skin. However! I nearly changed my mind about the art form after a girl I know had her eyebrows, eyeliner, and lipstick tattooed on. Think of the time she saves getting ready every morning! It might’ve worked if the guy’s hand had been steadier with the needle…but as it turned out, her eyebrows give her a perpetually startled look.)
After Miss Tweety-Bird had taken my drink order, my friendly stalker extended a manicured hand, perhaps not unintentionally showing off a Rolex watch that probably cost more than my used Buick.
He said, “Troy Hanson…from the auction the other day?”
I took the hand—warm, not sweaty (his, not mine). “How could I forget?”
He displayed those perfect teeth, which would have been charming except that the longer-than-normal incisors seemed predatory.
As if reading my mind, he said, “I’m not a predator, if that’s what you think.”
I waved that off with a smile, but said nothing, keeping my options open.
The smile disappeared. “I do have a good reason for tracking you down.”
“Okay. Let’s hear it.”
“I’m a picker.”
“ Excuse me?” I didn’t know what he meant by that and wasn’t sure I wanted to. Was he also a grinner, a smoker, and a midnight toker?
“I mean to say,” he said quickly, “that’s what I do for a living…find and purchase antiques for clients. For example, the owner of this restaurant might hire me to buy these”—he gestured to the wall of our booth where several forties and fifties vintage watermelon-oriented advertisements were nailed (several in worse racial taste than our cigar store Indian)—“to give the place a certain nostalgic look.”
“You work for various…businesses?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “I’m also hired by individuals, like the one who wanted me to get a particular antique at that auction yesterday.”
“Ah—the rolltop desk.”
“That’s right.” He looked down at the coffee cup held in his hands. “And I shouldn’t have let it go.”
“Why did you?”
Troy (I’ll call him by his first name because he was that good looking) glanced up, smiled one-sidedly. “I honestly don’t know…. In most instances, at an auction like that? I can be quite ruthless, I assure you.”
“Oh, that is reassuring.”
“But…” He shrugged, laughed silently. “I guess I was in a funny mood that day.” He smiled and his eyes met mine in that unmistakable you are hot, lady look. “And there was something about you, and that woman you were with, that was so…so…what is the word?”
“Pathetic?”
He laughed. “I was going to say endearing. A peculiar combination of naive and relentless.”
“I’m naive, and Mother is relentless, generally. Sometimes we trade off.”
He waved off my flip comment. “Anyway, I tracked you down to—”
“By tracked down, you mean followed me.”
He frowned in embarrassment. “I’m not proud of myself. But I would like to ask if you would consider selling the desk to me, at a profit. Whatever you think is fair.”
“It’s that important to you?”
He nodded. “You see, it would damage my reputation as a picker if word got around that I wasn’t reliable.”
“Surely your clients know you can’t win everything you bid on.”
“Yes. But I was authorized, for a desk of that style and vintage, to go higher than it actually went. I shouldn’t have allowed you girls to charm me so.”
“Yeah, well, Mother and me, we’re pretty much charm personified.”
“You are to me.”
Not knowing how much of this was B.S., and how much was him thinking he might make a bonus on the sale with the little lady seated across from him, I shrugged and said, “Sure, you can have the desk…but there’s one caveat.”
“What’s that?”
“The rolltop is already in our booth at the antiques mall…”
His dark, calculating eyes betrayed alarm; he must have really wanted it bad.
“…but I’m sure the desk’s still there, because, knowing Mother? She’s
After Miss Tweety-Bird had taken my drink order, my friendly stalker extended a manicured hand, perhaps not unintentionally showing off a Rolex watch that probably cost more than my used Buick.
He said, “Troy Hanson…from the auction the other day?”
I took the hand—warm, not sweaty (his, not mine). “How could I forget?”
He displayed those perfect teeth, which would have been charming except that the longer-than-normal incisors seemed predatory.
As if reading my mind, he said, “I’m not a predator, if that’s what you think.”
I waved that off with a smile, but said nothing, keeping my options open.
The smile disappeared. “I do have a good reason for tracking you down.”
“Okay. Let’s hear it.”
“I’m a picker.”
“ Excuse me?” I didn’t know what he meant by that and wasn’t sure I wanted to. Was he also a grinner, a smoker, and a midnight toker?
“I mean to say,” he said quickly, “that’s what I do for a living…find and purchase antiques for clients. For example, the owner of this restaurant might hire me to buy these”—he gestured to the wall of our booth where several forties and fifties vintage watermelon-oriented advertisements were nailed (several in worse racial taste than our cigar store Indian)—“to give the place a certain nostalgic look.”
“You work for various…businesses?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “I’m also hired by individuals, like the one who wanted me to get a particular antique at that auction yesterday.”
“Ah—the rolltop desk.”
“That’s right.” He looked down at the coffee cup held in his hands. “And I shouldn’t have let it go.”
“Why did you?”
Troy (I’ll call him by his first name because he was that good looking) glanced up, smiled one-sidedly. “I honestly don’t know…. In most instances, at an auction like that? I can be quite ruthless, I assure you.”
“Oh, that is reassuring.”
“But…” He shrugged, laughed silently. “I guess I was in a funny mood that day.” He smiled and his eyes met mine in that unmistakable you are hot, lady look. “And there was something about you, and that woman you were with, that was so…so…what is the word?”
“Pathetic?”
He laughed. “I was going to say endearing. A peculiar combination of naive and relentless.”
“I’m naive, and Mother is relentless, generally. Sometimes we trade off.”
He waved off my flip comment. “Anyway, I tracked you down to—”
“By tracked down, you mean followed me.”
He frowned in embarrassment. “I’m not proud of myself. But I would like to ask if you would consider selling the desk to me, at a profit. Whatever you think is fair.”
“It’s that important to you?”
He nodded. “You see, it would damage my reputation as a picker if word got around that I wasn’t reliable.”
“Surely your clients know you can’t win everything you bid on.”
“Yes. But I was authorized, for a desk of that style and vintage, to go higher than it actually went. I shouldn’t have allowed you girls to charm me so.”
“Yeah, well, Mother and me, we’re pretty much charm personified.”
“You are to me.”
Not knowing how much of this was B.S., and how much was him thinking he might make a bonus on the sale with the little lady seated across from him, I shrugged and said, “Sure, you can have the desk…but there’s one caveat.”
“What’s that?”
“The rolltop is already in our booth at the antiques mall…”
His dark, calculating eyes betrayed alarm; he must have really wanted it bad.
“…but I’m sure the desk’s still there, because, knowing Mother? She’s
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