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It was something
you didn't often see on the expressway: a factory-condition '48
Chevy woodie, glossy black--it had, easily, twenty coats of paint--with
gleaming wooden side panels, from which came its nickname, and
whitewalls like new ivory.
Traffic was on the cusp of the shift-change rush and the woodie
glided along, holding its own, its chrome winking at the passing
one-coat wonders with their composite bumpers and similar shapes,
like sausages on an assembly line.
Normally, Jeffrey Talbot would acknowledge the waves and smiles
from others on the road who slowed down to admire its lupine
beauty, but he was too preoccupied with the day's events.
The hour-long trip back to Seattle was just what he required.
He rolled up his shirtsleeves, welcoming the late-afternoon sun
that streamed through the windshield.
The heady scent of the car's leather mingled with the fragrant,
aged musk of the antiques secured in back, creating an amalgam
that permeated Jeff's senses and soothed him like a balm--a much-needed
balm after today's run-in with Frank Hamilton.
It had started innocently enough. Both he and Hamilton had shown
up at a home where an estate sale was advertised to begin the
next day.
The two men were antiques pickers, those largely behind-the-scenes
individuals who hunted down items craved by an increasing onslaught
of consumers interested in history or heritage or investment
or, simply, a new way of decorating. Pickers looked for bargains,
then turned a profit by reselling their found treasures to dealers,
or private parties with specific tastes.
It was the pickers' grassroots approach--search the classifieds
for promising sales--estate, garage, moving--then drop by early
and try to cut a deal. This practice was called "high-grading."
The two pickers had crossed paths several times, and Jeff had
learned Hamilton's strategies, his habits, his tells, as though
he were an opponent in a poker game. This trait of Jeff's was
a holdover from his years with the FBI. Sometimes, Jeff suspected
that his training with the Bureau was being put to better use
now that he was working fulltime in the cutthroat world of antiques.
He could predict Frank Hamilton's approach to buying antiques,
probably before Hamilton himself knew it.
Hamilton's boyish charm had a sexual quality that Jeff suspected
was his most valuable asset. This was obvious because he usually
targeted women--and he usually succeeded.
Frank Hamilton displayed a different personality for each of
three age groups:
The young ones, eyes sparkling in response to his flirting, said
they had better things to do with their Saturday nights than
spend them polishing Grandma's silver. Hamilton easily plucked
a young thing of her sterling legacy, and she gave it up willingly.
With middle-aged women, he portrayed a college kid--far from
home and missing Mommy. Most guys don't give their mothers a
second thought once they're out from under the matriarchal thumb.
But Mom doesn't know that. So, pretty young Frank cashes in.
She gives him milk and cookies. She sews on loose buttons. She
sends him home with leftovers--and an antique pedestal table.
He's trying to make a little money for schoolbooks and, besides,
what is she going to do with that gaudy old piece of furniture
when he can get it out of her way and give her a little cash
to boot?
Hamilton would later resell the table--with its pietra dura
inlay, trinity of carved dragons at the feet, and maker's signature
with his Florence address included, no less--for enough to keep
him in Italian loafers till someone outlasted Mussolini.
With the elderly, Hamilton was an odd combination of politeness
and urgency. He got them to warm up to him, then he turned up
the heat: This deal won't be around tomorrow! You'd better act
fast! You're going to lose out!
Hamilton had been trying this last method on an old lady when
Jeff showed up today.
Only it appeared that he'd forgotten to add the charm.
The large, two-story clapboard house sat off by itself twelve
country miles from Interstate 90, southeast of Seattle. Jeff
had eased the woodie down the long driveway, gravel crunching
beneath the tires. He'd recognized Hamilton's old Ford pickup
near the house.
Hamilton, in his customary uniform of T-shirt, jeans, oversized
sport coat, and loafers without socks, was having a heated discussion
with a squat, white-haired woman in faded overalls and a red
checkered blouse.
