this auction seemed that unusual. Any qualms about authenticity had been allayed by Christie’s. And they were under orders. “I’m from the Bronx,” as Yablon said later. “The boss said to buy it.” As far as he and Kip were concerned, they were going home with the bottle in time for the Jefferson exhibit.
At first, when the bidding was low, Forbes and Yablon alternated raising an index finger or their paddle, number 231, then hung back while others made bids. This was in line with the bidding strategy favored by Malcolm—show only desultory interest at first. The bidding rapidly escalated, and Kip stayed in the game until he had left everyone else behind with a bid of £50,000.
“Any more?” Michael Broadbent asked. “Any more?”
W ITH K IP F ORBES seconds away from winning the bottle for the equivalent of $75,000, Marvin Shanken, in the back row, was thinking
Fuck them
. His disappointment fully transformed into anger, Shanken grabbed his catalog and stabbed the air.
“Fifty-two thousand pounds,” Broadbent called out. Without breaking stride, he looked back toward Kip Forbes to see whether he’d raise Shanken to 54,000. Kip did, and a classic duel began.
No matter how many people wave paddles, an experienced auctioneer homes in on two at a time and bids them up against each other. In this case, everyone else had stopped trying. Shanken and Forbes were the only bidders left, and each was determined to possess the object at the front of the room. At £68,000, there was another pause in the bidding. Then it leapt upward, bouncing back and forth between Forbes and Shanken.
Forbes bid 78,000.
Shanken bid 80,000.
Forbes bid 82,000.
By now, he and Yablon were nudging each other, but they resisted the temptation to turn around and see whom they were bidding against. Neither had a clue it was Shanken. Yablon knew Shanken was interested in wine collecting, but he also knew that Shanken had recently been through a divorce and likely had no money.
The room was silent save for Broadbent’s relentlessly upward-counting voice. When Shanken bid £100,000, Broadbent turned again to Kip. One hundred thousand was the drop-out number Kip and Yablon had agreed on. Kip knew, even before this number was reached, that he would probably go at least one bid past it, but theory was easier than practice. He paused.
Marvin Shanken felt what seemed to him a series of electrical shocks—not because he might lose the bottle, but because he might win it. An improbably long time seemed to have elapsed since he had bid, and as the pause stretched on, the jangling reality seized Shanken: he could actually be on the hook for £100,000. That was nearly $150,000. He had contracted textbook auction fever. Stunned by his own recklessness, Shanken suddenly felt very afraid. He’d be paying this bottle off for the rest of his life. Or else he would be forced to declare bankruptcy. Either way, he’d be ruined.
“A hundred and five.”
Michael Broadbent was speaking.
“One hundred and five thousand pounds, in the middle.”
Shanken saw that Kip Forbes had raised his finger.
Kip Forbes had raised his finger!
Broadbent looked searchingly at Shanken.
“At one hundred and five thousand pounds,” Broadbent repeated. “Going at one hundred and five. Any more?”
No frigging way,
Shanken thought. He kept his hand down.
“One hundred and five thousand,” Broadbent said once more, and hammered the lot down.
The room roared with applause.
The whole thing had lasted one minute and thirty-nine seconds.
Kip Forbes was handed the bottle, which he laid gingerly in his green Forbes Capitalist Toolbag. Then he and Yablon, somewhat stunned, left the room while bidding on other lots continued. They had spent the equivalent of $156,000. It wasn’t as if the Forbeses hadn’t bought things at auction for much greater amounts of money, but for a bottle of wine this was unheard of. Kip would allow that he had suffered
At first, when the bidding was low, Forbes and Yablon alternated raising an index finger or their paddle, number 231, then hung back while others made bids. This was in line with the bidding strategy favored by Malcolm—show only desultory interest at first. The bidding rapidly escalated, and Kip stayed in the game until he had left everyone else behind with a bid of £50,000.
“Any more?” Michael Broadbent asked. “Any more?”
W ITH K IP F ORBES seconds away from winning the bottle for the equivalent of $75,000, Marvin Shanken, in the back row, was thinking
Fuck them
. His disappointment fully transformed into anger, Shanken grabbed his catalog and stabbed the air.
“Fifty-two thousand pounds,” Broadbent called out. Without breaking stride, he looked back toward Kip Forbes to see whether he’d raise Shanken to 54,000. Kip did, and a classic duel began.
No matter how many people wave paddles, an experienced auctioneer homes in on two at a time and bids them up against each other. In this case, everyone else had stopped trying. Shanken and Forbes were the only bidders left, and each was determined to possess the object at the front of the room. At £68,000, there was another pause in the bidding. Then it leapt upward, bouncing back and forth between Forbes and Shanken.
Forbes bid 78,000.
Shanken bid 80,000.
Forbes bid 82,000.
By now, he and Yablon were nudging each other, but they resisted the temptation to turn around and see whom they were bidding against. Neither had a clue it was Shanken. Yablon knew Shanken was interested in wine collecting, but he also knew that Shanken had recently been through a divorce and likely had no money.
The room was silent save for Broadbent’s relentlessly upward-counting voice. When Shanken bid £100,000, Broadbent turned again to Kip. One hundred thousand was the drop-out number Kip and Yablon had agreed on. Kip knew, even before this number was reached, that he would probably go at least one bid past it, but theory was easier than practice. He paused.
Marvin Shanken felt what seemed to him a series of electrical shocks—not because he might lose the bottle, but because he might win it. An improbably long time seemed to have elapsed since he had bid, and as the pause stretched on, the jangling reality seized Shanken: he could actually be on the hook for £100,000. That was nearly $150,000. He had contracted textbook auction fever. Stunned by his own recklessness, Shanken suddenly felt very afraid. He’d be paying this bottle off for the rest of his life. Or else he would be forced to declare bankruptcy. Either way, he’d be ruined.
“A hundred and five.”
Michael Broadbent was speaking.
“One hundred and five thousand pounds, in the middle.”
Shanken saw that Kip Forbes had raised his finger.
Kip Forbes had raised his finger!
Broadbent looked searchingly at Shanken.
“At one hundred and five thousand pounds,” Broadbent repeated. “Going at one hundred and five. Any more?”
No frigging way,
Shanken thought. He kept his hand down.
“One hundred and five thousand,” Broadbent said once more, and hammered the lot down.
The room roared with applause.
The whole thing had lasted one minute and thirty-nine seconds.
Kip Forbes was handed the bottle, which he laid gingerly in his green Forbes Capitalist Toolbag. Then he and Yablon, somewhat stunned, left the room while bidding on other lots continued. They had spent the equivalent of $156,000. It wasn’t as if the Forbeses hadn’t bought things at auction for much greater amounts of money, but for a bottle of wine this was unheard of. Kip would allow that he had suffered
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