Paradise for Appraisers
The Texas sun beat down hard on the concrete.
Under the sign for Lee's Gas & Service, a dust-caked eighteen-wheeler rolled in.
Rrrr— screech!
The driver’s door swung open, and a bald trucker climbed down.
“Doom— doom— doom— hey, sexy cowboy! What’s the gas price today?”
The man in a cowboy hat by the pump turned his head.
He was a tall East Asian man with a bristling beard, wearing a filthy sleeveless shirt stained with oil.
“Seventy-six cents a gallon today.”
At that flat answer, the trucker let out a whistle.
The bearded man picked up the nozzle and jammed it into the truck’s fuel tank.
That was when the bald trucker asked, “I’m building a new garage in my backyard. Thinking of laying asphalt for the floor. Can I buy asphalt too? And I’d kind of like that cool hat of yours.”
“Asphalt’s fine. But we don’t sell it here—you’ll have to come by my shop later. And the hat isn’t for sale.”
“Half a win, then. Okay.”
The trucker winked and drove off.
The bearded man leaned against the pump with both hands in his jeans pockets.
Yoon Sindal.
He was the owner of a junkyard fifteen minutes by car from this gas station.
For the record, his older sister was Yoon Seokeun, his brother-in-law was Lee Seonggeun, and his nephew was Lee Sanha.
“Business is damn good today too. I won’t even have time to show up at my own shop, at this rate.”
Yoon Sindal nodded as he looked at the line of trucks stretching all the way back.
Lately, he’d been living an absurdly busy life.
If a refrigerator broke, people called Yoon Sindal. If they needed car parts, Yoon Sindal. If construction materials were in a hurry, Yoon Sindal.
If it existed, he could get it. If it didn’t exist, he could still get it.
There wasn’t a single person in the Korean community in Texas who didn’t know his name.
Running the junkyard, helping his sister and brother-in-law at their gas station—he was busy from dawn to dusk every day.
And since he also sold the leftovers from crude oil refining—tar, wax, sulfur, asphalt, and the like—for roofing coatings, candles, fertilizer, heating oil, road paving, and more, it was only natural that his junkyard was packed with customers day after day.
Just then—
“Sindal, have a cup of coffee.”
His sister, Yoon Seokeun, waved him over.
Yoon Sindal passed by his brother-in-law, who was still pumping gas, and went into the office.
The office window had CASH PREFERRED written on it, and the glass jar on the counter was full of coins.
From an old radio, the news crackled out in a thin, staticky voice.
The fallout from the savings and loan collapse continues. The Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation says 124 financial institutions have closed this year alone, and unemployment is nearing 7 percent. Meanwhile, news from the Soviet Union suggests President Gorbachev’s resignation may be imminent, while the White House is preparing for a new international order after the end of the Cold War...
Yoon Sindal asked his sister, “Why the hell are you suddenly giving me coffee? I’m busier than hell.”
“Take your nephew’s call first.”
“Oh.”
Taking the coffee, Yoon Sindal turned toward the receiver resting in the corner of the office.
“Yeah, nephew. What is it?”
From the other end of the line came his cute nephew’s voice.
“Uncle. I’m in Wishville right now. Could you come here for me?”
“Wishville? What are you doing there?”
“I bought some abandoned warehouses, and there’s a lot of stuff inside them. Scrap metal, antiques, and...”
Smart as ever, Yoon Sindal immediately caught what his nephew, Lee Sanha, was getting at.
“So you’ve started another business venture? Sounds a little bigger this time. Bigger than digging up that oil field?”
“If things go well.”
“Christ. You’re already busy enough refining the crude from that oil field you dug up. What kind of big score are you trying to pull now?”
“Things on the oil-field side should get easier now. Once this job’s done, I’ll get a formal state permit and set up a proper oil-drilling company.”
“Now that’s impressive. So this ‘job’ is important, huh? Do I just go alone, or should I bring more people?”
“Do you happen to know any friends who are good at appraising things, Uncle? Antiques or art and stuff.”
“I do know one bald bastard who runs a pawnshop.”
“Someone reliable would be great.”
“He’s the guy who cosigned for me twice. I once hid him when he went AWOL with a rifle.”
