what you assumed,” she interrupted. “That it’s impossible for a woman to own and run an independent business, and therefore I must be a salesclerk or the wife or daughter of the owner.”
“Nothing of the sort,” I said. “It’s just that—”
“Let me tell you something,” she carried on. “There are no secrets of business management known only to the male gender. There are many women who own and manage successful enterprises.”
“Very admirable, I’m sure,” I said, “but you are inferring a prejudice that simply doesn’t exist. I have known several stamp dealers in my lifetime, and without exception they have all been old, crotchety gentlemen. So naturally I was surprised to find a young, attractive female in the trade.”
And I gave her a 100-watt smile that had no effect whatsoever. She stared at me with narrowed eyes, obviously debating whether or not I was conning her, which, of course, I was. Finally she relented.
“All right,” she said, “I’ll accept your apology.”
I wasn’t aware that I had offered one, but didn’t dare tempt this gorgon’s wrath by mentioning it.
“Now then,” she continued, all business, “what can I do for you?”
I gave her the same song and dance I had given Bela Rubik: My law firm was handling the estate of a recently deceased Boca Raton real estate developer. Included in the inventory of his personal effects was a block of four Inverted Jenny postage stamps. For tax purposes we would like to establish the value of the stamps by determining the market price of a similar block currently being offered for sale.
H. Lantern shook her head. “Can’t be done,” she said decisively. “All stamps have different values, even those of the same issue. The value depends on the condition of the stamps.”
“You know that,” I said, “and I know that, but the IRS doesn’t know that. Quite frankly, we fear they are aware that a block of four Inverted Jennies was recently auctioned for a million dollars, and they are liable to insist that value be placed on the stamps included in the estate of our deceased client.”
“I could do an appraisal for you,” she offered.
I uttered a short, bitter laugh. “You think the IRS would accept that? Never! Right now their estimate of market value is the million-dollar sale in New York that received so much publicity. The only way we can counter that is by quoting the price of Inverted Jennies currently being offered for sale. We will pay fifty dollars per hour for your time if you would be willing to take on the job of discovering if any blocks of Inverted Jennies have recently come on the market and, if so, what the asking price is. I’m sure it’s less than a million dollars.”
I could see she wasn’t totally convinced by my scam, but the fifty dollars an hour was alluring, and I’m certain she asked herself what possible harm could she suffer by agreeing to my proposal. I could have enlightened her, but didn’t.
“A down payment?” she asked, and I knew I had her.
I gave her fifty in cash, took a signed receipt, and left her my business card. She promised to call as soon as she had made inquiries, talked to other dealers, and consulted philatelic periodicals. We shook hands, and she smiled before I departed. What a pleasant surprise!
Because I was so close, I cut over to Oakland Park Blvd. and took it eastward to the ocean. I decided to have a small lunch at Ireland’s Inn, a place I recalled from previous excursions to Lauderdale.
The day had started out clear and bright, but Florida’s weather is mercurial, and now the air was clotting up, a dark cloud bank was moving in from the south. So instead of lunching outside, practically on the beach, I opted to sit indoors at a window facing the sea. I ordered a turkey club sandwich, which I dearly love, and a bottle of nonalcoholic beer, for which I was developing a taste, and I hope you will not think the less of me for it.
There is no delicate method
“Nothing of the sort,” I said. “It’s just that—”
“Let me tell you something,” she carried on. “There are no secrets of business management known only to the male gender. There are many women who own and manage successful enterprises.”
“Very admirable, I’m sure,” I said, “but you are inferring a prejudice that simply doesn’t exist. I have known several stamp dealers in my lifetime, and without exception they have all been old, crotchety gentlemen. So naturally I was surprised to find a young, attractive female in the trade.”
And I gave her a 100-watt smile that had no effect whatsoever. She stared at me with narrowed eyes, obviously debating whether or not I was conning her, which, of course, I was. Finally she relented.
“All right,” she said, “I’ll accept your apology.”
I wasn’t aware that I had offered one, but didn’t dare tempt this gorgon’s wrath by mentioning it.
“Now then,” she continued, all business, “what can I do for you?”
I gave her the same song and dance I had given Bela Rubik: My law firm was handling the estate of a recently deceased Boca Raton real estate developer. Included in the inventory of his personal effects was a block of four Inverted Jenny postage stamps. For tax purposes we would like to establish the value of the stamps by determining the market price of a similar block currently being offered for sale.
H. Lantern shook her head. “Can’t be done,” she said decisively. “All stamps have different values, even those of the same issue. The value depends on the condition of the stamps.”
“You know that,” I said, “and I know that, but the IRS doesn’t know that. Quite frankly, we fear they are aware that a block of four Inverted Jennies was recently auctioned for a million dollars, and they are liable to insist that value be placed on the stamps included in the estate of our deceased client.”
“I could do an appraisal for you,” she offered.
I uttered a short, bitter laugh. “You think the IRS would accept that? Never! Right now their estimate of market value is the million-dollar sale in New York that received so much publicity. The only way we can counter that is by quoting the price of Inverted Jennies currently being offered for sale. We will pay fifty dollars per hour for your time if you would be willing to take on the job of discovering if any blocks of Inverted Jennies have recently come on the market and, if so, what the asking price is. I’m sure it’s less than a million dollars.”
I could see she wasn’t totally convinced by my scam, but the fifty dollars an hour was alluring, and I’m certain she asked herself what possible harm could she suffer by agreeing to my proposal. I could have enlightened her, but didn’t.
“A down payment?” she asked, and I knew I had her.
I gave her fifty in cash, took a signed receipt, and left her my business card. She promised to call as soon as she had made inquiries, talked to other dealers, and consulted philatelic periodicals. We shook hands, and she smiled before I departed. What a pleasant surprise!
Because I was so close, I cut over to Oakland Park Blvd. and took it eastward to the ocean. I decided to have a small lunch at Ireland’s Inn, a place I recalled from previous excursions to Lauderdale.
The day had started out clear and bright, but Florida’s weather is mercurial, and now the air was clotting up, a dark cloud bank was moving in from the south. So instead of lunching outside, practically on the beach, I opted to sit indoors at a window facing the sea. I ordered a turkey club sandwich, which I dearly love, and a bottle of nonalcoholic beer, for which I was developing a taste, and I hope you will not think the less of me for it.
There is no delicate method
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