#37 (A Picker Mystery) Read online

  Parking was a bear, so I left the car down near the corner. I said, "Wait here" and headed towards the middle of the block.

  These South Philly homes are tiny, maybe twelve foot wide and twenty-nine feet deep. Originally called Trinity homes, that is, three floors, the locals call them Father, Son and Holy Ghost. There's a strong Catholic presence in this part of the city.

  Old Italian men and women were everywhere. Men standing on the sidewalk smoking and shooting the shit. Women dressed in black and carrying casserole dishes covered in foil through the front door. I nodded at the men and stepped inside.

  Inside I first see Anthony Junior. He steps up, shakes my hand and pulls me into a bear hug. I tell him how sorry I am about the loss of his father.

  "Tony, where are your brothers?"

  There are five DeAngelo boys. There's a doctor, a lawyer, an actor that sings pretty well, a general contractor and the youngest one is still in college.

  "Everyone's here except Bobby. He's driving back from Boston, be back tonight sometime."

  "You boys will be around for a few days?"

  "Sure..."

  "And if I need you..."

  "Not a problem. Pick, what are ya going to do?"

  "I'm going to take care of it... I promise. Where’s your ma?"

  "This way."

  We step into the kitchen. There are containers with food on every surface. Sitting at the kitchen table are four women. One is Doo-Wop's wife, Millie.

  I put my hand out and pull her up and into me. She's a short woman with dark hair going to gray. There's a strength present in her face that you don't see in young people anymore. I hug Millie and wait. She backs up and I ask her to show me.

  She leads me up to the third floor. This is Doo Wop's studio, where he painted for almost forty years. There are paintings in varying degrees of completion lying on the floor, leaning against the wall in piles, some are on easels and dozens are hanging from the walls.

  I quickly scan the room. Something is missing. I know what it is...

  "It's not here, Pick. Number 37 is missing." She's standing there, back straight, wringing a small, white handkerchief with her fingers.

  Maybe I should explain. Doo Wop was an artist. Not just any type of artist. He is what we would refer to in the business as a copyist. He could make a 'copy' of any famous painting, in the style of any artist and it would look just like the original. All of this is perfectly legal if the artist signs his or her own name to the painting. And, equally important, they can't try to pass it off as an original. Other than that, it is perfectly above board.

  Now, for several years, perhaps even a dozen, when Doo Wop was a young man, he did exactly what he shouldn't have. He would make copies of world renowned paintings, sign the original artist's name and sell them through proxies at famous auction houses. It was not at all unusual for his 'copies' to fetch mid-five or even mid-six figures when sold.

  Keep in mind that this occurred almost forty years ago, so we're talking about some decent money.

  Until he got a visit from the FBI. They were, for feds, very nice. Polite even. They gave him a lecture, in front of his wife, about the facts of life. Anthony, they said, you can't continue passing off these beautiful paintings as originals. It's too much money, and at some point these rich people are going to catch on and you are going to go to jail. But, they said, if you can keep them under ten grand and, this is a very big if, keep them away from the major auction houses, well, in that case you can forget we had this little talk.

  Initially, I found this a little difficult to swallow. Millie was there, however, and verified it and she is not prone to exaggeration. So, it must be true.

  After that friendly visit from the government Anthony "Doo Wop" DeAngelo turned out precisely one "vintage" painting per month. The master works were then sold privately through a network of dealers. Surprise, surprise, the price of these works of art always managed to remain under ten thousand dollars.

  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 Chaîne des Alpilles, a small range of mountains visible from the Saint Paul de Ma
usole mental hospital in southern France.

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

  'Montagnes à Saint-Rémy' was painted in the summer of 1889.

  "My associate wishes to acquire this painting."

  Vincent Van Gogh painted ‘Mountains at Saint-Rémy’ 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 & D; 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 Vertès who was, of all things, a Hungarian costume designer.

  After placing his order the Maître 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 refusé?"

  "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 plaisir, 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 Tiffan
y 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.