Showtime…
Thursday, June 4th, came much too soon, but Amanda believed she was ready. She had worked each day, sometimes into the night, to finish her showroom and was more than pleased with the result.
As she drove up in heavy traffic, then flashed her ID at the gate to Metrolina, she anticipated the moment of unveiling. For the first time, folks would see the sparkling white shelves filled with all her small sculptures. At the last minute she had decided to place mirrors behind the shelves so the backside of each piece would show. Mobiles hung at different levels, spinning and catching the spotlights Trev had installed, while her large auto parts furniture and funky flowers were placed center stage.
The overall effect was dazzling, with all the shiny, spinning steel and chrome reflecting off one another. Compared to the other booths, which were crowded and cozy, Amanda’s space was sparse and modern. She hoped it wouldn’t shock the sensibilities of the regular visitors.
She knew Thursday was reserved for interior designers and retail tradespeople only, and she’d been told not to expect many visitors. This in mind, Amanda was shocked to see the parking lot, even the fields outside her building, jam-packed with cars. A uniformed police officer was directing traffic, and even more startling, two armed cops were guarding the entrance to Building 16.
Amanda rushed past the wooden flower boxes, now generously planted with colorful impatiens—thanks to June Harris—and entered the hall. Young Jenny Monroe was directing the crush of people in to see their pottery display. The teenager looked more nervous than usual, definitely out of her element.
“What the hell’s going on?” Amanda whispered to the girl.
“Don’t you read the papers? It was front page news in The Charlotte Observer. How could you miss it?”
Amanda drew a blank. “What news?”
Jenny’s eyes were enormous behind her glasses. Her braces glittered when she talked. “Jeez, Amanda, don’t you know about Mr. Thigpen’s Lincoln-Davis letter?”
When Amanda just stood there like a clueless fool, Jenny continued. “It was published by a paper called The Liberator, in Boston, on September 26, 1862. But Mr. Thigpen has the original.”
“Abe Lincoln to Jefferson Davis?”
“Yeah, it’s all about the legality of freeing the slaves, whether or not it was Constitutional. I read the whole thing in the paper. It’s really awesome! They say it’s worth hundreds of thousands of dollars!”
“And Mr. Thigpen has the original?” This was beyond belief, so Amanda did not believe it. “It’s probably a fake.”
“Not according to the Smithsonian. Mr. Thigpen has a letter of authenticity. The Lincoln letter and the authenticity are both framed and on display in his booth.”
Well, that would explain the heavy security. “Where would he find a letter like that?”
Jenny dropped her voice. “No one knows the truth, but the rumor is he bid a couple hundred dollars for a blind box marked ‘Confederate Memorabilia,’ and the letter was inside.”
“That guy is lucky,” Amanda said.
“That guy’s a bastard!” a man behind her growled. He had sneaked up on both of them. He was of medium height, muscular like a runner, with thinning brown hair, big hands and a pointed, wolf-like face.
Jenny backed away. “Daddy, what are you doing here?”
Amanda tried to read Jenny’s expression, which was an odd mixture of pleasure and fear. Although it was only nine in the morning, she smelled alcohol on his breath, and the situation stirred a deep, long-suppressed memory. She thought about her brother’s words: Don’t you remember how much he was drinking? Robby had been talking about their father, and Amanda remembered feeling like Jenny, both joy and apprehension when her father had been in one of his moods.
“Where’s your mama, Jenny-bean?” he said.
“She’s really busy inside. We have lots of customers, Daddy. Please don’t bother her now.”
“Then I reckon she can use my help.” He pushed past them and entered the pottery booth.
Amanda recalled that Lucy Monroe had been divorced from a man named Jimmy, and she had described him as abusive. “Will your mother be all right? Should we call someone?” She was thinking that the cop stationed just outside the door could prove useful if the scene turned violent.
“No! Leave him alone, Amanda. It’ll only make it worse.” Jenny was at the edge of panic. “Daddy won’t stay long. I’m sure he came to see the Lincoln-Davis letter and to say something ugly to Mr. Thigpen. He hates that man.”
“Everyone hates that man.” Jack Harris strolled over to put his two cents in. “Ask me, Thigpen stole that damned letter. A just God would never reward that pompous ass with such good fortune.” He handed something to Amanda.
It was a letter-sized sheet of fake parchment rolled and tied with a red, white and blue ribbon.
“Thigpen’s selling them for five bucks apiece. It’s a cheap Xerox copy of the Lincoln-Davis letter. He’s also selling the Sunday Observer for ten bucks. He invested in a whole stack of them. What’s worse, folks are buying them.”
“It’s a rip-off!” the oh-so-proper June Harris hollered from her booth across the way. “They should arrest that man.”
Clearly everyone was green with envy. They were jealous as hell of Michael Thigpen, even though he’d brought a multitude of customers to their displays. Speaking of which, Amanda had been completely distracted from her own grand opening, and she was wasting precious time.
Quickly excusing herself, she pushed through the stream of pedestrians and ceremoniously drew back the tarp concealing her glorious wares. She hit the lights and her sparkling presentation was revealed to all. There should have been a drumroll, a stampede of her fellow exhibitors to her space. But they had retreated to their own stores to ring up sales. Yet she was pleased and proud, and perhaps it was her imagination, but Amanda thought she heard a collective gasp of approval from the onlookers in the hall.
Sure enough, moments later she was surrounded by bodies and buyers. Everyone seemed somewhat shell-shocked by her avant-garde space, but they all claimed to love her sculpture. These were wholesale buyers who expected a hefty discount, so they could mark up the items and make a profit. Amanda had anticipated this and priced her work accordingly. During the weekend, when the public descended, she would have the margin to “haggle” with people and still get the price she needed to make the effort worthwhile.
She sold two mobiles and three small flowers during the morning, but Amanda realized she was only a brief stop in the tidal rush toward the south end of the building, because everyone had come to see Thigpen’s booth. Folks did take her business cards and artist biography, and promised they’d be back.
About one o’clock, a flushed and harried Marc Orlando ducked into her booth and handed her a white paper bag.
“Tuna sandwich and iced tea,” he said. “Now you owe me two.”
“Thanks, Marc, I really needed this!”
He rotated his head, took it all in, then let out a long whistle. “Your space is amazing, Amanda, and I love your work. It’s even more impressive in these spotlights.”
“You’ve seen it before?”
He grinned. “I peeked. And, of course, I saw your big sculpture when it was stored in our mutual workspace. Maybe after I’ve bought you a few more lunches, you’ll let me barter for a small piece.”
“I think that could be arranged.” She needed a favor and was shy to ask, but did it anyway. “Do you mind watching my display for a few minutes? I really need to use the bathroom.”
He nodded and laughed. “Sure, but make it quick. I’m doing a lot of business, the place is a zoo. Since I’m right across from Mr. Thigpen, folks waiting in line to see the letter are forced into my booth.”
“That’s a nice fringe benefit.”
“Right. Would you believe an armed cop is stationed right behind the easel holding the letter? But don’t even think about trying to see the display, or you’ll never get back here.”
“Okay, I’ll hurry.” She shoved into the crowd as Marc wished her good luck.
Good luck, indeed, she thought as she got swept up in the melee. She’d be lucky to survive this wild weekend. Still, it was really exciting.
Maybe too exciting.