Chapter 3

The next day happened to fall on the weekend.

I drove alone to the largest antique market in Sterling City.

The place was a mix of everything, honest and shady side by side. Guys with stuff spread on the ground, guys with real storefronts, all of it for sale. Fake bronzes, fake jade bangles, ceramics doctored to look old, piled up everywhere you looked.

I don't know antiques, but I know people.

Those fancy shops with the expensive fit-outs were obviously there to fleece guys like me, the kind wearing designer labels, the fat sheep. If I wanted something cheap that still had class, I had to hit the stalls on the ground.

I wandered the stall area for a good while, sweating through my shirt.

The stuff here looked absurdly fake. Some of the "antiques" had "microwave safe" stamped on the bottom. Some of the paintings were on paper so white it looked fresh off the factory line, like a stack of printer paper.

Just as I was about to give up, in a corner nobody was paying attention to, I spotted an old man.

He was wearing a ratty undershirt, dozing off. In front of him he'd laid out an oilcloth, and on it sat a messy heap of old books, lapel pins, and a few grimy-looking painting scrolls.

I picked up one of the scrolls.

The wooden roller was cracked, the paper yellowed and darkened, the edges chewed up by insects. I opened it and saw a few mountains, a few trees, the ink faint, almost blurred out. There were a couple of red seals stamped on it too, crooked and smudged, the characters impossible to read.

Honestly, the thing looked terrible.

At an auction house, this junk wouldn't have made it through the door.

But to me, that was exactly the proof it was real.

All the fakes were painted bright and gaudy. This one alone carried that beaten-down look of something that had been through it all.

That's what you call the beauty of imperfection.

"Old man, how much for this beat-up painting?" I nudged his little folding stool with the toe of my shoe.

He opened his eyes, the cloudy pupils rolling around, and held up five fingers. "Five grand."

"Five grand? You might as well rob me."

I tossed the painting on the ground. "Fifty."

"Kid, you even know how to haggle?" He got worked up. "This was handed down from the old dynasty! Fifty bucks wouldn't cover the paper it's printed on. Three grand, lowest I'll go!"

"A hundred."

"Two grand!"

"A hundred and fifty. Take it or I'm walking." I made like I was leaving.

"Hey, hey, hey! Come back!" He grabbed a fistful of my pant leg, looking pained. "I can tell you know your stuff, and I'm eager to close up and go home to my grandkid. Two hundred! Take it for two hundred! Can't go any lower than that!"

I laughed to myself.

Just like I figured. This whole market was pure fluff.

I cheerfully pulled out two bills and tossed them to him.

With those hands of his, caked in dirt, he stuffed the money into his pocket fast, like he was afraid I'd change my mind, then rolled up that ratty painting any which way, shoved it into a black plastic bag, and handed it over.

"Hold onto it now. All sales final."

I carried the black plastic bag home like I'd struck gold.

Two hundred bucks for an "old-dynasty antique." Sure, it was definitely fake, but a piece with this look hanging on the wall would be more than enough to fool an amateur.

As for the experts?

Who's got time to stand there studying the painting on my wall with a magnifying glass?