#37 (picker mysteries) Page 3

  This is how he supported his family for the next thirty or so years. There was, however, one small exception. And now, it was missing.

  "Millie," I ask, "What can I do?"

  "Find whoever did this. Find Number 37."

  I leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "I will."

  I went down the stairs in search of Anthony, Jr. Found him near the front door. Put out my hand and inquired about the funeral arrangements. He filled me in and I turned to leave. Walking out the front door, over my shoulder I said, "I'll be in touch" turned left and headed for the car.

  On the way out I ran into Joey Amato.

  "How are you holding up son?"

  Joey is Doo-Wop's nephew on his wife's side. Some of the family on that side belongs to the bent nose brigade.

  "Not so good Uncle Pick." Joey's in his early twenties. He's average height, well proportioned with black hair combed straight back and dark brown eyes. I've known him since he was a little boy. His uncle and aunt took him in when his father was murdered from a bomb detonated in his car. Rumor has it that it was Uncle Carmine that was behind the killing. Family business, supposedly.

  Doo Wop was teaching Joey the family business. Joey bought the supplies for the paintings, took the photographs and maintained the web site. When Doo Wop did antique shows it was Joey that did the setting up and breaking down. In short, Joey did whatever needed to be done. Sort of an old world apprenticeship.

  You could see the tears in the kid’s eyes.

  "Hang in there Joey. If you need anything give me a call."

  "Thanks Uncle P, I will."

  It was late and the sidewalk was deserted. The street was quiet and for once the air smelled clean.

  A hand, attached to a huge man, reached out from an alley and pulled me in. He shoved me up against the wall and held me there with his left paw. Pointed in my face was a. 38 revolver.

  "Hey Tommy, long time, no see", I said as I smiled to the giant.

  Tommy Gunn, I kid you not, that's his real name, stood at six-four, maybe six-five. Only God knows what he weighed. Now that I think about it, the last time that I saw Tommy and his brother was at the Columbus Flea just this past Thursday. If my memory serves me correctly, the last thing that I remember is looking at antiques in the back of his van.

  Son of a bitch. It was Tommy and that weasel brother of his, Machine, that knocked me out.

  "I'm sorry, Pick. Got to do this… I always kind of liked ya. It ain't nothing personal, just business."

  "Hey, Tommy… It don't get any more personal than this, pal. But that's okay, no worries" and I snapped my fingers.

  Tommy looks me in the eye and gives me this queer look. He's thinking, 'Why in the hell did he just snap his fingers, I got a gun pointed at his head?’

  Three seconds later he gets his answer. One hundred and twenty five pounds of pure muscle comes bounding down the sidewalk, leaps and pushes Mr. Gunn to the ground.

  "Thanks, Kato, good boy."

  Kato, in case I didn't mention it, is a security trained and very loyal German Shepherd. At the moment, Kato's mouth is wide open and strategically positioned around Tommy's throat.

  I step forward and bear down on his right wrist with my foot. The hand holding the gun.

  "It's him. He's one of them that done it boyo." Uncle Moe is right behind me.

  "You're sure?"

  "No doubts, laddie."

  I hear some footsteps coming from behind. Tony, Jr. reaches down and takes the gun.

  "He's one of them", I tell Junior.

  "Thanks, Picker. We'll handle it."

  I head back towards the car. Moses is already there, Kato jumps into the rear seat. I turn the engine over and then hear two loud pops. Sorry, Tommy.

  I head home.

  December 1974 New York City

  The painting was illuminated by a single spotlight.

  "Thanks for meeting me."

  The image depicts the Chaine des Alpilles, a small range of mountains visible from the Saint Paul de Mausole mental hospital in southern France.

  Jones glanced over. "Never hurts to talk. What can I do for you Mister Smith?"

  'Montagnes a Saint-Remy' was painted in the summer of 1889.

  "My associate wishes to acquire this painting."

  Vincent Van Gogh painted ‘Mountains at Saint-Remy’ when recovering from a mental collapse in the town of Saint Remy. The mountains and sky come alive from the use of heavy impasto, broad brushstrokes plus whatever intangible that VVG brought to the canvas.

