CIRCULATING AMONG THE SPOILS OF THE DRUG TRADE

Susan and I take our seats in the convention room at the Radisson
Hotel in Lenexa.

"Ruby and diamond earring," the auctioneer says. "No offers, ladies
and gentlemen?"

"One hundred."

"One hundred, can we get $200? I've never seen such a low price for
such a ring. Three hundred?

"Three hundred."

"We only have $300. Can we get $450? Yes sir, now $350. We have $350.
Can we get $375? Only $25 more. Look at the quality. Going once,
twice. Sold to the gentleman for $350. What a price, oh my God."

Persian rugs, inlaid wood furniture, Frederic Remington sculptures and
signed Picasso lithographs surround us. A case of jewelry stands on a
table. It was all recovered during major narcotics sting operations.
The loot has now been released for public auction.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer begins again, holding up a
diamond necklace. "Who will make the first offer?"

I think of Charles, an acquaintance, who used to work with inner-city
kids and teenagers. We were out one night cruising downtown Kansas
City. We watched crack dealers sell dope to drivers parked in bus
lanes, cars idling. Charles told me about Leon, a thief he knew. Leon
committed 172 first-degree burglaries. He never robbed a house unless
the people were home. Had a thing about it. He was afraid if they
weren't home they'd walk in on him. "If my head can get in there,
Charles, I can get the rest of my body in there," he'd say. He's doing
a stretch in prison now.

I wonder if Leon ever laid his hands on some of this
stuff.

"Let's wait for other jewelry," a woman whispers.

"It's exciting to think who had this, where this has been," her
companion says.

The auctioneer asks his assistants to hold up a silk woven carpet.
Immaculate. No stains, burn marks.

"Do you think offering $50 is too little?" a man wonders
aloud.

No one here looks like a professional collector. We all have on worn
winter coats, blue jeans, sweatshirts and sneakers. Weekend clothes.
Bargain hunters. Seeking our slice of the pie. One man's loss is
another man's gain.

I read a tag attached to an antique chair: "Royal Giovanni lion head
arm chair."

It belongs in a museum. I wouldn't want anyone to sit in it. The chair
is gaudy enough to draw attention to the owner but not so loud I'd
think anything more than, "Must be nice."

I doubt they cared how it looked. They wanted something expensive.
Big. Something that caught the eye. Since they couldn't talk about
what they did, they needed furniture that let people know who they
were. Players.

Now some of it might be within my reach.

I figure the guys who owned all this stuff were upper management drug
dealers. They didn't use their product. They were homeowners. They had
kids. They probably looked like us. They were strictly into shipping
and receiving. Perhaps after completing a deal, they took a swing by
an antique store. They had to do something with their money. Invest.
Buy a Matisse for the front hall.

Were their children told not to play near the Pierre Bouvier style
square cabinet and the English queen style walnut game table?

"Church groups come out to feed poor people. Dope dealers don't go
near them," Charles told me. "Dope dealers got money. They in a
different category. Ain't gonna get no burnt-up hot dogs. Anybody
dealing ain't especially inclined to eat that. They in an entirely
different level."

The auctioneer taps the microphone.

"Ten feet by 14 feet," he says of a red Persian rug. "What do we bid?
Over 35 years of age. Somebody say something. Your grandchildren could
walk on this some day. One thousand dollars we have to open up the
bid. Two thousand, can we get $3,000? Twenty-five hundred, can we get
$3,000? Three thousand just in time, can we get 32 and a half?"

A police officer leans against the wall. I ask him what he knows about
the drug busts.

"I wasn't part of the operation," he says. "I'm just
security."

I spin a large wooden globe decorated with mythological figures rising
out of the sea.

"It's a bar," a man tells me.

He leans over it, snaps a latch and then pries open the top half.
Glass holders ring the inside.

"I have one," he says. "Mine's better."

He walks away. Another man takes a ruler out of his coat pocket and
measures a rug.

"I bet we'll get the best deal on carpets," he says.

"Probably," I say.

There's nothing intimidating here, only a slight sense of awe. No
broken crack pipes, discarded syringes, dirty streets. The light
bouncing off the yellow walls rinses the polished wood furniture until
it gleams. I'm reminded of photographs I've seen in coffee table books
of refurbished 19th century Victorian homes.

"Man, I'd like to have that," I'd think, thumbing through the pages
without ever imagining that jailed drug dealers would make it possible
for me to play Rockefeller.

"For this kind of quality, you'd have to pay $6,000," the auctioneer
says of another Persian rug. "Five hundred. Do we have $1,000? $1,500.
$1,700. Do we have $1,750? Can we get $2,000? Look at the back so you
can see clearly the stitch, the design."

"Where would you put some of this?" Susan says. "Some pieces might
look nice in a regular home."

The carpet sells for $1,750. The auctioneer's assistants carry it to a
corner and roll it up. The buyer bends over a table to sign some
papers. Then he walks out with it. Just walks out.

"That guy with the knot in his head, here's what probably happened,"
Charles said of a man we saw with a busted-up face. "The dealer has a
drug case pending. He can't sell because he don't want to get busted.
He gives dope to this guy. This guy starts making runs for him. Then
he starts smoking it. He's hooked.

"He tells the dealer he knows a guy who wants some. But he's hooked.
He sells a little bit, keeps the rest. He tells the dealer somebody
run off on him but he'll make it up. The dealer says 'no' and jumps
him because he took a little something from him. The dealer's got
people he answers to. This guy, he wasn't hurt too bad. I know some
guys, if they was him, they'd be dead. Dealers don't play."

The auctioneer holds up a gold ring.

"Is that good?" I ask Susan.

"Did you think whoever had that before bought it for his girlfriend,
or mistress?" she says.

Only a few people remain seated around us. Men and women like us
watching and listening. Weighing the urge to lift their hands, bid,
put it on plastic. Be a player.

I take my hand off my knee, raise it slightly. I'm tempted. I'm
thinking of offering $100 for a green Persian rug.

"Where'd you get that?" my friends would ask as I made sure they
didn't touch it. "Must be nice."