#37 (A Picker Mystery)

by Scott Soloff

  "Does he know about us?"

  "No. Absolument pas!"

  Simon stood, the two men embraced. Jean Pierre asked, "Où allez-vous?" Where are you going?

  "To see the doctor."

  I give cigars to the godfather

  I popped the trunk and pulled out a red, wooden box with black and gold lettering. Walked over and knocked politely. A tall, overweight man asked if he could help me.

  "Sure. Mr. Santucci requested to see me."

  The Italian Social Club is a long narrow room dating to the turn of the previous century. An ancient bar runs down the left side of the room, booths on the right, scattered tables with wooden chairs in the center. Black and white tiled floor, a pressed tin ceiling with a few rotating fans. A handful of men were present doing nothing more than sipping espresso, playing gin rummy and shooting the shit.

  Straight back in the rear of the building sat a desk on a raised floor. Behind the desk sat an elderly man, bald on top with gray hair brushed back on the sides. Suit, tie, nothing extravagant. The man motioned for me to come back.

  Kato trotted next to me. Two chairs were positioned in front of the bosses' desk. I sat in the one on the left. Kato sat on the floor between the two chairs. I placed the red wooden box on the desk.

  "Is there any reason to have you frisked Mr. Picker."

  "I believe, Mr. Santucci, that you invited me here. Therefore, I am your guest."

  "Sure, sure. Of course you are. Besides, your reputation precedes you. I'm sorry for your loss. Espresso?"

  Without waiting for an answer, Uncle Carmine Santucci held two fingers up for the bartender and said, "Due espresso."

  It felt like I was in a scene from the movies. Perhaps 'The Freshman'.

  "Mr. Santucci, what can I do for you?"

  Carmine Santucci is the acting head of organized crime in Southeastern Pennsylvania and South Jersey. Uncle Carmine's rise to the top was due to the fact that upper management was either incarcerated or killed off in the previous twenty years. As it turns out, he is also Mildred DeAngelo's brother-in-law.

  The espresso arrived. "Is your animal friendly, Mr. Picker?"

  "No."

  On to other topics. "Mr. Picker, there is nothing that you can do for me. I, on the other hand, can maybe do something for you. Anthony was a good man. A good husband, a good father, a good neighbor. His death saddens me terribly.

  "I can share with you two things. One is what I know; the other is what I think. That is, if you are interested."

  "And, what is it exactly that you want in return?"

  "Nothing. In this instance, nothing. Of course, if you can bring justice to Anthony's killers, well, let's just say everyone involved would be very pleased. For instance, I know that you were involved in the, how shall we say it, elimination of Mr. Gunn."

  Time to stop and consider. The question is, is what Carmine S. knows important or helpful enough to get into bed with these people. I think maybe the answer is yes.

  "Yes, sir, I'm interested in anything that you deem helpful in resolving Anthony's death."

  "We'll start with what I actually know for a fact. Joey was into Morelli for fifty grand. Maybe better."

  Danny Morelli is a small time hood, second or third tier operating in the orbit of the Philly mob. He's not a made-man, not connected, not even protected. He does, however, kick back some of his earnings. For that reason, he is permitted to operate on their turf.

  I ask, "Gambling?"

  "Yeah, yeah, that's it. Gambling. So, anyway, Joey, he don't got the money. He decides to trade some information in return for some consideration. He goes to Danny."

  I can see where this is going.

  "Tells Danny that he knows the whereabouts of a very expensive painting. Danny, he don't know from paintings. So, he comes to me. At this point, my hand to God, I got no idea that this is Anthony's painting. I send Danny over to a gallery. This guy, he expresses an interest, know what I mean?"

  Yeah, I know what he means. "Who is this guy, the one from the gallery?"

  "I'm gettin' to that. Anyway, that's what I know. For certain. This, this is what I'm thinkin'. Danny tells this gallery owner about the painting and the gallery owner, based on Joey's description, says how valuable it could be. I don't know no numbers, but, it's gotta be a lot of money."

  I don't like what I'm hearing. The only good news is that I'm getting closer to the truth.

  "Like I was saying, I'm only thinking here, no proof. You understand? Danny and Joey, they go over to Anthony's. No painting. Maybe rough him up a little. So, this is speculation, either Anthony tells them that you got the painting, which I do not believe. Or, someone in the neighborhood saw you leave with a painting and passes this information on to Danny. Danny, the schmuck, he tells the gallery owner. Either way, poor Anthony ends up dead and these two goombas are put on your tail. This is what I'm thinking."

  "And you're telling me this why?" I want to hear him say it.

  "We would, of course, like to have this situation resolved. Anyway you like. Danny, he could end up in jail, maybe end up dead. Don't matter. We hear you don't kill people. Fine. Want him in jail, jail works for us."

  "Mr. Santucci, what about this other guy. The gallery owner."

