Reunion in LA (2)
Morning at 7 a.m.
I woke to the sound of my phone alarm.
I sat up and peered out the window. The sun was already up, and a few trucks were pulling out of the parking lot.
I washed up quickly and boiled some water in the little coffee pot in my sleeper cab. I spooned in some instant coffee and poured in the hot water. Steam rose gently. I added a bit of sugar and stirred.
Sipping the coffee, I mentally sorted out my plans for the day. First up, I was meeting Marcus at the Santa Monica Airport Antique Market at 10 a.m. We'd grab a quick coffee and browse the market.
Then, at 2 p.m., I'd head to Pasadena. Thanks to an intro from Marcus, I'd check out a warehouse being cleared out by a guy named Tyrone for anything worth buying. That was the big one.
'Looks like I've got plenty of time.'
I showered and changed into fresh clothes—a pair of jeans and a neat checkered shirt.
Bill had told me not to look too slovenly or too loaded when hitting the antique markets.
I stopped by the parking lot office and extended for two more days.
"That'll be ninety bucks total."
"Card okay?"
"You bet."
I swiped my card and took the receipt.
I fired up the truck and headed for Santa Monica.
Traffic through downtown LA was a nightmare. Then it hit me—it was morning rush hour. Cars were crawling like turtles. I sat there, not moving an inch for thirty minutes before finally breaking free.
'Do people in LA live like this every day...?'
I missed Texas's wide-open roads.
Around 9:50 a.m., I pulled into the Santa Monica Airport Antique Market. It was uniquely built from an old airport hangar—steel frame, high ceilings, dripping with vintage vibes.
I parked and walked toward the entrance plaza. A few food trucks dotted the small square: coffee, tacos, sandwiches...
Marcus was sitting on a bench.
"Hey, bro!"
He stood, waving.
"Marcus!"
We shook hands warmly, then pulled into a quick hug with shoulder slaps. Marcus asked,
"Damn, it's been a while. First time since Texas, right?"
"Yeah, feels like months."
"Haha, lemme grab coffee. What you want?"
"Americano for me."
"Same."
We ordered two from the coffee truck and sat on the bench. The sun was nice and warm today, with cool breezes making everything feel great.
"So, how's the antique deal going?"
Marcus asked.
"Better than I thought. After selling that Route 66 sign last time, I've hit a few warehouse auctions. Found some silver coins, bought and flipped some Victorian furniture..."
"Whoa, you're really into it. How much you made? Decent?"
"Eh, total so far... about seventy grand?"
Marcus spit out his coffee sideways. He was genuinely shocked.
"What? Seventy grand?"
"Haha, you heard right. Not all profit, though—it's buy and sell. Net maybe... forty grand?"
"Still insane! In how long?"
"Little over two months."
"Crazy. Maybe I should learn the game..."
Marcus shook his head.
"But how do you know? What's valuable?"
"Mm... studying, learning from experts. And..."
I paused.
I couldn't talk about my ability.
"...kinda got a knack for it. When I touch stuff, I just feel something."
"Whoa, that's badass. For real."
He shook his head again, taking a sip of coffee.
"Oh yeah, I called Tyrone. He'll be at the place at 2. Just swing by casual."
"Thanks a ton, Marcus."
"No sweat. Tyrone might look rough around the edges, but he's solid. Heart of gold. You know what I mean?"
"Got it."
I nodded—no worries—from Marcus's description. Truckers could be rough-talking too; I was used to it.
"Owner's in a nursing home, so just Tyrone and his crew. Heads up."
"What's the owner's name, anyway? Somebody famous?"
"Dunno the name exactly. Not famous, I think... worked as a set designer in Hollywood for over forty years."
"Set designer, huh..."
It clicked.
Someone designing movie sets would've picked props themselves, maybe snagged discards after shoots.
"Think it'll pan out?"
Marcus asked.
"Gotta see it to know. But yeah, potential."
"Cool. Hope it's not a bust on my account."
We chatted over coffee for a good while—new truck stories, Highway Watch group updates, how truck stops had changed since the serial killer...
Time flew; it was 11 a.m.
"Gotta browse the market now. Pasadena after for Tyrone's spot."
"Haha, you're hustling. I got work at noon, heading home."
"Cool. Thanks again, Marcus."
We shook hands one more time.
Great seeing him again, but mostly grateful for the LA hookup.
"Nah. If you score big, tell me. Curious."
"You got it. Stay tuned."
Marcus left, and I headed into the market. Five bucks entry.
Dozens of booths lined the vast hall neatly: vintage furniture, paintings, ceramics, silverware, old posters, neon signs...
