Walking with me was Moses Aronson. Moe is relatively large, a few inches over six feet, broad in the shoulders with a bear like head. Moe is an uncle from my father's side of the family. Actually, my great uncle. And, if this is to be believed, Uncle Moe is Irish.
"Boyo, I don't see anything that you have to own".
I looked over and nodded once. There are two reasons to scour the antique flea markets. The obvious reason is to unearth something where you can make a buck. There is a ton of merch at any flea that can be bought for ten and sold for twenty. That's a tough way to make a living.
Much more lucrative is to find a premium item and pay a little more than most dealers are willing to shell out. Every single day of the week, there are flea markets with items ranging from a couple of hundred dollars up to whatever. I once saw a Tiffany Lamp change hands three times in the course of an hour. And, get this; there was still enough profit in it for the guy that took it home.
The other reason for walking the market is even more important. That is to discover what is not there. The entire antiques trade, like any other business is built on relationships. To be successful it is necessary to have established relationships with both sellers and buyers.
Knowing this, you talk to dealers. Listen for rumors, whispers, innuendo. Who purchased what, what's being put up at auction, estates that have come on the market, collections being liquidated? You're hunting for merchandise that is brand new to the market, preferably something that hasn't seen the light of day for decades, maybe more.
I looked up and Moe had vanished. Time for a break. In the small restaurant, I walked up to the counter and ordered a slice of cherry pie and black coffee. Took them back to the table, sat down and waited.
Hard Knocks came in the door, got some coffee and joined me. Like many dealers, he's in his sixties and retired from some job or another. Average height, florid complexion with a beak nose. You know, I never did know his real name.
HK says, "Peoples are asking questions, P".
Hard deals in militaria, specifically World War II stuff.
"What questions?"
"Forgeries, art forgeries. They wants to know who does 'em. How to find 'em. Pick, these ain't plesant folk."
"Knocky, why are you telling me?"
"Your name is coming up. Be careful, P. I don't like the way this smells."
"Thanks Knock. Let me know if you hear anything else. Do you have my number?"
That, however, was not the end of it. In the course of walking the flea, three more guys tell me something very similar. Two guys, no one we know, well dressed are looking for copies of master works. And, my name keeps coming up.
Before heading back to the city I stop at Danny Boy's table. "What do you have to get on the rug Danny?" I ask.
Danny Boy Boyle is a young black man that works almost exclusively in North Philadelphia. His wife, Mai, who is a lovely young Vietnamese woman, purchases antiques and collectibles from the aging African American community. Back in the forties, fifties probably up to the present, many of the people from this neighborhood worked as maids in the wealthy Main Line communities. I suppose that today the proper nomenclature would be domestics. Back then they were simply maids and cleaning ladies.
Anyway, you would be surprised that a common experience for these domestics was to receive discarded items from their masters, sorry, employers. These items could be anything from silverware, lamps, dishes, artwork or whatever. Many of these discarded items were quality when purchased and have only gone up in value over the years. You would be shocked; I know I was, to walk into a North Philadelphia row home and to see it furnished with quality furniture, knick-knacks and artwork.
DB is one of only a handful of people of color in the antiques game.
"Hey, man, I’m thinking, like maybe three hundred. Cool, huh?"
"No Danny, not cool at all. I’ll give you a grand, not a penny more."
What DBB had unearthed was a late 19th century Lori Pambak rug from the Southwest Caucasus. These lovely rugs typically have hexagon enclosed cruciform medallions. These medallions will differ in proportion from rug to rug but can be very elegant. They are highly sought after by collectors.
This particular rug was 5'4" x 6'8" that had a central medallion and two minor medallions surrounded by a series of geometric shapes on a red field. The rest of the colors included both light and dark blue, blue-green, gold, reddish brown and ivory.
This was in very nice condition and would retail for about eight thousand dollars. I could flip it to a buddy of mine for four grand. Enough money in it for everyone to make a profit.
Danny goes, "Huh?"
"Danny, it's worth a little more than you think. Take the G."
"Sure, P, sure man. Whatever you say."
Mai smiles and says, "For that kind'a money, Mr. Picker, you can have it gift wrapped."
"Not necessary Mai. I’ll take it as is. See ya later, guys. And thanks."
"No, thank you P. Later, dude."
I run over to New Hope to see my friend Barry. He has one of the more successful antique businesses in the area. Barry specializes in vintage garden decorations and oriental rugs. Oh yeah, we share a love of cigars.
He sees me pull up and comes out to greet me. After exchanging hellos I pop the trunk and pull out the Pambak.
"Nice rug. How much?"
"I got a grand in it. What can you do?"
Barry walks around the rug which is laid out in the parking lot. He looks at the rug, looks up at me, back at the rug. He smiles, "How's four thousand?"
"Perfect."
We walk into his shop and he writes me a check. He reaches into a humidor that sits next to the register and pulls out a cigar.
"Here," he says, "Try this. And by the way. People have been asking for you. Two guys, dark suits."
I ask, "And, what did you tell 'em?"
"Nothing."
"Thanks. Catch ya later."
I head home. My place is in a Philly suburb on the other side of the Schuylkill River. My mind begins to wander and tries to make sense of what is happening. Something is tickling at the back of my brain but I can't quite put my finger on it. Everything that I heard today must be related to my South Philly visit yesterday. I still don't see how.
Early the next morning, around 4:00am, I pull the '56 Chevy pickup out of the garage and head up to the Columbus Farmers Market.
It was established in 1929 by one Harry Ruopp. Originally, it was a livestock and farm equipment auction held at 11:00am every Thursday. Over the years it has become a well known shopping center and flea market. It sits on about 200 acres and is one of the largest markets on the East coast. It's about an hour from me, located on Route 206 in Columbus, NJ.
I pull in around five thirty and park in the customer lot. I'm here to buy, not sell. There are a few high clouds and the air is a little brisk.
I walk into the indoor market and grab a donut and coffee. Step back outside and wander the flea. I run into Mark, a dealer from Staten Island. We've known each other for a long time. Average height, stocky with thinning hair. I like him.
His table has an assortment of items from a clean out from his neck of the woods. Clean outs are a superb method of acquiring new stock. This stuff looks like it hasn't seen the light of day for over a century.
"Yeah, yeah," he says, "This guy lived into his nineties, and get this, he lived in his parents house his whole life. This stuff has some age."
No kidding. Most of it was just stuff, old stuff, but stuff nonetheless. One thing, however, did catch my eye.
"Mark, how much for the pocket watch?"
It was a Swiss 14K gold minute repeater chronograph with a moonphase calendar, circa 1890. It had a white enamel dial, black marking for indicating day, date and month along with a moon phase aperture. The hands were gold and blue steel. This particular watch chimes with different tones to designate minutes, quarter hours and hours. Nice loud and clear chimes. I had only seen one other. The full retail on this is $9,500. Beautiful.