THE TRESKILLING YELLOW

"Hey Galahad, your lady love's on line one."

"Got it Shirl'. Thanks .'

Shirley Robinson was the closet thing I had to a sister. She was also, my partner, office manager, receptionist, and the best on-line investigator in the business. Her network of spooks, spies and other digital detectives made the CIA drool with envy, but then, they're a drooling crowd anyway. She had been a sergeant with SFPD Vice when I was with Homicide and we had left together when the politics there had become more important than truth, justice and the American Way - or something like that. It was mid November and a soft mist fell outside my office window on the third floor of Claremont Hotel. It shrouded my view of the Bay and the skyline of The City and made me feel like I had lost something extraordinary.

I picked up the phone and punched the blinking button. "Tom McKenna, finder of lost children and savior of sexy senoritas." Karen Sanchez, my one and only, ran a music industry PR firm in la la land - we did the California commute thing on the weekends.

"Kind sir, I am a child, lost in the narcissistic wilderness that is Los Angeles. Can you save me?" She feigned damsel in distress.

"You, madam, sound like seriously sexy senorita to me and I shall rescue you from the evils of an amoral and materialistic world."

"Promises, promises," she said and I could feel her smile at the other end of the phone.

"Hey Babe, to what do I owe the pleasure of a call in the middle of the business day?"

"Thomas, Michael Derek, the head of Belfry Records, is a friend of mine…"

"A friend…?"

"I love you most when you are jealous."

"I'm not jealous. What kind of friend?"

"Let me finish Mr. Not Jealous. He's more a business acquaintance than a friend. I have two hot groups with Belfry - Mano a Mano and Melange and Michael and I are both on the Advisory Board of Music Industry Pension and Welfare Board…. And just so you don't have to ask, he's married, and has two children."

"Okay," I said, "what about Mr. Derek who is married with two children and is more of a business acquaintance than a friend?"

"He knows my guy is a private investigator. He asked if I would call you and ask you to come to meet with him in LA. He'll pay for the trip."

"Do you know what he wants to talk about?"

"No, Thomas, I don't, but he seemed anxious, almost upset, when he called. Why don't you come down tonight? I'll pick you up at Burbank and we'll go back to the house and I'll fix you some hot tamales." She said this latter like Mae West.

Maybe the day wasn't so overcast after all. "I'll catch the 6:05 out of Oakland. See you at 7."

_____________ 


Michael Derek was a short, stocky man with deep-set dark eyes that made him look angry. He was maybe 40, prematurely bald, and wore a full red beard with sprinkles of gray. We was dressed in the LA uniform du jour - black jeans, Nike's and a Tommy Bahama floral print silk shirt. Contracts and other legal looking documents were strun across his desk; the walls were covered with framed gold and platinum albums.

We shook hands and I took a seat in front of his desk. There was a huge window on one side of this office almost the size of the entire wall. It looked out over a garden that seemed transplanted from and English country estate - beautiful flowers of lavender and jade filled a small courtyard. In the center of the garden was a running fountain in which two sparrows were bathing in feathered dignity.

Hey, maybe it had been imported. According to Karen, Belfry Records was the exciting new label for the hottest names in rap, punk and hip hop. Derek's personal fortune was already estimated to in the neighborhood of $100 million.

"It was kind of you to come all the way from San Francisco, Mr. McKenna. I suppose I could have contacted someone locally, but this is a very confidential matter and Karen happened to mention at one point that you were an investigator…a very good investigator." He paused. "Well, I just preferred to keep it 'in the family' so to speak…" I looked at him quizzically. "The Belfry family…Karen has acts here and…"

I nodded and smiled understandingly. "The family," I said.

"Precisely," he smiled, happy now that he was being understood.

"What is it exactly I can do for you, Mr. Derek?"

"I want you to find something," he said and got up and started pacing back and forth behind his desk. "Pound for pound, it is the most valuable piece of property in the world." He ran his hand over his dome and then groomed his beard by pulling down on it with his right hand. His eyes took on an intensity that was almost manic.

"What is it, a painting?" I asked.

'No, Mr. McKenna, it's the TreSkilling Yellow, and I intend to have it!" He looked at me for a moment with a frantic, consuming lust in his eyes and then it went away and he sat down. "Sorry, I…it's been a long day and I have been trying to acquire this stamp for a very long time. " He opened his top desk drawer, took out a plastic pill bottle, shook one out, tossed it in his mouth and leaned his head back and swallowed. 

