Collectibles, page 7
“What did he do after that?”
“Drove his car into a tree at seventy-five miles per hour,” I said. “I still have every issue we published. I’ve kept them since I was a kid.”
“I’m not surprised.”
I led him through the front door into the foyer, which is impressive, not in the sense that’s grand, but because it opens out to a big, inviting living room with a view of a pond surrounded by old, well-groomed shade trees. The interior design is Contemporary Rustic Farmhouse. Lots of leather and wood and rugs. It looks like a page out of a Ralph Lauren home-furnishing catalog, minus the hunting trophies, because it is. That’s true of the whole house.
“Would you like to see your room?”
“Sure.”
I led him down one of the two hallways off the foyer. The original owner of the house had four kids, and the west wing was for them, but I’d renovated and expanded it over the years. I opened the door to the second guest room and beckoned him inside. He navigated his walker through the doorway.
The bed was huge, with a thick comforter and lots of pillows, and a little wooden step ladder to help him get inside. It was very inviting. It even made me want to take a nap. There was a flat screen TV on the wall and a stone fireplace that worked, but was mostly for show. The open door to the bathroom revealed a walk-in shower with a rain-head and a wide, built-in seat with handles on the wall to make it easy to get up and down.
Buddy went to the bedroom window and parted the shade to see what was outside. His room overlooked the colorful flower garden and the little creek that ran through it. Everything was in bloom and the creek had a nice soothing burble as the water rolled over the rocks. Guillermo did good work. When Buddy turned back to me, there was a big smile on his face.
“This is the Ritz compared to how I’ve been living,” Buddy said. “I may never leave.”
That was nice of him to say. “Would you like to rest for a bit? Or would you like to see the screening room?”
“Give me the grand tour.”
I led him back to the foyer and into the other long hallway, which led to a set of ornate double doors. “This house once belonged to a TV producer who basically ran his studio from here. He built the original screening room at the end of the hall to watch dailies and rough cuts. I thought this would be the perfect place to exhibit my collection.”
I swept my hand to indicate the lighted, built-in display cases that lined the paneled walls on either side of us. Buddy’s attention had been focused on our destination, the double doors, and he hadn’t noticed the walls. Now he did.
He froze and I saw the flash of fear in his eyes.
“Are those . . . urns?”
∗ ∗ ∗
This is always the tricky part.
“Yes, they are.” I said it as gently as I could. I didn’t want him to have a heart attack. I knew from past experience that it was a real possibility.
Each shelf contained an identical urn, each labeled with a brass plaque inscribed with the name of the lost series, the number of episodes aired or unaired, the year of production, and the name of the deceased. There were forty-two urns in alphabetical order and room for many more.
I pointed to the first one. “This is Adams of Eagle Lake. They only made two episodes in 1975 and I have them both.”
Buddy pointed at the urn. “And that guy.”
“The producer. He never stopped believing in the series.” I noticed that Buddy had gone pale. “Don’t worry, you’re not in any danger and you’re not a prisoner. You’re free to go any time you’d like. But I’m hoping you’ll stay with us.”
“As part of your home mausoleum?”
I smiled, in an effort to reassure him, but also because I know how creepy it seemed. I’d been through this forty-two times before. “This is only part of my collection. Let me show you the rest. I think you’ve worked with some of them.”
I cracked open one of the double doors to the screening room, releasing the low hum of conversation from inside, and motioned for him to take a peek. He approached cautiously, leaned on his walker, and looked inside.
The windowless room was inclined toward a huge movie screen and was furnished with twenty-five reclining theater seats, half of which were occupied by elderly men and women, all of them Talent. Writers, directors, actors and editors.
“I did an episode of The Magician directed by that guy in the wheelchair. Can’t remember his name. I thought he’d died years ago.” Buddy turned back to me. “Why are they here?”
I closed the door. “This is where they live now.”
He shook his head, confused. I didn’t blame him, it was a lot to take in. “I don’t understand. What exactly do you collect?”
“I told you, lost TV shows.”
Buddy tipped his head toward the theater. “But those aren’t shows. Those are people.”
“And without those people, The Talent, shows are just meaningless images. It’s not enough for me to simply watch the episodes. That’s fleeting and superficial. Anybody can have that. I want to have the history and the memories, to know what it felt like to make the show, only to have it broadcast for an instant or never be seen at all. I want to know what it means to be the last person who remembers and cherishes it. When I have all that, then I truly own the show.”
“The way I do with Pete McShane.”
“The way they did with their shows,” I said, gesturing to the display cases. “The way I do now that those people are gone. If I don’t, who will?”
I thought it was a very compelling argument.
Buddy looked back at urns, at all the lost shows and the people who’d never let go of them. He was free to leave, but the fine print in the irrevocable power-of-attorney that he’d signed said I got to keep him and his assets when he died. Buddy was beginning to understand that now without having to read the contract. But it’s always better if they think they are making the decision themselves.
He gave me a little, accepting nod and sighed. “So what happens now?”
“We’re all eager to see Pete McShane.” I held open the door to the screening room for him. “What do you say?”
