This is what I told her…

The events that precipitated this nightmare began four days ago. I was at the flea market in Lambertville, New Jersey. It was 5:00 am Wednesday morning. The trees were beginning to display green; the air was a tad nippy and the sky nearly cloudless.

Walking with me was Moses Aronson. Moe is relatively large, a few inches over six feet, broad in the shoulders with a bear like head. Moe is an uncle from my father's side of the family. Actually, my great uncle. And, if this is to be believed, Uncle Moe is Irish.

"Boyo, I don't see anything that you have to own".

I looked over and nodded once. There are two reasons to scour the antique flea markets. The obvious reason is to unearth something where you can make a buck. There is a ton of merch at any flea that can be bought for ten and sold for twenty. That's a tough way to make a living.

Much more lucrative is to find a premium item and pay a little more than most dealers are willing to shell out. Every single day of the week, there are flea markets with items ranging from a couple of hundred dollars up to whatever. I once saw a Tiffany Lamp change hands three times in the course of an hour. And, get this; there was still enough profit in it for the guy that took it home.

The other reason for walking the market is even more important. That is to discover what is not there. The entire antiques trade, like any other business is built on relationships. To be successful it is necessary to have established relationships with both sellers and buyers.

Knowing this, you talk to dealers. Listen for rumors, whispers, innuendo. Who purchased what, what's being put up at auction, estates that have come on the market, collections being liquidated? You're hunting for merchandise that is brand new to the market, preferably something that hasn't seen the light of day for decades, maybe more.