These Hollywood moguls sure know how to handle stress.

"It's a stamp?" I asked.

"The TreSkilling Yellow is not just 'a stamp', Mr. McKenna, it is the most valuable stamp in the world." The lustful demeanor had returned and there was now a serious edge to his voice. He looked at me as though I had just run over his daughter in a crosswalk with a tractor. I wasn't sure what was up with the good Mr. Derek, but on this subject the guy was a couple of bottles short of a six-pack. I decided I'd had enough.

"Look, Mr. Derek, I know you are richer than God, not Bill Gates, but surely God, and I know Karen has a business relationship here which she values, but I afraid you've got the wrong guy. I don't know a Skilling from a penny post card - I'm a Fed Ex man myself. You obviously want someone who shares your devotion to the world of stamps - it's not my gig." 

I stood and put out my hand - Mano a Mano and Melange, neither of whom I had ever heard or heard of, motivating the uncommon act of civility.

His mouth dropped. He stayed seated for a few moments like he was in a trance and then he stood, the strangeness now gone from his face and eyes.

"No, no…I, eh…no, I'm sorry, truly sorry. Please Mr. McKenna, sit down."

I stood there.

"Please. I apologize. Hear me out…I know I am… irrational about this stamp, Mr. McKenna. Let me tell you a story, and if after I'm done you still want to leave, I'll pay your travel expenses, your fee for a day and no hard feelings."

I sat. Someone had to cover the Amex bill.

Derek sat back down. He put his head in his hands, then looked up and he started to talk.

"Rare stamps - the rarest - are often unique because there has been some mistake, or error in their printing. For instance, in 1918 the U.S. Government accidentally printed one whole sheet of stamps with the center - an airplane called a Jenny - upside down. 100 of these reached collectors, 98 have been traced. These Jennies currently sell for between $70,000 - $250,000 depending on the condition."

I raised my eyebrows. Derek nodded and went on.

"In 1855 the Swedish Government issued two denominations of stamps - a green three (tre) skilling and a yellow eight skilling. A skilling is a Swedish monetary unit, like a penny. But somehow - nobody knows for sure how - one of the three skilling stamps went through the eight skilling press making it a yellow three skilling stamp. There is only one yellow tre skilling stamp in the world, the rest are green.

"It was used to mail a letter in 1857.

"A seven year school boy found the stamp (recognizing the error) in his grandfather's papers in 1883. In 1884, he sold it for seven kronor -a dollar. A week later, the stamp dealer who bought it, sold it for $500 dollars. The boy felt monstrously betrayed, but that's another story.

"The stamp has since passed through some of the most famous collections in the world. In the 1920's, it was sold to the Swedish collector, Baron Erik Leijonhufvud, for about $3,500. Then in 1937 King Carol II of Romania bought it for $25,000. It was auctioned in Sweden in 1984 for $455,000 and then again in 1990 for $1.35 million. But the businessman who made this bid ultimately could not come up with all of the money to pay for it, so it stayed with the auction house that sold it until November of 1996. 

Derek learned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and shook his head. Then he went on. 

"I've been collecting since I was in grade school. I have one of the finest collections in the states, and I know my way around the philatelic world. Everybody, myself included, figured The Yellow would go for $1 - $1.5 million tops. I mean, it's been cancelled... 

"But I wanted this stamp desperately. It would have made my collection one of the finest in the world. So I sold the publishing rights to some great songs and put together cash and some lines of credit totaling $2 million dollars. Today, that would be like falling out of bed, but in '96 $2 million was a lot of money to me…a lot."

I nodded as if I completely understood how $2million dollars was no longer a big deal.

"The auction was in Geneva, Thanksgiving day. I flew over three days early so I could shake the jet lag and be sharp. The bidding started at 9AM. It was intense. By noon, the bidding had reached a million dollars and a hush fell over the room - we had broken a record for the price of a stamp, the previous high for a completed sale being $985,000. I was bidding against Paulo Zambetini, who was acting as an agent for an anonymous buyer. At $1.25 million he paused and spoke quietly to someone on his cell phone. He put the phone down and looked at the floor as if he were done, and then he slowly raised his hand. 