Buddy smiled and hobbled into the theater, where he was greeted with rousing applause.
∗ ∗ ∗
Seven months later, I had a new urn in my collection.
Pete McShane
Four and a half episodes. Unaired. 1975
BUDDY DININO
Bar Wall Panda
Rob Hart
* * *
Tommy nursed his second whiskey, wishing he didn’t have to drink at all. But you can’t sit at a place like Rhine and order water. Especially when it was packed. He wished he could be closer to the far wall, but all the high-tops were occupied by rowdy kids celebrating a birthday, their happy-hour pitchers of beer still half-full.
So he settled for a seat at the East Village bar, sizing up the job in the reflection of the mirror. At least he had a good view. He could see the entirety of the drawing—a cartoon-style panda bear drawn in thick black marker on the sheetrock. It was set behind a square piece of clear Plexiglas, with heavy duty screws in each corner. There was a small light installed next to it, casting a yellow glow so you could see it clearly in the dimness of the space.
The drawing itself was roughly eleven by twenty-four inches. Given the location there was most likely a stud behind at least part of it, which meant screws. Tommy hoped none of the screws were behind the ink. If they were behind the bare wall, he could pull them out with a sharp drill bit and patch the holes. If he pulled up any of the ink, that might be a problem.
All told, he wanted to remove it with about six inches of clearance around each side, being sure to preserve the signature. At that size, it wouldn’t be too delicate to handle. Not that a piece of drywall is easy to remove and then transport intact. He hoped it wasn’t too thin. Three-eighths of an inch would be perfect. Smaller, it would be fragile. Thicker, and it would be heavy and tough to remove.
He had all the tools he needed. A rotary saw to make the cuts, magnets to locate screws and nails. He considered throwing a clear paint of lacquer on it, but the owner may have done that, and even if not, it would take a half-hour to dry and then forty-eight hours to cure.
Tommy glanced around the bar. There were old, beaten cameras in two corners. Easy enough to knock those out. He had been worried about getting in. There was a side door, on a bright street, facing an apartment building. Not ideal. But there was an old smoking patio behind the bar that sat inside an alcove of buildings. No easy way in or out, and while the door was locked, it wasn’t alarmed. As long as he could get to the roof, he could make it inside.
After a few nights of watching from Tompkins Square Park, it seemed like the bar crew cleared out most nights around three a.m., unless it was a weekend, when it was closer to five. With the sun set to rise around seven a.m., that meant he couldn’t do it on a weekend. Even though this wasn’t a high-traffic street, this was still a city that was not fond of sleeping.
He had considered bringing another person in to help, but this seemed manageable. He took a sip of whiskey and walked through it in his head. Starting a little after three, that would be ten minutes to get in (hopefully), five to cut the cameras (if that), ten minutes to lay out his tools and remove the Plexiglas. Ten minutes to remove screws, which usually only takes a few minutes but he would go slow and do it right. That’s . . . thirty-five minutes. He wanted to be out by five a.m., after last call but before the bread trucks.
That was reasonable.
Tommy was considering whether he should bring some heavy-duty cardboard to wrap around the drywall, give it a little added support and protection, when a voice cut through the din.
“Need another one, buddy?”
Tommy looked down at the jumble of melting ice in his glass. And then up at the bartender, a barrel-chested yeti with machine gun arms who seemed annoyed Tommy was taking up prime Saturday night drinking real estate.
Tommy threw a twenty on the bar and said, “Keep the change.”
The bartender offered a harsh smirk. “Those were twelve each, my friend. And you’re not pretty enough for a buy back on the second round. Maybe the fourth.”
Tommy sighed. Dug a ten out and dropped it on the twenty. Now his pocket was empty. He weaved through the crowd, headed for the door, figuring it was a good investment.
∗ ∗ ∗
After Tommy finished explaining how he would do the job, the man he knew only as Niles—and that probably wasn’t even his real name—sat still as a statue, like he was waiting for Tommy to start talking.
Everything about the man looked designer. From his stiff well-tailored jeans, to his mirror-polished boots, to his scrubbed and glowing skin. He looked like he was wearing a hairpiece, though. Tommy was pretty sure it was a hairpiece. That mop of golden blond hair just seemed to sit wrong on his head.
Tommy lingered in the uncomfortable silence, looking around the expanse of the office building where they’d been meeting. It was still under construction, and most of the walls hadn’t gone up yet, so he could see from one side to the other, and it was all dust and drywall and painting supplies. Thirty stories up, and there was a brilliant view of the Empire State Building outside the window, nearly blinding in the morning sunlight. He was pretty sure Niles owned the building, or at least the few floors that were under construction, which meant it would be easy enough to pull the permits to find out what his real name was.
But Tommy didn’t care about his real name.
He cared about the money.
“So there’s virtually no startup cost here,” Tommy said, “since I have all the tools. And I’m pretty sure I can do it by myself, so there’s no need to bring in another set of hands, and . . .”
“When?” the man asked.
“When will I do it?” He shrugged. “A week? It’s got to be a weeknight. That gives me time to gather a little more intel and do some prep.”
“Good,” Niles said, getting up and brushing off his still-clean pants, like the act of being there had sullied him.
