He sees me pull up and comes out to greet me. After exchanging hellos I pop the trunk and pull out the Pambak.

"Nice rug. How much?"

"I got a grand in it. What can you do?"

Barry walks around the rug which is laid out in the parking lot. He looks at the rug, looks up at me, back at the rug. He smiles, "How's four thousand?"

"Perfect."

We walk into his shop and he writes me a check. He reaches into a humidor that sits next to the register and pulls out a cigar.

"Here," he says, "Try this. And by the way. People have been asking for you. Two guys, dark suits."

I ask, "And, what did you tell 'em?"

"Nothing."

"Thanks. Catch ya later."

I head home. My place is in a Philly suburb on the other side of the Schuylkill River. My mind begins to wander and tries to make sense of what is happening. Something is tickling at the back of my brain but I can't quite put my finger on it. Everything that I heard today must be related to my South Philly visit yesterday. I still don't see how.

Early the next morning, around 4:00am, I pull the '56 Chevy pickup out of the garage and head up to the Columbus Farmers Market.

It was established in 1929 by one Harry Ruopp. Originally, it was a livestock and farm equipment auction held at 11:00am every Thursday. Over the years it has become a well known shopping center and flea market. It sits on about 200 acres and is one of the largest markets on the East coast. It's about an hour from me, located on Route 206 in Columbus, NJ.

I pull in around five thirty and park in the customer lot. I'm here to buy, not sell. There are a few high clouds and the air is a little brisk.

I walk into the indoor market and grab a donut and coffee. Step back outside and wander the flea. I run into Mark, a dealer from Staten Island. We've known each other for a long time. Average height, stocky with thinning hair. I like him.