Allie has told me not to mention my radios until the third or fourth date.

“Fourth,” she says, correcting herself, “not until the fourth.”

“What if she comes over?” I ask. “How am I supposed to explain all the radios on the shelves? Am I holding them for a friend?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she retorts, “nobody is coming over.”

“Can I tell the story about the Sparton Sled? About how I returned it.”

“No.”“But it makes me look down to earth.”

“It doesn’t. It makes you look like a kook.”

“Love the support,” I say. “So, what do I talk about?”

“Her,” she says, “ask her questions about herself.”

I'm going out on my first blind date in a long time. Allie has called to give me a pep talk. So far, it hasn't been too peppy.

“No radios?” I ask.

“No,” she replies, “if I trusted you to mention it casually, just in passing, I would say ok. But you can’t help yourself. You are going to launch into a thirty-minute speech about the history of catalin.”

“That speech is very informative,” I counter.

“I’m thinking of giving a Ted Talk.”

“No radios. Don't even turn on the radio in the car.”

Linda Horvath was a lawyer in Miami. She was divorced with kids long out of the house. We had exchanged very pleasant texts and now we were meeting for drinks at a hip restaurant in the Design District.

My plan, as per Allie, was to ask a lot of questions and to show a lot of interest. How hard could that be?

“Are you working on an interesting file?” I asked when our mojitos arrived.

“Very,” she replied after taking her first sip. “I'm representing the heirs of a Jewish family from France who had their art looted by the Nazis.”

“Wow, that is really interesting,” I said, repeating the line I had practiced in front of the mirror in case what she told me was not interesting at all. But this was actually interesting.

“It is. But it is painstaking work.”

“How do you mean?”

“Right now, I am going through online photo albums of pictures taken of Parisian apartments. Trying to match up the art on the wall with art we suspect was looted.”

“You do that?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

“Why not a law clerk?” I asked.

“Because they don't have a Masters in Art History,” she said with a smile.

“Well played counselor,” I said.

This asking question stuff was a breeze. I could go weeks without mentioning radios.

I decided to step on the gas.

“I’m not sure if they are privileged,” I said using a word I had heard on a TV law show, “but I would love to see some of those photos. I don't have a Masters in Art history but I once had to use the bathroom at the MoMA.”

She laughed and said, “if you are really interested, I have some on my phone. But not if you are faking.”

“I'm really interested,” I replied, “the faking is for later.” Another laugh.

She grabbed her phone and scrolled through some pictures. Then slid her chair a little closer to mine.

“This is a picture taken in the Grundfelt apartment in the 13th arrondissement of Paris in 1940. Just before the Nazi stormed in. And this,” she pinched at the screen of the iPhone in order to stretch a picture, “is a Klimt on the living room wall. We believe it is the same painting now owned by a well-known Silicon Valley CEO.”

“Do you know the provenance?” I was just killing it with my art world knowledge.

“Not entirely clear,” she replied, "but it was sold at auction by a German art dealer. Along with some other pieces we suspect were looted.”

“Wow!” I said again. “This could be a movie.”

Then we spent about ten flirty minutes talking about who would play her in the movie. I, of course, was suggesting extremely attractive actresses.

“Do you want to see another before I put the phone away?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said.

She swiped once and handed me the phone “this one is a Renoir,” she said.

“Hey, not fair,” I retorted with a fake pout, “I would have gotten that one.”

“I’m sure you would have,” she said with a laugh. Has anyone been counting the laughs?

“I'm sure you will get some more chances to display all the knowledge you gained in the MoMA bathroom.”

I took the phone and looked at the picture.

I definitely would have recognized the Renoir. I think.

But I wasn't looking at the painting. Because, below the painting was a desk. A beautiful art deco desk. And on the desk was a radio. Now I pinched the screen as she had to zoom in on it. The picture was grainy but the design was the unmistakable and stunning Sakhnoffsky design of the 1938 Emerson Bullseye.

I knew because I had one on my shelf.

“That’s an Emerson,” I said out loud, mostly to myself.

“Pretty sure it’s a Renoir,” she replied - not laughing as hard this time.