  "Quite frankly, Mr. Smith, I am no longer involved in acquisitions. If you wish, I can provide the names of two, perhaps three professionals qualified for a job such as this."

  The building that exhibited this particular work of genius was located on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.

  Mr. Smith reached into his jacket and handed five black and white polaroids to Simon. "I'm afraid that my associate is unprepared to take 'No' for an answer."

  Simon spread the photos out in his hands. Connor in his pram, Connor walking with his nanny in the park, playing on a jungle gym… Connor, his one year old son.

  Simon Jones paused for no more than a beat. "Fine. I'll do the initial R we'll set up a meeting and finalize the details." Without offering his hand, he turned and walked out of the Guggenheim.

  It was 28.8°Farenheit. Simon decided to walk. Think this through. Headed down 5th Avenue, took a left on 76th and entered the lobby at 35 East.

  The Art Deco style hotel is named for the Scottish essayist Thomas Carlyle.

  Simon took the elevator up to his room. Poured himself two fingers of a twenty one year old scotch, lit a cigar, sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the phone.

  "Moses, track down Jean Pierre. Have him call me at The Carlyle, today!"

  "Got ourselves a small problem, have we laddie?"

  "Not so small, Uncle Moe. I'll be in touch."

  Simon stripped, shaved and took a hot shower. Put on a clean suit and went down to the lobby. At the front desk he told the clerk, "Please have all my calls forwarded to the Cafe."

  The Cafe Carlyle is famous for the murals by Marcel Vertes who was, of all things, a Hungarian costume designer.

  After placing his order the Maitre d approached, placed a phone on his table and plugged it in. "There is a call for you, Mr. Jones."

  Bobby Short was at the piano… "Do I hear you saying, I love you! I love you! Are those lovely words for me?"

  "Darling, just making sure that you're alright." Elisabeth calling from London.

  "Tell me you're not playing, It is true; you do, too, It's too wonderful to be…"

  "Yes, dear. Trying to finish and tidy up. Shouldn't be much longer. How's my little man?"

  “Just to think that now I hold you in my arms, Sent from heaven just to call mine, all mine!"

  "Brilliant. Running around getting into all sorts of mischief."

  "If I hear you saying, I love you! I love you! Life's been awfully good to me."

  "Tell the little bugger I'll be home soon."

  Simon finished his dinner, ordered a coffee; black, and lit yet another Romeo y Julieta. The phone rang…

  "Comment ose j'aidez-vous, mon ami?" JP returning his call.

  "I had a strange meeting. A certain party calling himself Smith is interested in acquiring a mountain range. Said it's for an associate. The retail on this piece is one hundred million."

  "Vous avez refuse?"

  "Out of the question, left me no options."

  "Laissez-moi deviner? Deux choses. You need a copyist and you wish to exploit a weakness."

  "Oui, I mean yes, now you've got me doing it. Someone here in the states, preferably."

  "And the location of the ‘faiblesse’, weakness?"

  "Upper East Side, Jewish. Comprenez?"

  "Oui. Stay put. I'll put it together in a week."

  "Less if you can. Jean Pierre, thank you."

  “Mon plai
sir, mon ami.”

  This is how the trouble began.

  I go shopping

  In my dream hundreds of people milled about. The morning dew tickled my bare feet. The grave stones were marked clear as day; yet I couldn't read a single one. Without warning I was driving my car at high speed; the car doing as it wished. I had no control. Suddenly, I found myself in a home that I was familiar with and didn't know at all.

  Anthony was sitting in the center of the room. People filed past; shaking his hand; saying goodbye. Across the room I eyed my mother. She looked radiant. There was a tap on my shoulder. I turned; there stood the father I never knew. He smiled brightly.

  "Dad, what are you doing here? You're dead!"

  "I've come to help."

  At the far end of the room was a long table covered with food. I walked over and piled some onto a plate. As I lifted a fork to my mouth a hand encircled my wrist and gently pushed it down. "Don't eat that. This food is for dead people." My mother smiled sweetly.

