by David Archer
These days, Deborah had all the fine things that money could buy, and she little cared where they came from. Shelf after shelf of figurines made from the ivory of increasingly endangered elephants? Sure, why not. A dazzling array of beautiful diamonds purchased from the bloodiest warlords in Africa? Hello, they’re diamonds. Art works and antiquities, bought in Switzerland, that had once been confiscated from innocent victims by the Nazis? So what. She smoked her many cigarettes in a bejeweled holder and drank only the finest French wine, often to excess, but that mattered little to her. There was plenty more where that came from.
One day, in the winter of 1972, she happened to be looking through an art book. When she came to a picture of “Sailor’s Delight,” she was stunned by its beauty.
“Jonathan, my love,” which is what she called her husband when she wanted something expensive, “do you see this beautiful painting? I would like to have it for myself, whatever it takes, okay?
“I’ll bet they have a print of it in the National Gallery gift shop. I’ll pick one up tomorrow afternoo—”
“No, no, you don’t seem to understand. I don’t want a lousy print. I want the painting itself.”
“Whew, that’s gonna take some effort...time, effort and money.”
“I’m sure I’ll make it worth your while,” she reminded him. When he remembered what worth his while had meant on a few really special occasions in the past, Jonathan Sanderson was sold on the deal.
A few years later and about 150 miles to the north, another very wealthy lady sat in her breakfast nook, reading that morning’s edition of The Philadelphia Inquirer. To her surprise and alarm, she saw where a house only two blocks away in her Society Hill neighborhood had been burglarized. The thieves, apparently made off with a fortune, considering how quickly they moved. The police spokesman said he had not been surprised. With more and more young people trying to feed a drug habit, this kind of crime was an ever-increasing danger, and it did not seem to matter where you lived.
That last part gave the Widow Gildemeister pause. There was a time when any professional thief in the city knew who she was and, more important, who she was descended from. In other words, they knew to stay the hell off her property. But these crazy young junkies? They could not have cared less. The next time one of them struck in Society Hill, it could be her house. On top of that, the lady was about to go on a European cruise, leaving the house empty for several days. At the very least, Elizabeth Sabel Gildemeister figured, she should get her insurance updated. She had not made any changes on her policy since her husband’s demise, eleven years earlier. The prices of her most valuable art and collectibles must have skyrocketed since then.
The cruise was ten days off yet, so she figured she had time to look for the best appraiser she could find. The fellow who had done the job after her husband’s passing had passed on himself, and she had not been all that impressed with the man’s son. After a good deal of research and consultation, she retained the services of Oscar van Loon, who, despite his name, had a very level head when it came to the finest treasures and their worth.
The appraiser took his time and did a thorough job. Time and again, Mrs. Gildemeister was delighted with the extraordinary jump in value a prized painting or object had taken. True, it meant her insurance premium would take a proportionately large jump, but it was nothing she couldn’t afford. Of course many of the items within the appraiser’s purview were irreplaceable, but, if the worst should happen, she would at least get top dollar for the loss. Had she not taken this timely step, she may have had to settle for twenty cents on the dollar or even less for the more desirable items.
At last van Loon came to the greatest treasure in her entire house: “Sailor’s Delight,” attributed to the great American artist Winslow Homer. Elizabeth nearly trembled to hear its present value.
“Hmmm…I don’t know,” the expert hesitated.
“Well, yes, I can imagine a work like this would present a bit of a problem,” the lady offered. “After all, how can you put a price on such greatness?”
“Madam, I do not wish to alarm you, but something about this painting does not seem quite right. Believe me, I am quite familiar with the piece. When you had it on loan to the Art Museum, I can safely say I was in there four days a week, every week, at least for the first month, just to study it up close.”
“Of course, I understand there is some slight measure of doubt whether Winslow Homer actually painted it, but we’ve all known that for years. Even so, it was valued at half a million dollars at the time of my husband’s death. My only question is how much has that amount increased?” She had a pretty fair notion about the amount the painting had appreciated. Back in 1972, some fellow in Maryland had the unmitigated gall to offer her a lousy two million dollars for the work. The nerve of some people!
“Well, yes, you are correct about the provenance of the painting, if this is, in fact, the actual painting. Not that I wish to alarm you, but I have my doubts.”
“Are you mad, sir?” she all-but-shrieked. “We had this painting examined thoroughly the day I loaned it to the museum. Each and every one of their curators said they were certain this was ‘Sailor’s Delight,’ truly and absolutely. How dare you say they were wrong?”
“Please, Mrs. Gildemeister, I am not saying this is an outright forgery but—”
“Oh, dear God in Heaven!” she cried out when she heard the word that began with the sixth letter of the alphabet.