“We haven’t talked money,” Tommy said.
Niles nodded. “Twenty-five should cover it.”
Tommy did a quick analysis in his head. That bought him a little over a year of mortgage payments, which would get his head above water on a few other things, but it didn’t seem like the risk was worth the reward, so he said, “Fifty.”
Two and a half years of mortgage payments.
Niles glared at him for a moment before nodding.
“What is this thing to you, anyway?” Tommy asked.
Niles smiled. “I like the piece. I like the artist. I had an intermediary offer to buy it—my name wasn’t connected, of course—and the owner of the bar refused to sell. It’s the only piece by this artist I can’t easily procure, so naturally, I must have it.” Niles gave a derisive little laugh. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
Tommy didn’t like the way he said that, like a construction manager couldn’t appreciate art. He liked art just fine. He has a reproduction of van Gogh’s Flower Beds in Holland hanging in his living room. Which, granted, was a poster he bought on the internet and placed inside a $14.99 Ikea frame, but he felt like it classed the place up.
A cartoon panda, though, he couldn’t figure. It looked more suited to hang in his daughter Chloe’s bedroom.
“Just don’t damage it,” Niles said, “and do not forget to include the signature in the corner. That’s the most important part.”
Tommy nodded, a little annoyed, because during his spiel he specifically referenced the signature, confirming that Niles was barely listening, but he didn’t feel the need to say anything. He just needed to focus on the job and get it done.
“You sure you don’t want me to try and, I don’t know, redraw it?” Tommy asked. “Swap it out or something? Otherwise they’ll be looking for it.”
“It has to be clear the piece has been stolen,” the man said. “How else will it be clear I have the original?”
Without saying goodbye, Niles turned and left, disappearing down a darkened hallway. It didn’t need to be said; Tommy would wait for a few minutes and leave separately, so they wouldn’t be seen together. Plenty of eyes and cameras on the midtown sidewalk.
He wandered the space, giving Niles a head start, being careful where he stepped—the floor was unfinished, and at a few points there were just some flimsy layers of plywood laid down, balanced on the I-beams. He nudged one aside with his boot and found a two-story drop. That should be more clearly marked off. It was a safety hazard, and would probably end with someone getting written up.
Again, he wondered if he was doing the right thing.
The job came to him through a friend. Though, really, “friend” was too strong a word for Ralph.
Ralph was another tradesman Tommy had worked with, who said he had a high risk-high reward gig that Tommy would be perfect for.
Why don’t you take it yourself then? Tommy had asked, as the two of them shared a cigarette during their break, outside a teardown in Tribeca.
Needs a steady hand, Ralph said, holding out his own meaty paw, which shook a little, and would continue to shake until he got a drink in him. Just kick me a finder’s fee. Ten percent?
Damn it. Tommy forgot about that. Okay. Two years of mortgage payments.
Still, not bad.
∗ ∗ ∗
Tommy woke from a restless sleep. He stared into the sunlight spilling across his bedroom ceiling. If he woke up on his own that meant Chloe was still asleep. Small mercies. It was always nice to have a few minutes of quiet to himself, before their small Bay Ridge row house was filled with frenetic five-year-old energy.
Two days until the gig. Two days until he’d stop being Tommy Quinn, construction manager, and become Tommy Quinn, art thief.
It’d be funny if the thought didn’t make his heart race.
Just this one time. In and out. Buy himself a little breathing room. It wasn’t for him. It was for Chloe.
Chloe, who’d be stuck with his sister if he got popped for this and went to jail.
So the trick was to not get popped. He’d laid out his gear in the garage. Gone over the plan so many times he had it memorized. Picked a Tuesday night, when it wouldn’t be busy. He even built a display case for the panda—dark wood frame with rabbet joints and a glass front. Maybe Niles wouldn’t like it, but woodwork was a good repository for nervous energy.
The tempo of his heart began to pick up, so he vowed to put the job out of his head. It was Sunday, the Lord’s mandated day of rest. Even better, it was the day of his people—St. Patrick’s Day. Which meant beers and burgers at Uncle John’s house on Staten Island. Chloe could run around in the back yard with her cousins, and he could just relax and enjoy the afternoon.
By the time he reached the porch, to pick up his copy of the Daily News, he was feeling a little better. More still when Chloe padded out of her room in her pink polka-dot pajamas, bleary-eyed, and asked for butter on cold bread, before running for the living room to put on cartoons.
After Tommy delivered her breakfast, and accepted an “I love you Daddy” in return, he made his coffee and some eggs, then sat down with the paper, flipped it open, and his heart went from zero to sixty in the time it took to get to page three.
Right there was the panda.
He read through the story so fast he couldn’t process it; he needed to stop, force himself to slow down, so he could understand it.
Niles never actually explained what the drawing was, and Tommy never bothered to look it up. But apparently, it was drawn by a Japanese street artist named Hiromasa Sato nearly ten years ago. He sketched it on the wall one night after a gallery showing. At the time, Sato was an up-and-comer in the art scene, and the owner of Rhine thought it would be a fun little piece of history.
