Vultures at Twilight by Charles Atkins Read Free Book Online

Evie’s spider-leg candle stand.
    â€˜You know this is a repro,’ he stated, after measuring the top.
    â€˜Yes,’ said Ada, ‘but Evie knew that when she bought it.’
    â€˜It’s good quality,’ he conceded, pulling a magnet from out of a pocket and affixing it to a number of small metal statues and lamps.
    â€˜What’s that for?’ I asked.
    He looked up. ‘I’m trying to see what’s bronze and what isn’t. If the magnet sticks it’s got iron in it, and it’s definitely not bronze.’
    â€˜And if it doesn’t stick?’ I asked.
    â€˜Could be bronze, could be brass, could be copper, maybe pot metal. The magnet narrows it down.’
    â€˜Interesting,’ said Ada. ‘So how do you know for sure?’
    â€˜Bronze is solid, real heavy. If I want to know for sure, I’ll scratch the base. If it’s zinc alloy you get a silver streak; bronze looks bronze.’
    â€˜What about the mantel clock?’ Ada asked.
    â€˜It’s nice, but it’s iron, not bronze. Pity.’
    â€˜If it were bronze, what would it be worth?’ I asked, having some sense of the correct value.
    â€˜About four grand,’ he said, coming close to the figure I had in mind. He then beat me to my next question. ‘It’s still worth something. A lot of people like these Victorian figural clocks. In a West Coast shop, you could probably get fifteen hundred.’
    â€˜What about in Connecticut?’ I asked.
    â€˜A lot less, maybe half. Everything’s cheaper here, that and the economy is in the toilet.’
    â€˜More stuff around,’ Ada commented.
    â€˜Exactly,’ he said, spotting the Hassam painting. ‘But even out here, stuff is drying up. Everyone thinks they’re a dealer and selling on eBay.’ He pointed at the picture. ‘You know what that is?’
    â€˜I think so,’ said Ada, ‘but you tell me.’
    We watched as he sucked in his gut and squeezed through the plants. He looked back at Ada and smiled. ‘You can’t be too careful,’ he commented dryly.
    â€˜No,’ she agreed, ‘you can’t.’
    â€˜Mind if I take it off the wall?’
    â€˜Go ahead.’
    He eased the painting off its hooks and maneuvered it overhead to the sofa. From his back pocket he pulled out his flashlight and ran the beam over the surface of the painting, both front and back.
    â€˜You got a honey here.’ He wedged the light back into his pocket. ‘This is a real good piece of American Impressionism. The painter used to live around here.’
    â€˜Childe Hassam,’ Ada offered, sounding like she might know what she was talking about.
    â€˜Exactly. It’s not my usual thing,’ he said. ‘It should go to New York, to one of the big houses, or else sell it directly to a dealer. If I were you, I’d take some pictures of it, bring them to the city and get a few quotes. If you want me to do it, I’d take a fifteen percent cut of whatever it brought.’
    â€˜That seems kind of high,’ I said, quickly calculating his proposed cut of three hundred thousand dollars.
    â€˜Like I said –’ and he chomped down on the cigar butt for emphasis – ‘ask around. Bet the auction houses will take at least that.’
    He took no notes, but seemed to be tallying values in his head.
    â€˜Do you have a shop?’ I asked.
    â€˜Used to, too much overhead. Now I’m strictly a jobber.’
    â€˜What’s that?’ Ada asked.
    â€˜I wholesale to other dealers. Not around here so much, but up and down the coast, the Midwest, California. I have dealers all over.’
    â€˜Interesting,’ I said, trying to reconcile his biker get up and rank cigar with the obvious care he took in handling Evie’s porcelain. ‘Do you like your work?’
    He looked up from the eighteenth-century polychrome soup tureen he’d been