“As I was saying, I am not prepared to categorically state that now. I will need to re-examine this work very carefully, in my laboratory, if possible, and bring in a few consultants, just to be sure.”
“After what you just said, I don’t think I want to let that painting out of my sight.”
“Very well, then I propose this: you and I and the painting will travel together to my place, under a security guard, if you wish, and you can be present at the entire process, which, due to the circumstances, we may have to speed up a bit, but we should be able to get a definite idea. I will not be able to take the time for such a project until the end of the month—say the 30th?” That meant Elizabeth would have to cancel her cruise, which she was fully prepared to do. This was far more important than a glance at some castles on the Rhine.
“All right,” she reluctantly agreed. “I still don’t understand how you cannot manage to see what an entire museum full of experts could see at a glance.”
“Yes, that is puzzling, Mrs. Gildemeister, and I’ll be the first to admit it. Tell me, is there any possibility the original may have been stolen while it was on loan?”
Elizabeth Sabel Gildemeister went very pale and dropped suddenly into the nearest chair.
Chapter 5
Their wedding would, of necessity, be small and intimate. It was the duty of the bride’s family to pay for the wedding, as a vestige of the dowry system, but, under either circumstance, Evelyn’s parents were hard-pressed to come up with a big chunk of money. Ernie had graciously offered to have his family help with the expenses, which meant he would put up the money and claim it was a gift from his dad. In turn, Evelyn had offered to put up what was left of her Bat Mitzvah money, but Ernie would hear of no such thing. Instead, they decided on a very small wedding—not a Las Vegas quickie, performed by a fake Elvis, but only a little fancier.
That was fine with Evelyn. She had long been accustom to living and celebrating modestly. Someday, she knew, her ship would come in, but she was not prepared to wait that long. Despite the casual attitude she displayed regarding the subject, she wanted to marry Ernie, today, not some distant tomorrow.
Like his daughter Evelyn, Saul Klein was a musician. While she played the viola, he specialized in the violin. They often played together in a number of pick-up string quartets. Just recently, he had met a cellist whose daughter played the violin. The four of them had managed to get a few gigs as the Take Our Daughters to Work Day String Quartet. Saul’s chief source of income was in the various orchestra pits
of the Walnut Street theaters. He had tried and failed to make the grade on Broadway, but, here in Philadelphia’s theater district he could—literally—scratch out a living. That was fortunate because the family had no money in the bank. Saul and Sarah Klein had lost all their savings in a Ponzi scheme, way back when Evelyn was a toddler. After that, they somehow got by, but that’s all they did—get by.
Evelyn knew that dementia had run in her father’s family and cancer in her mother’s. The prospect of having to care for either or both of her parents with very limited resources had been a source of anxiety for her for as long as she could remember. She had taken a degree in electrical engineering before she went to art school, just to have the credentials for a “serious” vocation if she never realized success as an artist. Even so, that was a very distant Plan B, despite her having graduated at the top of her class. Evelyn Klein was going to be a rich and famous artist if it killed her…well, rich anyway. If she, an only child, couldn’t take care of her parents in their time of need, who would? Even after she met Ernie, the question burned in her mind. Ernie was a sweetheart, but he wasn’t exactly old money.
At least that’s what she told Ernie. By the time they were engaged, Evelyn had actually made a few nice sales of her work and one really, really big one. As much as she thought she trusted her fiancé, she still kept the proceeds in a secret Swiss bank account. Maybe after she sold a few more, she would let him in on her surprising prosperity. Also, maybe after she had a better idea of what she would have to do for her parents in their time of need.
“Steven Joseph Kashuba, you will do nothing of the sort!” his wife Sylvia scolded him during visiting hours, when her husband had come up with the cockamamie notion of returning to work, once he “got all better.”
“You have run your race, and the race is over,” she continued. “You get to go out a hero on a hero’s pension. Don’t be a damn fool, Honey, take the money and run.”
She had a point. The size of his potential disability pension was even bigger than if he had stayed on until he had been fully vested. But, you see, he had tried to explain, money isn’t the only issue here. After years and years of doggedly working his way up the ladder, he had finally gotten some real authority—the kind of prestige that would let him hold his head high wherever he went. It would be a tough transition from precinct captain to retiree. Jesus, he figured, I thought it was my lucky night. Some luck, right?
Kashuba had been seriously shot up and certainly disabled for any future gunplay, but, if he had wanted to hold down a desk for a few more years, there was no reason why he couldn’t. Sylvia was right—they did think of him as a hero—a boss who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. Whatever the Captain decided to do, they would not fight him. What is it they say, he recalled as he mulled the matter over: happy wife, happy life. He would put in his papers as soon as they discharged him from the hospital.
