Finders Keeper: Part One

Sam couldn't believe it fit. He had measured the opening and knew what size he needed, and then found one at Finder's Keeper salvage yard that was close enough that he could work with it. A quarter inch off the bottom and a little planing along the hinge side would have done the trick, and it was even mahogany, the same species of wood that the rest of the trim in the bedroom was. He figured he would have to chisel the hinges a little deeper after planing it for width. Except when he got it home, he didn't have to do a thing. The door fit perfectly.***

This was the fourth house Sam had bought as a handy-man-special. Some day he thought he might build his own but the old houses he fixed up sure had a lot of charm. And it would cost a fortune to build a new one compared to what he paid for the fixer-uppers.

He would buy one and live in it for a year or two until he had it all restored, each time swearing it would be his last. But then he would grow restless with nothing to work on around the house and unconsciously start browsing through the 'Homes for Sale' section in the classified ads. And it never failed; there would always be a new listing, one just right for the 'handy man'.

He and Charlie Finder were friends from high school and Charlie always seemed to have what Sam was looking for. It didn't matter if it was an old style ornate glass doorknob or something as hard to find as an intricate piece of teak molding.

Finder's Keeper salvage had been handed down to Charlie by his grandfather and judging by the size of the warehouse and the cluttered isles and storage racks full of treasures, it looked like he had kept more stuff than he had ever gotten rid of. It was also the place where Sam did ninety percent of his shopping for his restorations.

*****

"Hey, Sam! How's the new project coming along?"

Charlie Finder greeted him with the usual friendly handshake and went right to the coffeepot. He always poured Sam a cup of coffee as soon as he came in.

"Oh, pretty good, Charlie, pretty good. I finally got the five layers of white paint stripped off the trim in the bedroom. Put the last coat of varnish on it Monday and nailed it back on yesterday."

"Five layers of paint, bet that was a job wasn't it?" he asked as he handed Sam a steaming mug.

"Yeah, it was. I had to do it though. Did I tell you what kind of wood it was that some idiot painted over?"

"Nope, what was it, oak? Cherry?"

"No, it was mahogany. Can you believe it? The wood in that room is worth more than my truck and some jackass painted over it."

"No kidding! Well, it's not like your truck is worth all that much, Sam. How many miles has it got now, two hundred and fifty?"

"Two hundred and seventy-three thousand, not that it matters. That's not the point."

"I know, buddy, I know. Just picking," laughed Charlie.

"Why would someone paint over wood that cost more than the national budget in the first place? I just don't get it."

"Most people don't know mahogany from gum wood, Sam. Besides, it didn't cost that much back when your house was built. So what kind of treasure can I dig up for you today?"

A stroll out in the warehouse wasn't that much different than walking through a museum. Even Charlie had no idea what might be hidden in the dark recesses of the cavernous building; the contents had never been accurately inventoried.

"Something easy today, Charlie. I need a door."

And it was easy. Out of all the different building materials he had sequestered away in obscurity, Charlie's selection of doors was one item that he just happened to have well organized. They found the 'almost perfect' one about halfway down the first of three isles that contained over a hundred and fifty used doors. Sam measured it and it was only a quarter inch too big as far as he could tell in the stingy light of the shadow filled isles. He would only have to trim it a little to get it to fit.

Years ago, everything in the place had been tagged. Charlie's grandfather used to sell stuff on consignment. That was how he kept track of the owners so he could pay them after he deducted his percentage. Hanging on the tarnished brass lock-set was a tag that was dated '47 and a name written on it that had almost completely faded away but could still be made out as Johnson.

"Damn!" Cursed Charlie.

"What's wrong?"

"I haven't ran across one of these old tags in quite a while. Grandpa Finder quit selling stuff on consignment in the fifties and just paid people outright for their discards. If I sell something with one of the old tags on it he insists that I try to track down the owner and give them a cut. That's just the way he is."

"It's not going to be a problem is it Charlie? I mean, I can still buy the door can't I?" Asked Sam.

"Oh, sure, sure. As long as I make a reasonable attempt to find this Johnson guy, Grandpa will be satisfied. Believe it or not, he actually remembers a lot of the people that he tried to sell stuff for, and sometimes even what it was."

"No way! Isn't Bentley like eighty-five or something like that?"

"The old fart is eighty-nine and still as sharp as a tooth pick, Sam. Still got the first dollar he made and knows who he got it from too."