“...That’s some serious friendship.”
“He should come with me too, then.”
“Wishville, was it? I’m on my way.”
“Thanks, Uncle. I’ll be waiting. The detailed address is...”
Yoon Sindal scribbled down the address his nephew recited on the back of his hand, then hung up.
He walked over to Lee Seonggeun, who was fueling a truck.
“Brother-in-law, I’m stepping out for a bit.”
“Where to?”
“Your son called me.”
“That brat. What kind of kid orders his uncle around like that? Just like his mother.”
“He told me to bring Rick.”
“Rick? Rick Harrison? That bald penny-pincher? Wasn’t he in prison? For going AWOL with a gun after killing his stepfather who used to beat his mother?”
“He’s been out for a while now. He runs a pawnshop down in the lower block. Anyway, I’m off.”
“If you see that bastard, tell him to come by sometime. I’m about to forget what his face looks like. Who doesn’t show up even on Thanksgiving?”
“No idea. Maybe he met a girlfriend at Harvard and can’t bear to be apart from her.”
They both chuckled as they turned away.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Inside the battered pickup truck heading for Wishville.
The bald man in the passenger seat sank back into the leather and grumbled, “Fucking Sindal, I’m asking seriously. Why the hell are we going so far out? It’s been over three hours already. My time is gold. I’m billing by the minute later, so keep that in mind.”
“Quit whining, Rick. Before I stuff a grenade in your mouth.”
“You got a grenade?”
“I can get one.”
“How?”
“Through you.”
“Fuck off.”
“Yeah, shut up. We’re almost there. Why do you keep squealing like a girl? Are you staging a protest because your dick’s small?”
“You, of all people, are talking about dick size in front of me?”
“Oh, so now you’re being racist.”
The bald man sitting beside Yoon Sindal was Rick Harrison.
He was a pawnbroker and appraiser in Garden Queens, famous for having the sharpest eye in town.
Rick dug into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a tiny magnet, a folding tape measure, and then a penlight that looked like something doctors used.
“If the stuff you dragged me out here to appraise turns out to be trash, you’re going to pay for wasting my brilliant talents on garbage...”
At that moment, the truck slammed to a sudden stop, lurching hard enough to throw him off balance, and Rick spilled the tools he’d been spinning dramatically between his fingers.
“Ah, shit!”
“We’re here. Get out.”
The truck had reached its destination.
Beyond the barbed wire, hundreds of abandoned warehouses formed a maze.
Three people were standing in front of them.
The boy at the front, with his youthful face, waved.
“Uncle, thanks for making the trip.”
Yoon Sindal’s nephew, Lee Sanha.
That was me.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
I went out to meet my uncle.
The moment he got out of the truck, he said, “Brought him. The little bald bastard with a small dick I told you about.”
“What the hell did you say to the kid? Anyway, long time no see, kid. You remember your uncle? I saw you once when you were little.”
Rick held out his hand.
I shook it.
If memory served, Rick was a pretty decent guy.
He’d served as chief mourner at my uncle’s funeral before I regressed, after all.
I could still see it clearly—the bald man sobbing like a madman in front of my uncle’s portrait.
I introduced Victor and Vito to my uncle and Rick.
“This is my friend, and this is my lawyer. We’ll be doing the appraisal officially today.”
My uncle, Rick, Victor, and Vito exchanged awkward greetings.
My uncle clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Hurry up and show me the goods. This bald bastard keeps whining about being busy, and it’s driving me up the wall.”
The first items to appraise were a pile of scrap metal stacked out in the open.
Rusty steel plates, bent beam fragments, unidentified machine parts—all of it tangled together.
My uncle nodded.
“Stuff like this I can handle on my own.”
He took the magnet Rick handed him and slapped it against the pile.
“What sticks fast is iron, what slides on is stainless steel, and what doesn’t react at all is aluminum or copper.”
He sorted the pieces with practiced ease, separating what clung from what didn’t.
Rick cut in from the side. “Rusty iron and clean iron can differ by ten bucks a ton. Those beam fragments over there? Structural steel. If you sort them separately, you’ll get a little more for them.”
“Look at you. What does a pawnshop guy know? This is my area.”