  Tommy G. appeared next to me. He was wearing a black suit with a white shirt but no tie. He was twisting a wool scully cap with his fingers. Dead center of his forehead was a bright red dot.

  The entire scene was pitch black and yet for some inexplicable reason Tommy was bright as day. He was pleading with me, "Picker, I'm terribly sorry, really, I am. Please, Picker, help my brother, don't let anything happen to him…" and on and on he groveled.

  In the distance I heard what may have been a large animal snoring.

  I rolled over and lifted one eye. There she was, lying next to me; naked as the day she was born. Red hair down to her shoulders and a spatter of freckles across her nose. Sounding like a longshore man.

  I roll out of bed. In the kitchen I start the coffee machine. Head for the bathroom, shave and take a hot shower.

  The property that I occupy is a carriage house to a twenty acre estate. It has three bedrooms, a nice living room with hardwood floors, an updated kitchen and two working fireplaces. Down the driveway approximately seventy-five yards are the old stables. The owner of the estate, a very old friend that owes me, provides use of the stables as a workshop for Picker Antiques, which is me.

  I grab two coffees from the kitchen, one black and the other with cream. Head back to the bedroom. As I'm putting on my jeans Kelly begins to stir.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and hand Kelly her coffee. Still a little groggy, she gives me a peck on the cheek and wants to know what's going on.

  Penelope Kelly Anne Lane, I shit you not, has been my relatively constant companion for the past half dozen years. We're not married, engaged or even living together. She has a loft in town and I have my place in the suburbs. Still, we manage to spend most of our free time together.

  She sits up in bed, wraps the sheet around her and has a couple sips of coffee. When the cobwebs begin to clear I fill her in on everything that has occurred since Wednesday.

  This is what I told her…

  The events that precipitated this nightmare began four days ago. I was at the flea market in Lambertville, New Jersey. It was 5:00 am Wednesday morning. The trees were beginning to display green; the air was a tad nippy and the sky nearly cloudless.

  Walking with me was Moses Aronson. Moe is relatively large, a few inches over six feet, broad in the shoulders with a bear like head. Moe is an uncle from my father's side of the family. Actually, my great uncle. And, if this is to be believed, Uncle Moe is Irish.

  "Boyo, I don't see anything that you have to own".

  I looked over and nodded once. There are two reasons to scour the antique flea markets. The obvious reason is to unearth something where you can make a buck. There is a ton of merch at any flea that can be bought for ten and sold for twenty. That's a tough way to make a living.

  Much more lucrative is to find a premium item and pay a little more than most dealers are willing to shell out. Every single day of the week, there are flea markets with items ranging from a couple of hundred dollars up to whatever. I once saw a Tiffany Lamp change hands three times in the course of an hour. And, get this; there was still enough profit in it for the guy that took it home.

  The other reason for walking the market is even more important. That is to discover what is not there. The entire antiques trade, like any other business is built on relationships. To be successful it is necessary to have established relationships with both sellers and buyers.

  Knowing this, you talk to dealers. Listen for rumors, whispers, innuendo. Who purchased what, what's being put up at auction, estates that have come on the market, collections being liquidated? You're hunting for merchandise that is brand new to the market, preferably something that hasn't seen the light of day for decades, maybe more.

  I looked up and Moe had vanished. Time for a break. In the small restaurant, I walked up to the counter and ordered a slice of cherry pie and black coffee. Took them back to the table, sat down and waited.

  Hard Knocks came in the door, got some coffee and joined me. Like many dealers, he's in his sixties and retired from some job or another. Average height, florid complexion with a beak nose. You know, I never did know his real name.

  HK says, "Peoples are asking questions, P".

  Hard deals in militaria, specifically World War II stuff.

  "What questions?"

  "Forgeries, art forgeries. They wants to know who does 'em. How to find 'em. Pick, these ain't plesant folk."

  "Knocky, why are you telling me?"

  "Your name is coming up. Be careful, P. I don't like the way this smells."

  "Thanks Knock. Let me know if you hear anything else. Do you have my number?"