The mahogany door still had three heavy brass hinges attached to it, and it had an old style lock-set on it instead of just a passage or privacy door knob. It actually had a skeleton key instead of a button you push on a modern doorknob. The key was sticking out from the stylish brass plate underneath the knob. Sam took it out and put it in his pocket so it wouldn't get broken when they loaded the door on his truck. Not that he needed a lock on his closet or anything like that, but as long as it had a key, he wanted to keep it safe.

Sam and Charlie haggled good-naturedly over the price of the door, just like they always did with everything that Sam bought at Finder's Keepers. Charlie asked for too much, and Sam offered too little. Most of the time they met near the middle of the two prices and both were satisfied. Of course Sam didn't know his friend always cut him more slack than the rest of his customers. That's what friends are for, he thought as he smiled and watched Sam pull out of the parking lot with his new found treasure.

Charlie walked back into Finder's Keeper, picked up the phone and called Grandpa Bentley to see if he could remember who this Mr. Johnson was.

Bentley Finder lived in a farmhouse with Charlie's brother, Albert. It was actually Bentley's house, but Al's family had always helped run the farm and would some day take it over. It wasn't like old grandpa Finder needed to be taken care of yet, but eventually he would. When Charlie's call rang through to Bentley's house, Al's wife answered.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Becky, is Ben around?"

"Oh hi, Charlie! No, Gramps is out walking the pig."

"Good god! You mean to tell me that old pig of his hasn't hit the frying pan yet?"

"Well, you know he quit raising them for slaughter. He had said he was keeping this one because it was the runt of the last litter. He wanted to fatten it up before it went in the freezer."

"That was five years ago wasn't it, Becky?"

"Yeah, that's what happens when he gets attached to something. You remember how hard it was for him to let go of Finder's?"

"Sure enough. If it hadn't been for that hip operation that laid him up for those few months, he'd probably still be here."

"You know he would! So can I give him a message for you?"

"Nah, it's nothing all that important. I just sold something with one of his old tags and I wanted to see if he remembered anything about it."

"Oh he'll remember all right, he always does, Charlie."

"I know. I'll just call him back this evening when I get home."

"Well I'll tell him you called."

"Ok thanks, Becky. Tell Al and the kids I said hi."

"I will. Bye bye."

***

Sam was staring at the newly hung door. It had taken barely ten minutes to hang. When he got home with it, he had carried it right into his garage workshop and put it on a set of sawhorses where he could work on it. He then went and measured the door opening into the closet again just to be safe. He wanted to make sure he had written the measurements down right. He checked the height and it was the same as he had scrawled on his note pad before he left for the salvage yard. He checked the width and it was the same too. Just as he thought, the door had to be trimmed.

He went back out to the workshop to draw lines on the door where it had to be cut. When he had measured it at Finder's it had been a little too tall and a hair too wide for the opening.

He checked the top of the door to makes sure it was square and it was. He then measured the height from the latch side and was surprised to see it was the right length after all.

"What the hell," he muttered in the quiet of the workshop. "No way I measured this door wrong, the bottom must be out of square."

He decided he must have only checked the height on the hinge side of the door while in the dark recesses of the salvage warehouse. The latch side was evidently the right length; only the hinge side that he had measured at Charlie's needed to be trimmed.

Convinced that that was the case, Sam checked the height on the hinge side and was puzzled to find that it didn't need to be cut either.

"What the hell's going on here?" he asked himself. He immediately swung his tape around to check the door width and was stunned to find that is too was the exact size he had written down on his pad.

Sam had been a carpenter for over twenty years, and while he knew that mistakes always happen, he was just as sure that the door had been too big when he had measured it at Finder's Keeper. It had been pretty dark in there though. He remembered how he had to squint his eyes to read the tiny markings on his tape measure.

With no work needing to be done on the door after all, Sam carried it into the house and leaned it against the bedroom wall. He went back to the shop to get his cordless drill and some brass screws to attach the hinges to the jamb. When he returned, he positioned the door temporarily in the closet opening to see how the hinges lined up with the old mortises. He had forgotten to check them and was almost certain the position of the original hinges would be different. He was shocked to see that they were also aligned perfect. Even the original screw holes in the doorjamb lined up with the mounting holes in the old brass hinges.

He screwed the hinges to the doorjamb and gave the door a push knowing there was one more thing to check. He had to see if the door latch lined up with the striker plate. It swung shut and latched perfectly.