"We went back and forth in units of $100,000. Finally, I signaled $2 million, and there were gasps from around the room. Zambetini went to his cell again. All eyes in the room were on him. I tried to appear calm, composed, but I was a wreck. My heart was pounding like a jackhammer, I was covered with sweat; I looked like I had just stepped out of the shower, and my head hurt terribly. Then Zambetini shook his head emphatically "no" at the phone and hung up. I thought I had him, I thought The Yellow was mine. For an instant, I was elated, and then he increased the bid to $2.25 million…"

Derek looked drained, beads of sweat dotted his brow and he leaned back in his chair, "I folded, walked out of the auction house, caught a cab and wept all the way back to the hotel."

He stared at the ceiling. I could hear him breathing heavily. And then he turned and looked at me. "I want The Yellow Mr. McKenna. I'd like you to find it for me. I can afford it now; I don't care what the owner wants for it."

"Do you know who Zambetini was working for, who he represented?" I asked.

"No. That's what I need you to do - find the owner. I'll pay any price. Zambetini, is one of the best known and highest regarded stamp dealers in New York. It would be a grievous breach of his professional ethics for him to divulge the buyer. If word got out he would be ruined."

I thought for a minute. "Maybe a quiet offer of a handsome…eh, inducement?"

"I called him three weeks ago," Derek offered. "He not only refused to consider disclosing his client, but refused to forward an offer from me."

"Why?" It didn't make sense.

"I was stupid. I offered the money first, and let's face it, it was a bribe. He was very offended. When I then asked him to forward an open ended offer to the owner, he hung up on me. I should never have tried to buy the information from him. I knew better."

This was beginning to sound interesting - a scavenger hunt for the world's most valuable stamp. It beat insurance work. 

Derek could see I was thinking about it; he weighted in with a carrot that even Bugs couldn't refuse. "Let me make this worth your while, Mr. McKenna; if you find The TreSkilling Yellow and I am able to buy it, I will pay you 5% of the purchase price on top of your normal fee."

I never had a problem math; I was looking at a bonus of $125,000 and up.

"Put that in writing, Mr. Derek and e mail it to my office. Here's my card. Where does Paulo Zambetini live?"

Derek smiled for the first time since I had walked into his office, "Manhattan. His office is on -Park at East 85th."

___________

I had Shirley on my cell before I was out of the Belfry lobby.

"We've got a gig here, Shirl. Could mean some serious Nordstrom's time for you and yours if we can track down a little yellow stamp."

"Did you say stamp?"

"I said 'yellow stamp'".

" Who makes yellow stamps?"

"Sweden used to, and this one happens to be worth 2.3 million bones."

"For a stamp?!"

"A yellow stamp that was suppose to be green."

I told her the whole story. "You mean to tell me that if we find this tre skilling yellow and he buys it for $5 million that we get a $250,000 bonus?"

"Check your e mail, he should have already committed to it in writing." She was wearing a telephone head set, and I could hear the keyboard keys clicking while she opened up her e-mail program.

I didn't take long. "If you were standing next to me, I'd plant a big wet one on your lillie-white kisser."

"We've got to find it first," I said.

The line was quiet for about 10 seconds, then she said, "I have an idea. You said the guy lives in New York and made calls on his cell phone, right?"

"Yeah."

"I've got a contact at Verizon security in New York. If this guy Paulo Zambetini had a cell phone account with them in November of '96 we might be able to get the numbers he was calling on Thanksgiving morning November, 1996."

"U.S. cell phones don't work in Europe, do they?" I asked. Mr. Telecom.

"No, but Verizon has a wireless phone for their international travelers. You rent or purchase a special phone from them that works on the European standard and calls to your regular U.S. mobile number are forwarded directly to the European phone as if you were here. If Zambetini was a Verizon customer, and used their International Traveler Plan when he went to Geneva, there would be a bill and my friend could get to the bottom of who he spoke to."

"How do we encourage your friend to do the heavy lifting?"

A pause, then, "He's a Knicks fan - big time."

"Does he trust you?" I asked.

"Yeah, I've done a couple of things for him - last year I tracked down a kid who had run up a $6,500 bill on someone else's cell phone. He was like…you know, 'I owe you one.'"

"Good, offer him two court side seats for one game at The Garden for finding the numbers that Zambetini called and tell him if we score on this thing, you'll buy him season Knicks tickets."


"You got a lot of brain cells for a white dude,'" she said and hung up.