  That, however, was not the end of it. In the course of walking the flea, three more guys tell me something very similar. Two guys, no one we know, well dressed are looking for copies of master works. And, my name keeps coming up.

  Before heading back to the city I stop at Danny Boy's table. "What do you have to get on the rug Danny?" I ask.

  Danny Boy Boyle is a young black man that works almost exclusively in North Philadelphia. His wife, Mai, who is a lovely young Vietnamese woman, purchases antiques and collectibles from the aging African American community. Back in the forties, fifties probably up to the present, many of the people from this neighborhood worked as maids in the wealthy Main Line communities. I suppose that today the proper nomenclature would be domestics. Back then they were simply maids and cleaning ladies.

  Anyway, you would be surprised that a common experience for these domestics was to receive discarded items from their masters, sorry, employers. These items could be anything from silverware, lamps, dishes, artwork or whatever. Many of these discarded items were quality when purchased and have only gone up in value over the years. You would be shocked; I know I was, to walk into a North Philadelphia row home and to see it furnished with quality furniture, knick-knacks and artwork.

  DB is one of only a handful of people of color in the antiques game.

  "Hey, man, I’m thinking, like maybe three hundred. Cool, huh?"

  "No Danny, not cool at all. I’ll give you a grand, not a penny more."

  What DBB had unearthed was a late 19th century Lori Pambak rug from the Southwest Caucasus. These lovely rugs typically have hexagon enclosed cruciform medallions. These medallions will differ in proportion from rug to rug but can be very elegant. They are highly sought after by collectors.

  This particular rug was 5'4" x 6'8" that had a central medallion and two minor medallions surrounded by a series of geometric shapes on a red field. The rest of the colors included both light and dark blue, blue-green, gold, reddish brown and ivory.

  This was in very nice condition and would retail for about eight thousand dollars. I could flip it to a buddy of mine for four grand. Enough money in it for everyone to make a profit.

  Danny goes, "Huh?"

  "Danny, it's worth a little more than you think. Take the G."

  "Sure, P, sure man. Whatever you say."

  Mai smiles an
d says, "For that kind'a money, Mr. Picker, you can have it gift wrapped."

  "Not necessary Mai. I’ll take it as is. See ya later, guys. And thanks."

  "No, thank you P. Later, dude."

  I run over to New Hope to see my friend Barry. He has one of the more successful antique businesses in the area. Barry specializes in vintage garden decorations and oriental rugs. Oh yeah, we share a love of cigars.

  He sees me pull up and comes out to greet me. After exchanging hellos I pop the trunk and pull out the Pambak.

  "Nice rug. How much?"

  "I got a grand in it. What can you do?"

  Barry walks around the rug which is laid out in the parking lot. He looks at the rug, looks up at me, back at the rug. He smiles, "How's four thousand?"

  "Perfect."

  We walk into his shop and he writes me a check. He reaches into a humidor that sits next to the register and pulls out a cigar.

  "Here," he says, "Try this. And by the way. People have been asking for you. Two guys, dark suits."

  I ask, "And, what did you tell 'em?"

  "Nothing."

  "Thanks. Catch ya later."

  I head home. My place is in a Philly suburb on the other side of the Schuylkill River. My mind begins to wander and tries to make sense of what is happening. Something is tickling at the back of my brain but I can't quite put my finger on it. Everything that I heard today must be related to my South Philly visit yesterday. I still don't see how.

  Early the next morning, around 4:00am, I pull the '56 Chevy pickup out of the garage and head up to the Columbus Farmers Market.

  It was established in 1929 by one Harry Ruopp. Originally, it was a livestock and farm equipment auction held at 11:00am every Thursday. Over the years it has become a well known shopping center and flea market. It sits on about 200 acres and is one of the largest markets on the East coast. It's about an hour from me, located on Route 206 in Columbus, NJ.

  I pull in around five thirty and park in the customer lot. I'm here to buy, not sell. There are a few high clouds and the air is a little brisk.

  I walk into the indoor market and grab a donut and coffee. Step back outside and wander the flea. I run into Mark, a dealer from Staten Island. We've known each other for a long time. Average height, stocky with thinning hair. I like him.