# Read the first page of Five-Carat Soul by James McBride Read the opening of Five-Carat Soul by James McBride free, no signup. Short stories, from an antique toy dealer to a boys' soul band. - Page: https://uncovered.ink/read/five-carat-soul-james-mcbride - Genre: Literary fiction - Year: 2017 - ISBN: 9780735216716 - Read it blind (cover and title hidden): https://uncovered.ink/?b=9780735216716&s=read-page - Buy: https://bookshop.org/a/125786/9780735216716 - Borrow: https://search.worldcat.org/search?q=9780735216716 ## The opening I sell vintage toys. All kinds of toys. I sell sheep that belch popcorn, dolls that whisper secrets, papier-mâché Santa Clauses, Halloween masks, Little Bo Peeps, and puppets. I sell toy parrots that say “Here comes a nigger,” 1823 fire engines that say “toot!” and windup clocks from 1834 that say “Time’s up, Gramps!” I sell tricycles from the Depression, toy coffee grinders from World War II France, and two types of the original 1964 Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots, including one that looks like Peter O’Toole and another that looks like Sammy Davis, Jr. I sell tin soldiers, steel trains, wooden cars, cardboard airplanes, ceramic piggy banks, and pinball machines. If it’s a vintage toy, I sell it. I am a sole proprietor. I buy toys on commission from collectors. They love me. When I call on a prospective client, often an ancient widow selling off her husband’s collection or an ailing toy collector who made a killing on Wall Street and now is about to go kaplooey, I look the part. I’m not like my competitors from Sotheby’s and Christie’s who arrive wearing crisp pinstripe suits over starchly pressed shirts, the women with their hair carefully coifed, the men clean shaven, with their nails just so. Instead I play an antiques professor, a man of letters. I arrive ten minutes late. I knock on the door wearing a bow tie, a button-down shirt, and penny loafers, adjusting my glasses and scratching my beard. I fumble my way from the living room to the kitchen, dropping my pen, saying “Excuse me” to walls that I bumble into. I am a lost professor, a toy savant, expounding on the attributes of the dollhouses built by the great toymaker D. U. Edwards of 1851 Germany while losing my spoon in the bowl of chicken soup that I accept with the humblest of thanks from my generous host. I preach the gospel of the precision pinball creations of the Frenchman J. D. Gourhand, circa 1834 Paris. I crow with tears in my eyes about the wondrous, glorious, dazzling tin rooster creations of T. J. McConnell of Belfast, killed in the Irish Uprising. Toy collectors love enthusiastic, absentminded professors. Absentminded professors are goofy, forgetful, and cute: They give sellers the misguided notion that they’re getting the best price. That’s why they love me. I’ve done pretty well over the last thirty years. Not bad for a Jew from Queens who started out as an actor trained in Shakespeare and then toiled unappreciated in the small towns of upstate New York where I plied my trade in summer theater, best described as continually shouting “Blow thou winter wind!” to retired New York garment workers who wouldn’t know iambic pentameter from a pair of pliers. I slaved that way for more years than I have fingers. Thankfully, my audiences these days are far more sophisticated. Still, no toy collector from Amsterdam to Anaheim can resist my charms. No weeping widow holding her late husband’s valuable train collection of Herman Beavers Specialty Trains can resist me. No millionaire CEO teetering on the brink of ruin or the edge of life, clinging to his valuable collection of series 922 Henry Ford Toy Racers, gathered over a lifetime of savvy negotiation from Spain to Selma, can say no to me. Entire toy divisions at Sotheby’s and Christie’s shudder at the sound of my name: Leo Banskoff. Toy collecting is a small world, and in that world I am Pete Rose, Henry Aaron, and the Babe, all rolled into one. My batting record over the last twenty years is close to 1.000. I have never lost a client. No one can resist my blend of knowledge, perception, and most of all, profit. No one can resist my charms. No one, that is, except one. I first heard of the Reverend Spurgeon Hart by way of an old friend, Milton Schneider, a New York tax attorney and investor who handles estates and divorces with a degree of skillful discretion that has earned him considerable sums over the years. Milton is a clever, joyful fellow and from time to time, while trawling through the shattered portfolios and economic wreckage of his wealthy clients laid bare by divorce, he has occasionally uncovered a pot of gold in the toy arena that he sloughs off to me. Young millionaire ex-wives don’t care about toys, especially those rising from the wreckage of a marital disaster, most having served as the third or fourth notch on the marriage totem pole of the aforesaid wealthy client’s love life. Milton