_________________

Three days later, I walked back into Michael Derek's office and sat down in the same chair I had occupied on my previous visit. He knew from my earlier call that we had found the buyer. He didn't know who and was beaming with anticipation. Shirley Robinson rocks. 

I decided to get to it. 

"Lawrence Ellenberg bought The Yellow," I said trying not to sound too cocky. "It was he with whom Zambetini was speaking that morning at the auction."

Derek's smile vanished instantly. He looked as if I had just told him his mother had died. "He'll never sell to me," he said.

"Why?"

"It's hard to explain. We are competitors…no, rivals. I beat him out of a Jenny several years ago and he has never forgiven me. But he normally doesn't use an agent at auction, so I didn't suspect him of having The Yellow. Damn it, I should have known!"

Shirley had done a bit of research on Ellenberg; he had become a young junk bond billionaire in the eighties. He had gone through four wives in a decade, and now lived alone in a lavish brownstone on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. He was an important benefactor to ballet and opera in New York City, and was known as an avid stamp collector. There was one child from the last marriage, a 14 year-old whom he apparently worshiped and was reported to be estranged from her father. Mrs. E number four had walked out on Ellenberg, a reversal of roles from his earlier failed marriages, and the gossip columns of Gotham attributed his subsequent single life to a torch he still carried for the feisty number 4 - a woman named Barbara. 

"I have an idea," I said. "Give me a few days and let me see what I can do." He nodded absently still fixated on his loss. I stood and headed for the door. "I'll be in touch" I said and left.

The plan was simple, try to enlist the ex in opening up negotiations on The Yellow. It didn't work out that way.

____________

The trip to Santa Barbara took a little over an hour. Karen came and we listened to 70s CDs all the way up the coast - Fleetwood Mac, Rumors; The Eagles, Hotel California; Michael Jackson, Thriller - and we were there. 
Barbara Ellenberg was a successful real estate broker in one of the most desirable locations on the planet. She had an office in the den of her beautiful home overlooking the Santa Barbara Marina. I had called and made an appointment, which she had assumed was real estate related. I hadn't told her otherwise.

She was a tan, handsome woman in her mid forties. She was also self-assured, and friendly. I had thought of several approaches to enlist her help, but in the end, I went with the truth.

"Mr. McKenna, I sympathize with your situation, and if I thought for one minute that Larry would listen to me about this, I would call him. But inserting me into this deal would just antagonize him. Despite reports to the contrary, he has never forgiven me for taking Kristin and thinks I have turned her against him."

With that, as if on cue, a very cute teen-ager with sun bleached hair, green eyes and a dripping wet suit walked into the den. "Which is pure BS…" she said as if she had been there the entire time. "Dad's okay, he's just so…boring."

"Kristin!" her mother said.

"Mom…the dude's into opera and ballet, how lame is that?"

Karen, who had been sitting quietly next to me asked, "What kind of music do you like Kristin? Who do you like?"

Barbara rolled her eyes but said nothing. 

"Punk," Kristin said and smiled.

"Rad. Who do you like?" The two of them were in their own universe. 

"Gary Targe is sooo cool," Kristin said, "he's like seriously buff."

Barbara said, "You should see her room, the walls are plastered with posters of this guy - shirtless and tattoos from head to… " She turned quickly to Kristin, "Which is okay, because it's your room, sweetheart."

"He's buff because he works out in the gym three hours a day, every single day," Karen said with a small smile on her face.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Gary Targe is the lead singer for Melange," she said with a twinkle in her eye.

"Do you know him?" Kristin asked as if this were the most vital question on earth at the moment.

Karen looked at her with a smile, "He's a client of mine."

"No way!!!" Kristin screamed.

And everything fell into place. Larry Ellenberg was given pit seats and back stage passes to the Melange concert at Madison Square Garden, where he took his ecstatic daughter to hang with Gary Targe and the band. Following the weekend with his daughter in New York, as agreed, Ellenberg sold the treskilling yellow for $5 million to the Asian Investment Corporation of Hong Kong, a hastily created entity the title to which I passed to a very grateful Michael Derek in exchange for a cool $250,000.

Maybe, I'd buy a few stamps.

__________

The story and the characters are fiction. But the history of the treskilling yellow (with the exception of the last sale of the story to Derek) is true. It's owner is currently unknown.

Ó2002 Wiseman & Burke, Inc. All Rights Reserved.