“1938 Emerson designed by Count Alexis de Sakhnoffsky,” I said showing off confidently. “American made, but Emersons, and this model in particular, were very popular amongst the upper classes in Europe at the time.”

“What are you talking about?”

I showed her the zoomed-in image of the Emerson “The radio on the desk. It is a 1938 Emerson.”

“How do you know so much about radios?”

Allie in a devil’s suit was sitting on my shoulder wagging her finger. “I don't know that much,” I said. “I think I may have seen it in a book.”

“A book about radios?” she asked incredulously.

“It might have been something about Art Deco,” I replied.

“That makes sense,” she said nodding her head, “because an entire book devoted to radios sounds a little bit crazy.”

I laughed and looked at the picture again. There was something very familiar about this radio. I zoomed to a spot on the top right corner. The wood had been chipped and left a very distinctive mark. There were three jagged edges. They looked like the peaks of three mountains.

My heart skipped a beat. I was pretty sure I knew this radio.

When we said our goodbyes, me with a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, I asked Linda if she could email me the picture. She said of course.

In an hour, I would be home and compare the crack in the picture with the one that my Emerson had.

In an hour and ten minutes, I would conclude that the 1938 Emerson Bullseye with the Ingraham cabinet displayed on a shelf in my Boca Raton home, had very likely been looted in 1940 along with the Renoir from an apartment in Paris.

I had seen the radio in books and on Pinterest. I didn't really collect wood radios but the deep wood grain and the layers of circle in the chassis were mesmerizing. It had been designed by Count Alexis de Sakhnoffsky. I didn't know who he was either but it sure sounded cool.

I wanted one but had only ever seen one for sale. There was one available on eBay. I had scrolled to the listing many times. It had been there for months and nobody had bought it. Not a good sign. In part, I think, because the price was really inflated. In part because the seller was in Europe and the shipping and insurance costs were high and, in part because of the chip. Collectors, and I vainly thought of myself as one, cared about the appearance of the set. This radio had a pretty prominent chip. So, I never really considered it seriously. The listing said that it ‘worked’ but that could mean anything. And then, maybe realizing his ad was clearly not getting any traction, one day he added a video to the description. You could click on it and be redirected to YouTube. The Emerson, crack and all, played beautifully. The clip was about thirty seconds of a Beethoven piano concerto. Almost no static at all. I recognized the piece. It was one of my father’s favorites. After the video went up, I checked every couple of days and the radio was still there. None of my other dealers had one for sale. So, fearful that I would never see another working copy and, convincing myself that the crack didn't really bother me, I bought it. When it arrived, I displayed it proudly and prominently on a shelf in the living room. From the couch, you couldn't notice either the chip or its murky provenance. I really loved that radio. I called Allie.

“How bad was it?” she asked.

“Not bad at all,” I replied.

“What did you talk about?” she asked.

“Nazis,” I answered.

“Nazis?”

“Yup. Quite a lot of talk about Nazis.”

“See, when I told you not to talk about radios I thought it was also implied that you also shouldn't talk about Nazis.”

I then told her about the French apartment, the looted art, and the Emerson.

“So, Nazis and radios?”

“They go together like rama lama ding dong,” I sang.

“Ok. What did she say when you told her you owned the looted radio?”

“I didn't tell her.”

“You didn't tell her?”

“No.”

“Why didn't you tell her?”

“She’s going to tell me to give it back,” I said.

“Of course she’s going to tell you to give it back,” she said raising her voice, “it’s a looted Nazi radio!”

“But it plays so good,” I said.

“You have to tell her” she said.

“I know I do,” I replied.

But she had already hung up. Shame, such a great radio.

In the end, although we did not go out again, Linda invited me to the ceremony where the looted artifacts were returned to the heirs. I even flew to New York, bringing the Emerson with me, for the occasion. I’m not sure who I handed the radio to, I think maybe a third cousin, but he acted a little like I had given him a bag of turds. I guess he was hoping for the Renoir.

I wasn't going to replace the Emerson but, soon after the ceremony, I saw one on eBay.

It was in ok condition.

It didn't play.

I bought it anyway.

It came from a seller in Toledo, Ohio. I was pretty sure it hadn't been stolen. But I didn't display it, just in case.