“I’ve watched you enough to know this much. If you pull the insulation off that pile of wire and separate the bare copper, you can get at least a dollar more per pound. I’m right, you yellow monkey.”
“Yeah, you’re right, you bald little shit.”
The two of them bickered as they calculated the scrap prices.
My uncle divided the scrap pile into three categories: steel, wiring, and mixed material.
“Scrap prices are in the gutter these days. The steel mills are all looking half dead, so they won’t even give you seventy bucks a ton. Stuff like this honestly won’t bring in much at all if you sell it.”
“So if we sold all of this, we’d barely make lunch money?”
“Not even lunch money. You’d have to pay for transport and storage too. Hmm... maybe enough to buy yourself a jelly candy for lunch?”
At my question, my uncle shrugged.
But scrap metal wasn’t my field of interest anyway.
We moved to the warehouse where the antiques had been set aside first.
Clatter—
Rick was the first to pick up a cracked Coca-Cola neon sign.
He swept his penlight over the glass tubing.
Hairline cracks like spiderwebs, a rusted transformer, wires with the copper exposed where the insulation had rotted away.
Rick tapped the glass tube with his fingertip.
“Fifties Coca-Cola neons were mass-produced for restaurant chains, so there’s nothing rare about them. The really valuable ones are from the forties—the prewar models. Even the thickness of the glass tubing is different. This is your standard factory-made piece.”
He inspected the transformer too.
“And with rust like this on the transformer, there’s a fire risk. When it comes to an item like this, if the ‘light’ dies, it’s over. There’s no decorative value left either. Fixing it would cost at least two hundred bucks, and that’s before you even start looking for parts. If I were buying it for cash today...” He paused. “Five bucks, maybe. Any more than that, and I’d pass without hesitation.”
Next was a jukebox full of mouse droppings.
“A Wurlitzer 1015. If this thing were in good shape, I’d call it three grand. If those bubbler tubes were alive and the record changer worked, collectors would line up.”
Rick gave the side a kick, and rotten wood splinters rained down.
“But this is done for. The plywood’s completely gone, and the inside is packed with mouse shit. At this point the whole internal mechanism’s probably ruined too. This is worth maybe fifty dollars.”
Not the price—disposal cost.
After that came a stuffed buffalo head, a 1920s dental chair, a wooden Native American carving with a cigarette in its mouth, a rusted gas pump, a carnival shooting-game target board, a rotating barber pole, a 16mm projector, an Edison phonograph, a department-store mannequin, and a wooden crate covered with circus posters.
“The buffalo’s infested with moths and missing an eye. Hang that on a wall and you’ll have nightmares. The dental chair has cracked leather and dead hydraulics—looks creepy enough to use as a torture device. The carving’s got a broken arm and all the paint’s peeled off. The gas pump... maybe if it were a Gilco or Texaco model, but this one’s some no-name junk brand. The target board has got to have over a thousand bullet holes. The barber pole’s motor is dead. The projector lens is moldy, and the phonograph’s soul is warped out of shape. Where the hell is the mannequin’s neck? Creepy as hell. The circus poster’s soaked with moisture; touch it and it crumbles. All of it is trash. Trash.”
Victor asked, looking crestfallen, “Then should we throw all this away?”
“Whether you throw it out or not is up to you. But I’m not buying it.”
That was when Rick’s eyes landed on the last item.
Inside the box, carefully preserved, was a Smith-Corona typewriter.
“Oh?”
For the first time, Rick looked interested.
He crouched down and opened the cover.
Shiny chrome keys emerged without a speck of dust on them.
Rick shone the penlight over the rails and rollers.
“Mm-hmm, now this is the kind of thing I like to appraise. A postwar model from the forties. The quality was unusually good, since it was made right after metal rationing ended. Honestly, only a pervert like me would even recognize something like this. Oh yeah—look at the platen rubber. It still has spring. Usually these are hardened and cracked, but this one must’ve been stored in controlled humidity. And the box is original too. Ahhh... collectors go crazy for stuff like this.”
He pressed a few keys, and a bright, clean sound rang out.
Tap— tap— tatak—
Rick nodded.
“If you’re Sindal’s nephew, then you’re my nephew too, so I’ll be straight with you: eight hundred bucks.”