Something odd happened though, something that Sam didn't seem to notice. When the 'perfect' mahogany door latched tightly against the closet doorstop, there came a muffled echo sound from behind the door, inside the closet. The echoing sound a door would make when closed in an immensely huge room.

Sam glanced admiringly around the finished bedroom. All he would have to do is polish up the finish on the old replacement door and it would match the newly varnished base molding and window trim just right. Sam couldn't believe how lucky he had been to find a door that fit so well.

With the month long job of remodeling complete, he decided he would move his furniture out of the old bedroom he had been sleeping in and into this one. He would be sleeping here tonight.

***

When Charlie got home after closing Finder's Keeper for the day, his wife had dinner ready and waiting on the table. After dinner, he helped her clean up the kitchen and then stumbled through some algebra problems with his son Eric. That's why it was after eight in the evening when he got around to calling his grandfather again.

"Hi, Becky, it's me again."

"I wondered when you were going to call back, Charlie. Gramps doesn't stay up as late as the rest of us you know."

"I know. Eric was having some trouble with his algebra and I had to give him a hand."

Becky broke out laughing and said, "Sure, Charles, like I believe that!"

"I did! I did help him! I gave him all the wrong answers so he was bound to find the right one sooner or later."

"Now that I believe! Hang a sec and I'll get Ben. He's out on the porch smoking one of those stinking cigars."

"Thanks, Becky."

While he was waiting, Charlie pulled the tag that had been hanging on the doorknob out of his pocket. Now he couldn't make out the name on the tag at all. With it rubbing on the inside of his jeans all day, the name had smeared into an indecipherable smudge.

"Hello?"

"Hi Bentley."

"Chuck! Haven't heard from you in a couple of months or so. Figured you must have run Finder's into the ground by now."

"Hell no gramps! What would make you say that?"

"You found a tag didn't you? That's the only time I hear from you anymore."

"Ah. So you thought I wasn't selling anything just because I haven't called you lately?"

"I used to hear from you at least once a week. You haven't been throwing those old tags out without calling me have you?" accused Bentley in good humor.

"No, no, I wouldn't do that, Ben. I just haven't come across one lately is all, but I did today."

"What's the name?"

"I can't remember."

"What do you mean? Did you leave the tag in the office?"

"No, I got it right here but the name was hard to read in the first place. I can't make it out at all after carrying it in my pocket since this morning. The date was 1947, I remember that much."

"'47 huh? What was it you sold?"

"It was a door, an old mahogany door with brass hardware."

Charlie was greeted with nothing but silence. He figured his grandfather was deep in thought, trying to remember who had left a door with Finder's Keeper almost fifty years ago. But when the silence dragged on, he finally spoke.

"Gramps? You still there?"

"Johnson," whispered Bentley.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you gramps."

"Are you sure it was mahogany Charles?"

Now it was Charles' turn to hesitate before answering. His grandfather almost never called him Charles. He had always been Chuck to him.

"Sure I'm sure, Ben. Don't you think that after all this time I know my wood species by now? You're the one who taught me."

"The name on the tag, it was Johnson wasn't it, boy?"

Charles' eyebrows shot up in surprise. He knew Bentley was upset about something now. He could hear an unfamiliar strain in his grandfather's voice.

"Yes, that's what it was. How could you possibly remember?"

"I'm not likely to forget about old Lonnie Johnson."

"Is he still around?" asked Charles.

"He sure is. I talked to him just last week. Come get me Chuck."

"What? What do you mean?"

"I mean come and get me you damn fool! What's so hard to understand about that?"

"But why, Bentley? It's after eight now. It'll take me a half hour just to get there!"

"Who'd you sell the door to, Chuck? Because if you don't remember we're in real trouble."

"What has that got to do with it?"

"Stop wasting time, boy!" shouted Ben. "Who bought the goddam door?"

"Jesus, Gramps, calm down! It was Sam Hastings who bought it. He's a friend from..."

"Call him!" interrupted Bentley. "Call him right now and tell him not to do anything with the door. Then get your ass over here and pick me up as quick as you can. I'll be waiting!"

***

Bentley Finder was badly shaken. He hung up on his grandson and stood at the hallway phone gathering his wits. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead.

"What was all the shouting about, Ben?"Becky had walked out of the kitchen and saw him standing at the phone in the fading light. "Is everything ok?"

"No, Becky. Everything is not ok."
To be continued...