Three strikes

Ball one

"Tell me what happened."

Penelope Kelly Anne Lane is my long time girlfriend. Going on seven years. We're not engaged or married. Point in fact, we don't live together. She has a loft in town; on the river. My domicile is a carriage house on a twenty acre estate in the burbs. With all that said, Kelly is the woman to whom I am committed.

"I drove straight to Amy's after she called."

Kelly is relatively tall. Five eight or nine. She has long red hair and freckles splatter her nose and cheeks. Quite beautiful, really. Don't know why she stays with me. Perhaps it's my rugged good looks. Light brown hair; brown eyes; lanky build; my great posture? Who the hell knows? Oh, by the way, whatever you do, do not call her Penny Lane. She prefers Kelly.

I continued, "Two days ago Hari did a cleanout in Chestnut Hill. From what Amy said, it was the dregs of an estate. The entire house was empty except for the kitchen, pantry, basement and an extra large garage. Hari told Amy that even the left over’s were worth about ten g's, possibly more."

We were having lunch at La Fourno on South Street between 6th and 7th Streets. It is one of Philly's better kept secrets. Kelly had the Eggplant Parmesan; exquisite. Mine was Vegetarian Lasagna with a side of fresh sauteed spinach. We shared a 2006 Corvo, a white, medium bodied wine. It tasted a little like tangy citrus along with fresh apple.

"Well, Hari talked with the lawyer handling the estate. Yes, go ahead and take the safe. No, we don't have the combination. Damn thing must have weighed four hundred pounds. It took Bigfoot, his two guys and some landscaping guy to load it onto the van. Amy showed it to me. It's sitting in their workshop with the door open."

Kelly cracked a smile. "How did they get it open, tough guy?" She's been calling me 'tough guy' ever since our recent escapade involving international hit men; local, state, federal and international cops; and the sale of a forged Vermeer for a little over $260 million. Probably because we managed to come away from the whole incident relatively unscathed.

"He called Punk." Punk is a sixteen year old street urchin who has gravitated to the antique's trade. In a nutshell, he steals, lies, cheats and runs scams in general. Reminds me a little of myself at that age. Good kid, I like him.

"Punk cracks the thing in about two minutes. H gives him a Franklin for his troubles. Amy said that there was a cigar box with a bunch of very old baseball cards."

"When did this happen?"

"Yesterday. In the morning. She said that Hari took the cigar box and headed down to South Philly to see this guy with the sport's shop. He came home; said he left a few of the cards with the memorabilia guy and they went to see the twelve noon showing of 'Green Lantern' down on Delaware Avenue. Amy said that Hari didn't go to the market because it was raining."

"What else?" All of these questions were good. It helped organize my thoughts.

"This was funny. Hari really enjoyed the movie. He's like a big kid. They stopped at the T-shirt store at 3rd and South on the way home. Bought a Green Lantern shirt. Put it on right then and there. She said that he looked as happy as a pig in shit.

"They returned to the shop. Hari spent the rest of the day restoring some chairs that came out of the Chestnut Hill deal. Tended to customers when they came in; didn't go out the rest of the day.

"So, let me guess." 'Don't call me Penny Lane' is really getting into this. I can see the wheels spinning. "You think that there may be a correlation between the baseball cards and Bigfoot's demise."

"It's possible."

"And you don't think that's a stretch."

"Of course it is. But one has to begin somewhere, don't you think?"

"Here's the sixty-four thousand dollar question. Who knew about the baseball cards?"

"Let's see. There's Hari's crew; Rebel and Chucky Cheese. Punk, of course. Danny Boy, who heard it from Rebel. Possibly someone connected with the estate. And then, there's the sports memorabilia guy over on South Broad Street. What's his name? Oh yeah, Leon Burger."

"What's your next move, big boy?" You know, now that I think about it, Kelly doesn't use my name. I wonder why that is.

"Guess I'll start with Burger. Head over there after lunch. How about you?"

"Going to the museum and work on that Van Gogh exhibit. See you back at your place later."

Miss Lane is a consulting curator. Various institutions hire her to arrange shows revolving around specific themes or artists. It is Kelly's job to deal with logistics; contact the owners; arrange for terms and shipping; handle the insurance; the promotion. In short, whatever is necessary to move from inception to completion on any given job.

We ordered some cappuccino and split a cannoli. Said our goodbyes and went on our way.

I headed down Broad Street near the stadium. Found a legal parking spot in front of Burger's Sports Emporium. Kato jumped from the car and followed me inside.

"Is he friendly?" asked the short man behind the counter. Perhaps five-foot six. What he lacked in height was more than made up in muscle. Arms like Popeye. Large gut but solid. Bald on top with graying black hair on the sides. My guess would be former dock worker.

"No. Mr. Burger, I presume." I knew Leon Burger by reputation only. Personally, we had never met or done business.

"Yes, yes. I'm Burger. How can I help you Mister…"

"Picker, no mister. I believe that my friend Hari Henderson was in to see you yesterday."

"Yes, yes. Nice boy, Hari. Been doing business with for some time now. Yes, yes. Sold me some cards. Very nice, very nice."

"Forgive me for asking, it's really none of my business. What cards, exactly?"

"No problem, no problem. Here, let me show you." The little man turned around; kneeled down next to an ancient floor safe and spun the dial. Swung open the thick black door; reached inside and extracted a metal box. Placed it on the counter. "Here we go, here we go." The repetition was getting old fast. Burger removed a half dozen baseball cards; spread them on the counter.

This is what I saw: vintage baseball cards with names, stats and photos of Mickey Mantle, Shoeless Joe Jackson, Ty Cobb, Lou Gehrig, Babe Ruth and Jackie Robinson.

"Mr. Burger, if I may ask, what are these worth?"

"Well, well, Mr. Picker. These players, if they were the right edition and manufacturer would top a million easily. But, but, they're not. Doesn't mean they're not valuable though. A quick sale would be maybe $20,000.00. If I held onto them, perhaps $30,000, maybe a little more, maybe."

"And the deal that you struck with Hari?"

"Forgive me, Mr. Picker, Mr. Picker. Would you be kind enough to tell me what this is about."

"Sure, we'll get to that in a minute. What was the deal?"

"No problem, no problem. Hari comes in, see. Gives me this cigar box. Tells me to go through it. He walks around the store and looks at the comic books over there. Comes back over here and puts three or four comics on the counter. Green Lantern. I remember because he's wearing that stupid shirt. Full grown man wearing super hero t-shirts. Who would think, think?"

"And…"

"Oh yeah, oh yeah. Sorry. I offered him twelve grand. He wants fifteen. I think about it. Okay, I give him the fifteen. Threw in the comics. Now, now, please tell me. What's this all about?"

"Hari's dead."

Leon Burger stood absolutely still for what must have amounted to a full minute. No shock, no surprise, no nothing. A blank face. Then he said, "How?"

"Murdered. Mr. Burger, I want to thank you for your time. You have been very helpful."

I turned; opened the front door; called my dog and headed for home.