Jeff parked a couple of car lengths back from the pickup and
sat there, watching.
Suddenly Hamilton popped his forehead with the heel of his left
hand. It wasn't the first time Jeff had seen the young picker
do this, and he knew what it meant: Hamilton was dangerously
close to losing it. Jeff stepped out of the woodie and approached
the two slowly. He wanted to be close enough to help the elderly
woman if Frank didn't back down, but he also wanted to be far
enough away so that she wouldn't feel he was threatening her
as well.
Just then, she produced a cell phone from her left pocket and,
without breaking eye contact with Hamilton, punched the keypad
with her left thumb. Jeff barely heard the three soft beeps over
Hamilton's voice, but Frank seemed to have heard them loud and
clear, because his mouth clamped shut midsentence.
The woman eyed the young picker fiercely. "You get the hell
out of here now, or I'll hit Send."
Hamilton didn't budge.
"I didn't get this old by bluffing. Now, git!"
She lunged toward the young man. He stepped back. Jeff figured
Frank wasn't afraid, merely surprised by the old woman's sudden
movement.
Nonetheless, it had the desired effect. Hamilton mumbled something
about her missing out, then stomped toward his pickup. He jumped
when he saw Jeff, stopped briefly to glare at him before climbing
into the cab. After grinding the starter to its core, Hamilton
got the motor to turn. He threw the truck in gear and took off.
It lurched over the lawn, shaved past the woodie, and managed
a skidding left turn at the end of the driveway.
Jeff looked at the woman and chuckled. "I was about to offer
my services, but it appears you don't need them."
"What? Oh, this." She held up the phone. "I'd
already be dead and buried if I thought this would bring the
local yokels out here in time to help me."
She eased her other hand from the right pocket of the overalls.
It held a .38 caliber snub-nose.
Jeff grinned.
The old lady grinned back. "My peripheral vision is still
intact. You were cool as iced tea when I pulled this handgun;
not skittish like that kid. Are you a cop?"
"FBI. Used to be, anyway. I switched to antiques because
I wasn't seeing enough action."
The woman chuckled, then motioned for Jeff to follow her.
Later,
approaching the interstate on-ramp with a carload of antiques
from the old woman's garage, he'd seen Frank Hamilton's pickup
on the shoulder of the road.
He almost went on past. Then he cursed, pulled in behind the
Ford, and rolled down the window. Hamilton, who had been leaning
against the truck's bed, walked toward him.
"Did she quit you?" Jeff asked, indicating the pickup.
"Nope," Hamilton muttered as he walked past the driver's
window. "Just wanted to see if you'd gotten past the old
lady's crappy attitude."
Jeff considered telling Frank who had the attitude, but he let
it slide. He got out of the car.
Hamilton peered through the back glass. "What the hell?
How…?"
"Just good business, Frank. You wouldn't recognize it."
"I make out fine."
Jeff opened the hatch--in his opinion, those SUV owners had nothing
on his station wagon--and repositioned a wooden box packed with
bubble-wrapped statuary that was crowding a pristine wicker perambulator.
It was rare to find one of these old baby carriages that hadn't
either been painted to within an inch of its life, or damaged
from storage in damp basements and outbuildings with leaky roofs,
or abused beyond repair while being used as a toy by the very
children who had once lain swaddled in its shelter. He straightened,
looked at Hamilton. "What happened to you back there?"
"I was there first, man. You know the rules."
"Rules?" Jeff's rule book contained two: Do Unto Others
(the original one, not the smart-mouthed spin-offs), and The
Customer Is Always Right.
"Yeah, rules." Hamilton smirked. "You've been
at this long enough to know the damn rules."
Jeff's expression didn't change. At thirty-seven, his hair hadn't
started turning to gray, and it hadn't started turning loose,
either. He wouldn't go back to being Hamilton's age even if the
deal included Whistler's Mother.
