Antiques Maul by Barbara Allan Read Free Book Online Page B

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