  "Nick Gambelli.” He passes me a piece of paper. Folded. Let me guess, Gambelli’s contact details. “Here's the rub. Him you can't touch. He's protected."

  Now the penny drops. This is why I'm here. The powers that be, at least the local mob powers, are genuinely pissed off about Doo Wop's murder. But they can't touch this guy. They just told me, They Can't Touch This Guy. But, they think that I can and that I will. How do you like that; plausible deniability, Mafia style.

  I stand up and thank Uncle Carmine for his time and the information. However, he's not quite done with me, yet.

  "Mr. Picker, I'm curious about two things. One, what's in the box?"

  "I'm sorry, I nearly forgot. It's a gift, for you. It's the brand of cigar that I smoke. Not the most expensive, but what I find to be the most enjoyable. And the second thing..."

  "I'm curious about your animal. If, hypothetically speaking, one of them” he points to the muscle in the bar, “pulled a gun on you..."

  I pause, smile, "You would be dead before your man cleared his holster."

  September 1976 Frankfurt

  Mr. Brown passed the reports and video to Engelond.

  "He has been seeing doctors." Brown, in actuality was Keller; Klaus Keller. Former Stasi agent who excelled in interrogation and wet work.

  The heart of Karl Engelond's financial empire was located in downtown Frankfurt.

  "Doctors, plural?"

  Frankfurt is an international center for commerce and finance. To be accurate, it is the largest financial center in Europe. It is home to the European Central Bank; German Federal Bank; Frankfurt Stock Exchange; Frankfurt Fair Trade and numerous commercial banks.

  "Ja. The top two reports are from physicians in London and the States. Jones is suffering from some undiagnosed condition. His right leg can no longer support his weight; a cane assists him when walking."

  Engelond scanned the files. "And this third one?"

  Brown/Keller had been Engelond's second in command for over a decade. Everything of an illegal nature passed through him. The purpose, obviously, was to shield Engelond's involvement. Brown could not comprehend this exception with the painting.

  "Psychiatrist. Jones appears to be unable to come to a decision regarding his marriage. He has a mistress in America that has recently given birth to a son."

  Engelond took several minutes to read over the report:

  Cannot come to decision with regards to marriage. Strong religious/social model instilled in youth...

  Fear of violence, nearly irrational...

  Avoids physical confrontation at nearly all costs...

  Flight response practically certain in threatening environment...

  Weapon aversion bordering on phobic; strong revulsion
to guns...

  Engelond looked up. "He has a fear of guns?"

  "Apparently some incident in his youth. If you read further there is an episode where his father is shot. This occurred in Jones’ presence when he was very young. Jones breaks out in a sweat and trembles at the mere sight of a gun. He reports at least one instance where he passes out."

  "And the video?"

  "It appears that the painting is near completion. The artist is working from detailed museum photographs. I am no expert, from what I can tell he has done a superb job."

  "Excellent work, Keller. I want you with me in St. Moritz when Jones delivers the painting."

  "What about the artist."

  "Eliminate him after we take care of Mr. Jones."

  A quick profit

  "How much?"

  I needed to give my mind a break. Kelly's got a point. Break-ins, kidnapping, gun shots, dead bodies, government agents, bad guys. It's a little overwhelming. Time to take a breather, get back to work and find something to buy and sell.

  The dealer looks at me, looks at the stein in my hands and said, "Three hundred bucks."

  I dropped into the South Street Antiques Market on South 6th Street after my informative visit with Uncle Carmine. The SSAM is a cooperative of dealers selling their wares from a converted synagogue. One the oldest in the city, that is, until the Jewish population migrated to the suburbs.

  The stein in question was circa 1900 and marked C.G.Schierholz & Sohn. Porcelain, a long eared dog with a sad face, with spectacles and a flared hat. The colors, which in this instance were crisp and clean, were brown and green. This character stein is commonly referred to as 'Gentleman Dog'.

  "I'll take it. Wrap it for me, please." This particular stein retails in the vicinity of twenty-six hundred dollars. Not a bad days pay. As an added bonus, it managed to take my mind off the last few days, at least for a couple of minutes.

  I paid and placed my prize under my arm. Headed to the front door. Just then, something caught my eye. Sitting on a counter, all the way in the back of this booth, was a leaded glass shade. No lamp, just the shade.

  Now remember, most of the inventory on the two floors of this coop is mediocre, at best. That's a nice way of saying that most of it is flea market junk. But small treasures do make an appearance from time to time, as evidenced by the small stein.

  Two in one day was almost too good to be true. I walked over to the counter, bent over and examined the shade. Looked around, didn't see anyone. I called out, "Who's working?"

  Seconds later a short, round woman with too much make-up, too much junk jewelry and white and pepper hair cut with a bowl comes trotting in. Slightly out of breath she asks, "How may I help you, sir?"

