“Yes, yes, what do you need?” said a man who appeared behind the counter, wiping his hands on a filthy towel. He was tall and stooped, his shirtsleeves were rolled up, his glasses were round, his mustache gray. He would have been the telegraph operator in a frontier town except the frontier was gone and everyone now had cell phones. “Are you here to buy or to sell?”
“Neither really,” I said. “I’d just like some information.”
“Public library has a very fine reference section. Eighteenth and the Parkway. Now if you’ll excuse me, we’re very busy.”
I looked around at the empty store. “This won’t take long.”
“Why don’t you come back when we’re under less of a rush?”
“When will that be?”
He glanced at his watch. “February,” he said.
“Are you Mr. Bullfinch?”
“No,” he said. “That was my father. Good day.”
“It is, isn’t it?” I said. “Twenty-dollar Saint Gaudens gold piece.”
He cocked his head. “What about it?”
“Worth much?”
“How can a question like that be answered, Mr…”
“Carl.”
“What year? What condition? Motto or no motto? Regular strike or proof? Please, Mr. Carl. The twenty-dollar Saint Gaudens is generally considered to be the most beautiful American coin ever minted. Let’s say a regular strike in decent condition, you could sell it for three hundred or so, buy it for four-fifty or so, prices varying depending on the year, the mint, and, of course, condition.”
“Three hundred thousand?”
He laughed. “No, Mr. Carl. There were seventy million issued between 1907 and 1933. They are beautiful but not rare. You seem disappointed.”
“Is there a higher end market for the coins. Are some vastly more valuable than others?”
“As with everything. Recently a Saint Gaudens, once the possession of King Farouk of Egypt, sold for over seven million dollars, but that was truly one of a kind. It had historical value. But there is a more accessible higher end, if you’re interested.
“Very,” I said.
Bullfinch opened the gate of the counter, walked to the door, opened it, peered outside, then closed it, locked it, pulled down the shade. “One moment, please.”
He disappeared into the room behind the counter and returned a few moments later with a flat black box. He placed it beneath the banker’s lamp, switched on the light, lifted open the box’s lid to reveal a surface of fine black velvet with a single coin atop it.
The coin shone in the light with the sweet glister of gold. About an inch and a third wide, it had a deeply sculpted figure of Lady Liberty striding forward amidst the brilliant rays of a radiant sun.
“May I touch it?” I said.
“No, you may not. Fabulous, no? This is a high-relief Saint Gaudens in excellent condition, rated at MS65. There were only eleven thousand of these issued, before the design was flattened for convenience. They didn’t stack well, you see, and the banks complained.”
“What’s it worth?”
“If you had one like it, Mr. Carl, I would buy it from you for, let’s say, thirty thousand dollars.”
“And how much would you sell this one for?”
“More.”
“I see.”
“This is a business.”
“It’s quite beautiful.”
“Yes it is. It is the finest coin in my stock.”
“So, this is what is referred to as ultra-high.”
Bullfinch snapped shut his black box, pulled it close to him, switched off the lamp. “That is not what I said. Good day, Mr. Carl, we are quite busy.”
“So what is an ultra-high?”
“It is something not worth considering.”
“Consider it for me,” I said.
Bullfinch clutched the black box in his long fingers, leaned forward, lowered his voice. “I’ve never seen one, you understand.”
“Go ahead.”
“Saint Gaudens’s original design called for something very unusual. He made a proof set, struck with nine blows from the minting press each. Nine, when normally there is only one. The result was spectacular, more sculpture than coin. Only twenty-four were struck, given to influential senators, to the president, a few notables. Twenty-four. They are very rare. Some of them are held by organizations never to be sold. Others have disappeared, a few disappeared in Philadelphia, the locations and purview completely unknown.”
“How much?”
“Mr. Carl, why the interest?”
“How much?” I said.
“Again, condition is of paramount importance. But recently, those that have reached the market have sold for in excess of one million dollars.”
“In excess?”
“Well in excess.”
“Well, well, well,” I said. “So four would be worth?”
“Now you’re being silly.”
“Yes, you’re right. I am.”
“You wouldn’t, Mr. Carl, happen to know the whereabouts of such a coin?”
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Bullfinch.”
“We could be of great assistance if you do.”
“I’m sure you could.”
“Would you like a card?”
“No, thank you,” I said, as I unlocked his door. “If need be, I know where to find you.”
“Good day, Mr. Carl.”
“It is,” I said, “isn’t it?”
“This is the big day, Victor,” said Dr. Mayonnaise, with an unseemly excitement in her voice.
“Yes, it is,” I said.
“He’s been waiting for you.”
“I’m sure he has.”
“Did you ever think this day would come? Did you?”
“No,” I said. “Truthfully, I did not.”
“The paperwork’s been signed and everything is settled so you’re free to take him home whenever you’re ready.”
“That’s great,” I said. “Just great.”
“He’ll need some care for a while. He’s still weak, but he’ll get stronger day by day.”
“That’s my father, like something out of Godspell. I want to thank you, Karen, thank you for everything. You were right about the medicine, you were right about Dr. Goetze. You’re a hell of a doctor.”
“I appreciate that, Victor. I really do. Not everything works out so well. We’re going to miss him here.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. Your father tells the most wonderful stories.”
“Stories? What about?”
“About you. That time, at school, when you mistakenly put your underwear on the outside of your pants?”
“Oh, that one. The funny thing is that I was in high school at the time.”
“Take care of him, Victor,” she said.
“I’ll try.”
She was right, Dr. Mayonnaise, my father was waiting for me, sitting in a wheelchair, in his street clothes, a small suitcase on his lap. The surgery had gone off without a hitch, his recovery was labeled remarkable by the staff, his breathing was growing stronger every day as he worked out his newly efficient lungs by blowing a ball in a tube for exercise. The ball and the tube were going home with him so he could continue his rehabilitation.
“Where you been?” he said when he saw me.
“Running an errand,” I said.
“They’re making me sit in this wheelchair. I don’t need no stinking wheelchair.”
“They’re afraid if you fall and break a hip on the way out you’ll sue.”
“And I would too, the bastards.”
“I could sure use the work. How do you feel?”
“I hurt,” he said. “I hurt all over.”
“That’s better than the alternative. I’ve been to the house and readied it for you, made it nice and cozy.”
“It’s never been nice and cozy.”
“Until now.”
Slowly I pushed him out the door of his room and down the hall. All the nurses stopped us and said good-bye, told him jokes. It was like there was a stranger in the chair, the way they were going on, someone who had charmed them all, had become like a favorite old uncle. How was that possible? At the last, Dr. Mayonnaise leaned over, gave him a little hug, said her words of encouragement.
“She’s a nice girl,” he said as we waited for the elevator.