note . . . that poor dead child. . . .”

  I was afraid that might attract some sick collector, but maybe Mother knew best . . .

  . . . although the auctioneer didn’t seem to think so, addressing her with a frown. “Madam, you’re going to have to keep quiet, or be escorted out.”

  Mother shot back, “I have Turrets syndrome! Shit! I can’t help it! Doody!”

  For a moment the auctioneer was at a loss for words. Then he managed, “Well . . . try.”

  And the bidding began.

  I had competition this time, but I hung in, flashing my card, and one by one the opposition fell . . . except for a man seated at the end of my row.

  He was about thirty, dressed in an expensive black suit and blue shirt, open at the collar, and had dark pomaded hair, piercing eyes, and a two-day stubble, whether facial fashion statement or just a guy needing a shave, I couldn’t say. With each upping of the ante, we eyed each other, until he bidded beyond my limit, and I fell unhappily silent.

  Mother poked me in my back with a stiff finger, though the comment she gave was anything but confidential: “Keep going, dear . . . we simply must get Grandmother’s desk back! Crap-doodle!”

  As people around us snickered—the auctioneer again frowning at Mother—my competition suddenly leaned forward in his seat, looked my way, and seemed to signal me with a nod. I flashed my card, topped his current bid by one dollar, and he graciously fell silent.

  Grandmother’s heirloom rolltop desk where the ransom note was written (that poor child) was ours!

  As the long afternoon wore on (Mother’s Turret’s syndrome with its very limited range of obscenities miraculously cured) (or anyway in remission), we continued to score, while well-heeled bidders went after bigger fish, letting the minnows go.

  By five o’clock we had purchased: a Moser cranberry glass dresser set; a lyre banjo clock (even though a reproduction c. 1930, it was lovely); an amber-faceted vase (because Mother likes anything amber); some old tinware, including a black-and-yellow-decorated tea caddy; a pair of round Stickley lamp tables (I might talk Mother into keeping those); a box containing various metal and glass candlesticks (Mother likes to burn candles); and (my favorite) a Weller pottery vase depicting an Indian’s face.

  Since we had depleted our cash, I turned around to Mother and mouthed, “Let’s go,” even though I was mildly curious to see who would bid on the frozen bull semen coming up next.

  We were two happy girls who settled our bill (under budget, but barely) and happier yet to discover that all of our treasures fit snugly into the trailer for the trip home.

  As I pulled slowly out of the armory parking lot Mother said, “You have an admirer.”

  I glanced at her curiously. “Who?”

  “That man who bid against you for the desk.”

  I snorted, and asked, “Whatever made you think he could possibly be interested in me?”

  “Because I saw him write down our license plate number.”

  I knitted my brow, not knowing what to make of that. Seemed like a funny—no, disturbing—way for an “admirer” to get information on me.

  But I dismissed it, my mind moving on to one last treasure I had yet to pick up that night . . . not an antique, but something of relatively recent vintage and yet very, very precious to me.

  My son, Jake.

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  As a dealer, buy antiques and collectibles that you wouldn’t mind having in your own home . . . because if they don’t sell in your shop, they will be.

  Chapter Four

  Close But No Cigar Store Indian

  Hauling our trailer full of treasures, Mother and I pulled into the I-80 rest stop at about seven in the evening, right on schedule.

  Before we left the auction in Rockford, I had celled Roger in Chicago, and we timed it for the trade-off of Jake, both of us agreeing to meet halfway (which is the best one can hope for with an ex).

  Jake’s school is year-round, which I’m totally against. Granted, the students get a few weeks’ vacation every couple of months (like now), but it’s just not the same as having that long stretch of summer through which to recharge your batteries, get good and bored so you don’t mind going back to school, and, in the case of one girl I knew, reinvent yourself.

  Kids called her Fat Freda (not me!) (okay, maybe once). Cruel as such name-calling is, Freda had a certain amount of bad karma due her, because she had developed (likely as a defense mechanism) a withering mastery of sarcasm. Put-downs apparently weren’t enough, because during the three summer-vacation months between our junior and senior year, Freda dropped fifty pounds, got a nose job, had her teeth capped, cleared up her zits, and dyed her mousey brown hair a surfer-girl blonde. The first day back at school in the fall, everybody was like, “Hey, who’s the new babe from California?”