  "How much?" The shade in question was a conical leaded glass shade. It consisted of yellow amber panels laid out in what had become known as the Prairie School style. It contained both triangular and rectangular segments of iridescent green, yellow and olive amber arranged in a narrow border at the top of the shade and near the rim. Lovely.

  She gives me the once over, wondering how much I'm willing to pay. Leaded shades are common and run in the range of a hundred to three hundred dollars. The one that I'm pointing to is not common.

  "Two-fifty," is the number that she settles on.

  It's impressed with the name 'Linden Glass Co., Chicago, Ill. But, what makes this above average, and thus a little more valuable is that the design is attributed to Frank LLoyd Wright for use in the Darwin D. Martin House up in Buffalo.

  "Fine. Wrap it up, I'll take it." I had, perhaps, agreed a little too quickly. Round woman hesitates, realizing that she could have squeezed that extra fifty from me. Too late, deal done.

  It's is absolutely beautiful when I step foot outside. The sun is shining and the temperature is in the low seventies. The Morgan is parked out front and Kato is waiting patiently in the back.

  "Kato, come. Let's go for a walk." He leaps from the car and joins me as we walk down South Street.

  If you ever want to see something cool when visiting Philadelphia, stop into Charles Neri's shop. It's been in the same location on South Street since 1976. The store is jammed with quality antiques but what Charles specializes in is lighting.

  Practically every square inch of the ceiling is covered with old chandeliers, all of the furniture stock in the store acts as displays for lamps, and there is barely space to walk because there is additional lighting on the floor.

  Here's the best part, there is no junk to be found, anywhere. Everything is quality merchandise.

  "Hey, Charles. How are ya?"

  Neri's has what may be the biggest selection of antique American lighting in the country. In the last thirty six years he has done business with museums, the state and federal government, and the film industry.

  "Long time, son. What have you got?"

  I unwrap the lamp shade and put it on a desk. Even after all the years in the business and with all of the stock that he owns, his eyes still sparkle when he sees something new.

  "Nice piece, son. What do you have to get?"

  I look around the room as though deep in thought. A FLW designed shade of this quality is worth maybe thirty-six hundred. Possibly as high as four thousand in the right store.

  "Two grand," I tell him.

  "Reasonable enough. Sure, we can do that."

  I'm standing there waiting to complete the transaction, that is, I want my money. Charles, on the other hand, is not quite done. "What's in the bag?"

  "A German stein." I don't see any steins in the store. What the hell, I unwrap it for a look-see.

  He takes it from me, turns it around in his hands. "Very charming, Picker. What do you have to get for it?"

  "For you, Charles, or for resale?"

  "My collection," he comes back with.

  "For you, let's say fifteen hundred."

  Charles is no dummy. "That's very generous, young man. It's worth quite a bit more. Thank you."

  And with our business concluded, Charles writes me a check. He stops to pet Kato on the head and coos, "Good boy."

  Back out on the sidewalk, I look up into the afternoon sky. Take a deep breath. Enough fun and games. Time to catch some killers.

  October 1976 Philadelphia

  "Anthony, crate two dozen paintings including the Van Gogh. We ship tomorrow." Simon was inspecting the 'Mountains at Saint-Rémy' copy.

  DeAngelo had transported a few dozen of his 'masterpieces' from his South Philly home.

  Simon had just returned from Manhattan. Yesterday he had walked into the front door of the Guggenheim in broad daylight carrying a black messenger tube. He met Price Koch in the museum cafe. They ordered two cappuccinos and sat at table in the corner.

  "Price, I want to thank you for a job well done."

  "It's not like I had any choice in the matter." The expression on his face contradicted his words. Price actually looked semi-amused.

  "Regardless." Simon passed him the messenger tube. "Inside you'll find ten million in bearer bonds along with those compromising photographs and all of the negatives. I apologize for the way this was handled; hope there are no hard feelings?"

  Price answered with a low throated chuckle. "To be perfectly honest Simon, originally I was pissed off. In the end, however, everything has worked out for the best, thanks to you. I'm getting professional help and no longer feel as if I'm about to go over the precipice. You’re a man of your word, which is more than I can say about most of the business people I know."

  The following morning at 10:00am Simon met Price on the steps of the Guggenheim. Price passed the empty messenger tube to Simon; the two men shook hands and went their separate ways.

  Keller observed the entire transaction from down the block; across the street from a parked car. He lifted his camera, fitted with a telephoto lens and snapped off several shots.

  Simon drove back to Philadelphia and met DeAngelo at the studio on Pine.

  Anthony inquired, "How should I break
up the shipment?"

  "Send the first dozen with the copy to the shop in St. Moritz. Mark the shipping forms 'copies of master works' and insure them for ten thousand. Send the second dozen with the original to my home in London. Same thing on that set of forms. By the way Anthony, how can I tell the difference between Van Gogh's painting and yours?"