Moving sales are my favorites, especially when Grandma’s bailing out for Florida. Decades of stuff priced to sell quick, cash on the barrelhead, no gouging, everybody’s happy.
Estate sales have similar goods but they can be a downer when they’re run by grieving widows. Or surly relatives who were counting on a really big bequest from Uncle Ernie.
Garage sales are great if they’re actually in a garage and you arrive early enough.
Rummage sales depend on the sponsors. The richer the church, the better the stuff. Sometimes people donate valuable things just to prove they can.
Dead last on my list, or anyone’s list, are execution sales. The bill collector’s last resort. Cops slap a lien on your stuff and auction it off. But since people only bid dimes on the dollar, a poor bastard can lose everything he owns and still owe bigtime.
The goods at execution sales are usually a notch above trash. If a guy’s busted flat, how much good stuff can he have?
When I first opened my store, my father-in-law steered some city business my way. Execution sales. Whoopee. It was like running an estate sale with the corpse moping around. Looking sadly over your shoulder as you price tag his stuff. Appraising the value of his life. For a quick sale.
Never again. I’d rather backstroke across Saginaw Bay with a skunk stapled to my forehead. But you don’t always get to choose your poison. Sometimes life just serves it up.
A biker blew into my store on a blustery November afternoon. Didn’t glance at my stock, strode straight to the counter. Big guy, faded jeans, leather vest, tattooed arms, ratty beard.
“You own this place?”
“More or less. Can I help you?”
“Do you buy stuff?”
“Sometimes. What kind of—”
“I got all kinds. Furniture, appliances, plates. All old.”
“How old? Older than you, or—”
“Older than your grandma, pal. I’m in this ol’ wreck of a house and we’re gettin’ evicted by the damn city. I gotta sell everything off. You interested or not?”
“I can take a look, sure. No promises.”
“I can’t spend promises anyway. Bring cash.” He gave me an address on Centralia, an older section of town. I said I’d stop by after supper. Almost didn’t go. I didn’t like the look of... whatever his name was. He hadn’t mentioned it.
Wreck of a house was an understatement. Tudor style, complete with parapets and matching towers, three stories, Civil War era, maybe older. Hadn’t seen paint since the Depression.
There was something familiar about it. Couldn’t think what. Since my accident I have a lot of memories like that. Fragments. Images with no sense of time or place. Remembering my past is like watching a slide show of someone else’s summer vacation.
Then it hit me. The Addams Family TV show. Morticia and Uncle Fester would feel right at home in this dump.
Lurch answered the doorbell. My biker host, looking even edgier than before. At least I wasn’t alone. Half the dealers from Oldtown were already inside.
Marta Cohen from L’Attitude was prowling through piles of odds and ends in the living room. Squared off and surly in black denims, combat boots, and a muscle shirt, I figured Marta could probably stomp Lurch in a fair fight. Or an unfair one.
I said hi but Marta ignored me, lost in the hunt. She already had a stack of stuff set aside, a couple of dusty cameras, a Western Electric wall phone, ashtrays, a storm lantern with a cracked chimney.
Ted Sorensen from Needful Things was there too, gawky as a stork in horn-rims and a red Mr. Rogers cardigan. The only shopper I didn’t recognize was a pert, dark woman with a curly mop and Mediterranean features, bustling cheerfully through the stacks like a puppy at play.
Obviously nothing interesting would be around for long. I began working the room. The goods were an odd mix. A K-Mart card table, particle-board serving trays, the kind of crapola Lurch would own. But some of the pieces were much older. A previous tenant, maybe.
I zeroed in on a 1920 Starck Victrola in the corner. Beat Ted Sorenson to it by a step. A little rough, but the motor still worked and there were spare needles in the cup. Perfect for a restorer. No price on it, or on anything else.
I glanced the question at the biker.
“Pick what you want, we’ll settle up at the end, okay? Don’t worry, I’ll make it work. Got no choice.”
Fair enough. I found a few more things, a painted bookcase, possibly Roycroft but more likely a copy; a child’s school slate; and a pair of Bean Patrolman handcuffs. I was almost ready to check out when I spotted a pop case of what looked like file cards. A closer look proved a lot more interesting. Three-inch plastic disks ringed with thumbnail-sized slides. View-Master reels, very early from the look of them. They weren’t even labeled.
“I noticed those.” The short, dark woman was at my shoulder. “What are they?”
“Slide reels, probably for a View-Master, the little binocular type viewers that give a 3-D effect?”
“Oh, I remember them. TV cartoon slides, right?”
“Only the ones made after 1960. Before that they had all kinds of things on them, street scenes, travelogues, even old movie stills. I’m not sure what these are, they aren’t labeled, but I know a dealer who loves this stuff.”
“You’re Stuart Kenyon, aren’t you? From Stu’s Nothing New?”
“That’s right. I’m sorry, should I know you?”
“Not yet. I’m Karla Frantzis. Clara Pattakos is my cousin. Clara’s Classic Collectibles? I’m buying Clara’s business.”
“Welcome to the asylum. How do you like it so far?”
“I love antiques and love managing the shop but I’ve got a lot to learn. Thanks for the tip on View-Master slides. Next time I’ll beat you to them.”
“No good deed goes unpunished.”
A quick smile transformed her face from interesting to... even more interesting. A good smile. “Ain’t it the truth,” she said. “Any other free tips?”
“That little box of glass slides? They’re negatives for a stereopticon, the View-Masters of the nineteenth century. I don’t carry them myself but I know Clara has a few. Don’t pay more than twenty bucks for the lot.”
“Thanks, I won’t. I’ll let you get back to scrounging. See you around, Stu’s Nothing New.”
Parking the case of stereopticon negatives with her stash, Karla returned to the stack of LPs she’d been sorting through. I finished my hunt without finding anything else worthwhile. I waved Lurch over to my little hoard. He was jumpy as a cricket on a hotplate, eyes shifting restlessly. Worried, or wired on uppers. Maybe both.
“These are the things I’m interested in. How much?”
“Man, I got no clue what this crap’s worth. What’ll you gimme for it?”
I did some mental arithmetic. “Thirty-five bucks for the Victrola, ten each for the bookcase and cuffs, five each for the drum and the slateboard. This box of reels might be worth a hundred or nothing at all. I’ll gamble a twenty on them. I make it... eighty-five bucks total.”
“That old record player ought to be worth more than a lousy thirty-five.”
“To a collector, maybe. Not to me.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, scowling. “You sure you don’t want nothing else? It’s all gotta go tonight.”
“Is there anything I haven’t seen? In the basement? Or maybe the garage?”
“The what?”
“The garage. Any old tools or—”
“Forget the damn garage!” he snapped. “Just gimme my money and clear the hell out!”
His reaction caught me by surprise. Lurch definitely needed to tweak his medication. But I let it pass. “No problem.” I counted out the cash. Several dealers glanced up at the edge in Lurch’s tone, gazelles startled by a lion’s cough.