"You were coming on too strong, Frank. She had to order
you off her property, for God's sake. Don't you know how to take
a hint from a woman?"
"I've never had any complaints." Hamilton swaggered
up to the woodie and it was as if he'd seen the perambulator
for the first time. He reached into the back of the car and gently
stroked the soft lining. Suddenly, he turned and hurried toward
his pickup.
While a perplexed Jeff contemplated the contradictions in the
man--harsh bravado, then gentle reflection, then abrupt flight--Hamilton
turned again. The rebel mask was back in place. "You think
people don't talk about your secrets in that fancy house on the
hill, old man?" He spat the words out bitterly, leaning
on old man, but his voice had a nervous edge to it.
Jeff smiled. He'd heard the rumors about his home life. They
ranged from harmless speculation (he had a harem of women at
his bidding), to downright sinister (he had an old aunt who'd
gone berserk and was kept locked in a room on the third floor).
There were more false stories told about his personal life than
there were fakes in the antiques world.
Before Jeff could respond, Hamilton had said, "Don't ever
move in on my game again. Understand?" He had vaulted into
the pickup's cab and headed up the ramp to I-90.
Now, trying to sort through this bizarre chain of events, Jeff
almost missed his exit. He quickly checked the rearview mirror,
then swerved and caught the inside of the vee.
Episodes like the one with Hamilton made Jeff wonder if he should
go back into law enforcement. Just as quickly, though, he recalled
why he'd left in the first place.
He'd grown weary of tracking missing art and antiques--operative
word, missing. He'd rarely had any actual contact with
antiques.
Oh, occasionally, he'd go undercover to make a buy. The FBI doesn't
have an art theft unit as such, but the machine operates efficiently.
The Bureau's corner-office crowd learned of Jeff's genuine love
for antiques, and figured that gave him an edge over other field
agents. He was first-call when they needed a buyer. The problem
was, it didn't happen that often. Most things went missing and
stayed missing. Some things stayed underground forever.
He saw photos from museum files, and artists' records whose works
had been stolen from galleries. He saw curators' offices and
fronts for illegitimate fencing operations. He spoke with somber-faced
security guards who didn't know if they'd be looking for employment
by the end-of-the-week whistle, and thugs who'd give their right
ears before they'd give you a lead on a missing Van Gogh.
As a buyer, he saw the high-pressure salesmen: sleazes who wouldn't
guarantee a provenance, scumbags who danced around issues of
origin and skirted direct questions about an object's owner.
The go-betweens, that's who he'd dealt with. Every damn one of
them. Go-betweens.
He'd gotten out fast--stunning his fellow field agents, his squad
leader, everybody. He wanted to be on a higher road. He wanted
to rescue antiques from the basements, storage buildings, and
yard sales where people either let them gradually go to ruin,
or sold them for a few bucks to others who slapped a coat of
paint on them with no regard to possible value.
Jeff looked upon his current profession as more of a calling.
He was a champion of sorts, a savior of lost souls, a redeemer
of things that couldn't redeem themselves.
Antiques. He wondered how Hamilton would behave the next time
they ran into each other. And they would run into each
other. No place was large enough to avoid the likes of Hamilton
when you were in the antiques business. Not even Seattle.
Especially Seattle.
The Emerald City loved its antiques, even if it didn't have a
clue about how those antiques arrived in its quaint shops and
antiques malls. No matter. Jeff's veins were filled with the
oil that fueled railroad lanterns, the linseed that preserved
antique furniture, the inks of ancient documents, the pigments
of masterpiece paintings. Antiques weren't merely in his blood;
they'd replaced it a long time ago.
Jeff pulled into the parking lot of his favorite antiques mall,
and consciously gave up trying to understand Frank Hamilton's
motives. Maybe he'll learn with age, Jeff thought as he
stepped out of the car and put on his Harris tweed. If someone
doesn't kill him first.
(End
of Chapter One)
{ RETURN TO
JEFF TALBOT SECTION
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