  Of course, when the kids found out it was Freda, they treated her terrible again—because despite the otherwise radical transformation, she forgot to change her sarcastic personality—but she did have a couple of nice days on top, just the same. Plus the attention of some male admirers who didn’t rate personality all that high on their female scorecards.

  The wind was spitting raindrops into my face as I got out of the car, leaving Mother behind. I could see Roger and Jake seated inside the modern glass-and-concrete bathroom oasis, which also included a small vending-machine food court. They were alone as I entered, bringing leaves swirling in with me.

  Roger stood as I approached.

  “Brandy,” he said coolly, with the kind of nod you reserve for the barest of acquaintances.

  Tall and slender, face tanned, brown hair touched with gray on the temples, Roger—ten years older than me—was wearing black dress slacks, a gray sweater topped by a black jacket with Ralph Lauren logo. His familiar Polo cologne wafted toward me.

  He looked like hell—the lines in his face deep, the loss in his eyes palpable, the . . . oh, hell.

  He looked good. Great.

  I, on the other hand, didn’t. Tired, pale, most of my makeup worn off, clothes wrinkled from the long day of auction adventure and behind-the-wheel road warrioring . . . I wondered if my disinclination to even run a comb through my hair had been subconsciously on purpose.

  I mean, I can look pretty good when I feel like going to the trouble. And there’d been other rest stops where I could have stopped, spruced up, changed clothes. Right now Roger might have walked out of a GQ spread. I might have been the trucker who delivered GQ to a supermarket newsstand.

  Was I—the dump-er—trying to send a weirdly self-serving message? Like, “See, you’re better off without me.” While he—the dump-ee—seemed to be saying, “Just look at what you’re missing.”

  “Hello, Roger,” I said, and gave him just enough of a smile to maintain the thin veneer of former-spousal civility.

  Then I gazed at my son, who had remained seated, having just finished up a Kit Kat bar. I worked not to seem too damn puppy-dog eager in my smile and in the tone of my voice as I said, “Hiya, Jake.”

  Our son had on a Chicago Bulls sweatshirt and cargo pants that had more pockets than a closetful of regular slacks.

  “’Lo.” The boy’s eyes didn’t meet mine.

  Jake, at age ten, had changed very little since I’d seen him six months ago, and for that I was glad. Having been a stay-at-home mother, I’d witnessed every stage of his existence . . . every new tooth, every mole, every inch of grow
th . . . and it hurt, no longer being a part of that, an emotional ache that even Prozac couldn’t dull.

  Our son was a handsome kid, a true collaboration of us both: Roger’s thick brown hair, straight nose, cleft chin . . . but my blue eyes, often smirky mouth, and (I have to admit) ornery disposition.

  Roger set a hand on Jake’s shoulder and asked, “Got everything, son?”

  “Yup.”

  I looked at the two huge duffel bags on the floor, which seemed a lot for a week’s stay—had Jake belatedly inherited his mother’s jones for clothes? Taking a closer look, I noticed sharp angles poking at the canvas that indicated objects within that were not apparel.

  Roger had always been able to read me easily, and now was no exception. “Jake brought a few things from home to keep busy.”

  “Good. Good idea.” After all, there wouldn’t be anything to do down in Dogpatch, where the young ’un’s mammy lived.

  Soon we were outside, the wind whipping our hair and clothing, as Roger stashed Jake’s bags in the trunk of my Buick. Then he put his hands on Jake’s shoulders and gave him a long, hard look and a slow, knowing smile. “You know what we talked about.”

  Jake met his dad’s eyes but his voice had about as much enthusiasm as a customer service clerk at Best Buy. “Yeah.”

  “You be good.”

  “I will.”

  Then Roger gave his son a hug. “Need anything, just text me on your BlackBerry.”

  Jake had a BlackBerr y? How busy could a ten-year-old’s schedule be? My day planner at his age would have been breakfast, school, lunch, school, supper, TV, bed. Or during the summer: breakfast, no school, lunch, no school, supper, TV, bed.

  I held the rear car door open and Jake climbed into the back. I shut him in and stood there awkwardly wondering what else I should say to my ex.

  Roger saved me the trouble, by asking with genuine concern (probably for Jake), “You will drive carefully? You look terrible.”