sniffs these out with ease, and if he gets a whiff of toy gold, sends them to me. I do the dirty work, query the prey, find the mark, make the initial visit, talk down the sale price, sell off the toys, take my commission, and fork over a small remuneration to Milton for his trouble. Everyone is happy. It’s a win-win. Such seemed to be the promise of the Spurgeon Hart case, which arrived at my place last fall via an overnight package from Milton wrapped in a brown paper envelope bearing a note that said, “This is a long shot. But no harm no foul.” I was suspicious, for Milton had previously struck out three times straight, and I’d recently informed him that he’d have to lighten his wallet in my direction should this lead prove to be another bust, for the last had cost me no small amount of time and dignity, as I’d been shown out of the home of an elderly Upper East Side widow posthaste by her new boyfriend and personal trainer, an African-American fellow about the size of Milwaukee. He was offended by my opinion of a rare toy in her collection, a doll replica of a famous boxer named Joe Frazier. The doll wore boxing trunks and the headdress of an Indian chief, with a towel draped over his shoulders that read “Thrilla from THE UNDER GRAHAM RAILROAD BOX CAR SET Manila with the Gorilla.” When you pulled the towel his tongue came out. It was a delightful piece—not vintage, but a rarity. There were only fourteen made in the world before the manufacturer was stopped by a lawsuit. But after six weeks of research and extensive discussions with the manufacturer, I determined that the doll was a fake made in Taiwan. That roiled this widow’s paramour—he was a big fan of Smokin’ Joe—and after several hot comments about my Jewish background, race, motive, and bearing, I was forced to leave the home with explicit instructions not to return, as well as candid descriptions as to what would happen to various parts of my anatomy should I venture to that cause in the future. But I’d made a fair amount of money with Milton over the years, so when this brown paper package arrived I opened it immediately. Wrapped inside was a dusty vinyl portfolio containing the stock holdings of one Rev. Spurgeon Thelonius Hart, of Springfield Gardens, Queens, whose holdings had been discovered in a circular file by one of Milton’s young law clerks. I sat down and thumbed through it. Apparently, the good Reverend’s mother had worked as a domestic for the Von Klees family, one of the wealthy families of 1920s New York City and its cousin, the Hamptons. The stock holdings, along with a few family heirlooms, were gifts for her years of service, before the family died off. Apparently, the Von Kleeses’ wealth died off with them, because there seemed to be nothing of worth inside the portfolio: a wandering bond or two, a couple of mutual funds, some old securities that predated 1927 and were stamped “Prerequisite,” which meant they were probably worthless. I was about to toss the portfolio back in its envelope and return the whole business to Milton when I noticed, attached to the rear inside cover of the portfolio, a faded black and white photograph. I almost fell out of my chair when I saw what it was. It was a toy train. But not just any train. An 1859 SmithDeckert 2350 Blue-Tone, Single Engine, Steam Powered, PiperCoal Locomotive. And a set of four box cars. Also known as the Under Graham Railroad Box Car Set. In immaculate condition. Let me explain to you about the worth—and value—of antique toys. I have an art collector friend named Muriel, and we occasionally debate which of our respective trades is more lucrative and important to world history—an argument Muriel almost always wins. But one evening during one of these talks, after consuming a considerable amount of bourbon (which I’d generously supplied), I said: “Muriel, name me one piece of art in the world that is almost beyond wealth in terms of its worth, a piece that captures history’s impact on the present. Name me one.” Muriel sat back thoughtfully, smoking a Gauloise with one hand and holding her glass in the other. ## Books with a similar feel - [Utopia Avenue by David Mitchell](https://uncovered.ink/read/utopia-avenue-david-mitchell.md) - [One World by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie](https://uncovered.ink/read/one-world-chimamanda-ngozi-adichie.md) - [A Cage Went in Search of a Bird by Tommy Orange](https://uncovered.ink/read/a-cage-went-in-search-of-a-bird-tommy-orange.md) - [Grand Union by Zadie Smith](https://uncovered.ink/read/grand-union-zadie-smith.md) - [Skippy Dies by Paul Murray](https://uncovered.ink/read/skippy-dies-paul-murray.md) - [The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini](https://uncovered.ink/read/the-kite-runner-khaled-hosseini.md) --- Source: Uncovered (https://uncovered.ink). A short sample shown for reading and discovery. Rights holders can request removal at https://uncovered.ink/takedown.