Definitely not your average flea market. Lots run by pro dealers. Proper price tags, detailed descriptions. Some booths lit like mini galleries.
'This place is the real deal.'
Tension mixed with excitement.
I started slow, booth by booth.
First one: vintage furniture. 1950s mid-century modern pieces. An Eames lounge chair caught my eye. Leather a bit worn, but shape perfect. Price: $1,200.
'...Steep.'
Fair for authentic, but no big flip margin. Borderline at best, no real upside. Pass.
Second booth: Hollywood memorabilia. Old movie posters, signed actor photos, props...
[Cary Grant Signed Photo – $450]
[Audrey Hepburn Costume Sketch – $1,800]
Intriguing, but authenticity tough to verify. My ability could check, but celebrity signatures were rife with fakes—hard to prove real.
"Hmm..."
I passed a few more booths.
Similar story. Better condition, quality, variety—but priced right. Owners were pros with real knowledge.
'Too pro a market; slim pickings for me.'
I spent about an hour and a half browsing. More observing item states, features, prices, dealer pitches than hunting buys.
Checked my watch: 1 p.m. Time for Pasadena.
Back at the truck, I punched the address into the nav.
> [1247 Maple Street, Pasadena, CA]
ETA: about 45 minutes. Perfect timing.
"Alright, let's roll."
I crossed east LA toward Pasadena. Palm trees lined both sides of the road.
Pasadena felt different. Quiet neighborhood of old single-story homes—1950s builds. Neat lawns, flower pots. Found the street, turned the corner.
[1247 Maple Street]
A white single-story house appeared. Smaller than expected, but tidy. An old palm tree stood by the front porch.
I parked, got out, and took a deep breath.
This was the main event.
'Stay cool.'
I walked to the door and rang the bell. Moments later, it opened to a Black man in his mid-thirties. Stocky build, tough face, bald head, work clothes.
"Jake Winch?"
"Yeah, hi."
"Tyrone. Marcus told me."
We shook. Rough hands—years of hard labor.
"Come on in."
Inside, boxes stacked in the living room. A couple guys sorting stuff.
"My crew. We do cleanouts together."
Quick hellos.
"Owner's in a nursing home,"
Tyrone explained.
"Raymond Johnson, 92-year-old grandpa. Heart gave out, so nursing home. Kids in New York and Boston. Selling the house, hired us to clear it."
"Got it."
"Yeah... tons of stuff. Over forty years' worth. Hollywood set designer, like Marcus said?"
"Yeah..."
"Right. MGM, Paramount, Warner Bros.—big studios. Looks like he grabbed discards from there."
My heart raced.
Veteran set designer, forty years of Hollywood hoard. MGM, Paramount, Warner...
"Warehouse is out back. Follow me."
We went to the backyard. Beyond the lawn stood a big two-story detached building. Way bigger than a garage.
"Here."
Tyrone unlocked the padlock and pushed the door.
Screeech.
The door creaked open slowly. Dust and age wafted out—old wood, fabric, time itself. Familiar scent to me.
Tyrone flicked the lights. Illumination spread through the warehouse.
And...
I froze, breath caught.
Tyrone wasn't exaggerating.
The place was packed.
Furniture, lamps, paintings, statues, mirrors, wardrobes, bookshelves, boxes, trunks, posters, costumes, props... Forty years of Hollywood history piled up. Dust motes danced in slanted light beams. To me, it was a frozen museum.
"Whoa..."
The awe slipped out.
"Haha, yeah, insane, right? We sighed when we first saw it."
Tyrone misread my reaction, shaking his head as he led me in.
"All junk to us, honestly... no clue what's valuable. Good thing Marcus sent you."
"Pro might see different," he muttered, eyeing the piles.
"Can I take my time?"
"Sure. No rush. Hours if you need. We'll sort the house. Holler when done."
"Thanks."
Tyrone left. Alone now.
Heart pounding. Hands shaky.
'Calm. Like Leonard taught.'
99% trash, 1% treasure. Our job: find that 1%.
'Let's hunt treasure.'
I stepped inside. Dust puffed with each footfall.
Left: furniture stacks. Vintage sofas, desks, chairs, dressers...
Right: paintings leaned against walls. Dozens of frames, big and small.
Center: box mountains. Small props, probably.
'Where to start?'
Hesitated.
Leonard’s words: 'Systematic. One section at a time. No rush—miss stuff.'
Nodded.
Left furniture first.
Approached the first: vintage sofa, 1960s style. Velvet worn, but frame solid.
Reached out slow.
The moment my hand touched the sofa.