He continued, very serious and very calm.
“If I sold this typewriter to the right collector in great condition, I could probably get up to eighteen hundred dollars. But to find that collector? I’d need to advertise in a specialty magazine. Fifty bucks a month. It’d take at least three months to sell. During that time, the typewriter would just be taking up space in my warehouse. Storage runs thirty a month. And if I shipped it? I’d need insurance. That’s another hundred. Pack it wrong and it breaks in transit, then the buyer files a claim and I lose the item without making a cent. And you saw the economy. The savings and loan mess has blown up, unemployment’s through the roof. The number of people with spare cash to spend on antiques has dropped. So my profit? If I’m lucky, maybe four hundred bucks. But to make that four hundred, I’d have to answer calls, haggle, pack, and run back and forth to the post office for three months. Eight hundred means I’m taking on all that risk. I’m not lowballing you. I’m being honest.”
It was practically a defense speech, but it made sense.
My uncle nodded beside him.
“When it comes to money, you can trust this bald little bastard’s word. He doesn’t even have the guts to scam people.”
“You’ve got a real gift for making compliments sound disgusting, you yellow monkey.”
The two of them started bickering again.
I stopped them.
“Let’s move on to the next warehouse.”
Everyone’s attention shifted to the warehouse beside us.
Soon the shutter of Warehouse 36 rolled up.
I switched on my flashlight.
Rick stared through the tarp.
“...”
He stood there, speechless for a moment.
At the center of the warehouse sat a dark red body.
Rick’s jaw fell open.
He took one step, then another, toward the car, and the penlight slipped from his hand and hit the floor.
“Shh, shh, shh...”
“What the hell are you shh-shhing about? Speak.”
“Shut up! You hairy bastard!”
Rick shouted at my uncle.
Then, with the cuff of his sleeve, he carefully brushed the dust off the hood.
The moment his eyes met the silver cobra emblem baring its fangs, Rick screamed like he’d been shot.
“Shelby Cobra 427! S/C model!”
In an instant, Rick lunged toward me.
His face flushed with excitement, he blurted, “I, I, I, I...”
“I?”
“Sell it to me! Sell this to me! Please! Sell it to me! Name your price! I’ll pay cash today!”
Rick’s eyes were blazing with both thrill and madness.
I quietly grabbed his arm.
“I am selling it, but you still need to finish the appraisal.”
“There’s a Shelby Cobra 427 S/C right here—what more is there to appraise? The rest doesn’t matter! Compared to this, everything else is trash!”
“Not quite.”
“...What?”
Rick wore that blank look again.
I pulled back the remaining tarps behind the bright red old car.
Over the past few days, I’d swept through this abandoned warehouse district and gathered every “certainty” I could find, then brought them all here.
Assorted vintage Fender guitar cases, a 1950s Gibson Les Paul amp, a Budweiser neon sign that was dusty but still in great shape, wooden crates packed with rare LPs, an RCA Victor Orthophonic turntable, a 1930s Zenith Stratosphere radio, an original theatrical poster for Casablanca, a first-edition pamphlet for Gone with the Wind, an unopened box containing an original 1959 Mattel Barbie doll, a Japanese tin-toy robot collection, a 1950s Coca-Cola vintage vending machine, a Bally pinball machine, an M1 helmet stamped with the 101st Airborne insignia, a U.S. Army Air Forces A-2 flight jacket, a framed German Knight’s Cross medal, a full set of BC-1000 field radios, a Fairbairn-Sykes commando knife, a mint-condition Leica IIIc camera, dozens of Zippo lighters engraved with parachute insignias, a Sun Records single signed by Elvis Presley, a 1939 New York World’s Fair commemorative time capsule, cell animation of Snow White stamped with the Walt Disney Studios logo, a 1933 Babe Ruth Gaudy baseball card, a stained-glass lamp engraved with the Tiffany Studios mark...
Every single one of them was A-grade or S-grade condition.
“...”
“...”
“...”
Rick stared back and forth between the items in front of him and the old car beside them, his expression vacant.
Then, all at once, he let out a scream that sounded almost girlish.
“Aaaah! This is heaven!”