In Captain Kashuba’s absence, Lieutenant Mike Mahoney from vice had been filling in at the top spot, but only because he was the senior lieutenant. If it turned out Captain Kashuba was going to turn in his badge, they would have to hunt for a suitable permanent captain, and that search could be city-wide. On the other hand, Lieutenant James Maddox liked his chances.
Chapter 6
“Never you mind who I’m callin’ for. The guy is a serious dude with some very serious money,” the caller told Mickey Firenze. “He wants the best in the business, and he’s willing to pay the freight. How does fifty large up-front sound to you?”
“A hundred would sound a lot better.”
“Christ, man, you’re breakin’ my balls, here. The guy only let me go up to 75 without I gotta check back with him for the OK. How’s about you take the 75 and save us all a lotta time and trouble. You pull this job off, you’re another million to the good, and that’s a fac’, Jack.”
Mickey Firenze ran the matter over quickly in his mind. This was a lotta dough for stealing a lousy painting from some old broad’s house. He expressed that very self-same observation to the caller. So what was the catch?
“The catch is that the painting ain’t in the old broad’s house no more. It’s in the Philadelphia Museum of Art. You’re gonna have to steal it out from under the nose ‘a them cheese-steak gobblers.”
“Nothin’ I haven’t done before,” Firenze boasted. “Not in Philly, of course, but, you know, an art museum. They’re tricky, but not impossible.”
“So we got a deal, then?”
“What you got is me thinkin’ about a deal. Call me back at this number, Saturday at noon. No later—I don’t wanna miss the ballgame.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever it takes. I ain’t shittin’ ya, though. This is your ticket to Easy Street.” When caller ended his conversation with the man who was reputed to be the best thief in the nation, he turned to the lobbyist, who had been sitting nearby, listening to the caller’s side of the conversation.
“I believe we have procured the services of Mr. Firenze, Sir,” he assured his boss. “I may have to let him engage in a bit of posturing, but, in the end, he will come around. I’m quite sure of it.”
“You know what I miss?” Howard Ellsworth asked Arlene during intermission at a repertory theater performance of South Pacific.”
“Sex with a girl?” she guessed.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he was quick to reply. “No, I had something a little tamer in mind. It’s something you and I both know how to do.”
“Okay, so we haven’t ruled sex out yet.”
“And actually have done on a few occasions.”
“And there goes the sex. Okay, Romeo, what do you have in mind?
“I’d like to play a couple rubbers of bridge. It’s too bad your sister and brother-in-law don’t play.”
“Keep in mind, they have a little girl who’s just learning how to walk and break things. Forget whether or not they know how, they’d hardly have time for a rubber of tic-tac-toe. I’m sorry, Howard, I didn’t mean to throw cold water on your idea. Do we know anyone who plays?” He and Arlene had played a few games after work in the Civic Center, but one of their foursome had recently retired.
“Yeah, and this is partly why I brought the subject up. Remember the Muellers’ party? When I was dancing with Evelyn Klein, she mentioned she liked a good game of bridge. Said she and her fiancé sometimes played with her parents.”
“You mean Ernie Campanella? That lout plays bridge?”
“Yes, based on what Miss Klein told me, the lout who got me out of jail does play bridge.”
“Well I’ll be damned.”
Arlene, who was the dealer for this hand, struggled to maintain a calm demeanor as she looked at her cards—aces and kings all over the place, and six of her thirteen cards were hearts. Without the slightest hesitation she calmly said, “Two hearts.” Howard, her partner, looked almost as discouraged as Ernie and Evelyn.
The thing about Howard Ellsworth was that he was the finest card-player at the table, and the worst bidder. His greatest fear in a game that he otherwise loved was to overbid and let a perfectly good hand that should have put points in his column get defeated and the points go to the opponents. The result was he missed out on some very big scores due to his timidity. When Arlene bid two of a suit, instead of one, right off the bat, that meant he and she had to bid for at least a full game, probably in hearts. If he had a really stinking hand, Howard could come back with a bid of two no-trump, effectively telling his partner to watch her step. Much as he loved Arlene, when it came to bridge, she was a little too slam-happy for his taste. But he had just barely enough of a hand that he could not truthfully make a bid that low. He had to say three of a suit. After Ernie passed, he sighed and said “Three clubs.”
Now Ernie had never played against either Arlene or Howard, but he knew reluctance when he saw it. That was what he had going for him. What he had going against him was that the highest card in his hand was a jack of diamonds. One lousy point. So, he figured, if he had squat and Howar
d hated his hand, Evelyn probably had the next-strongest hand at the table. Of course, since she had been the last to speak, she could do nothing but pass.
Arlene, reading only the quick passes by Ernie and Evelyn, rather than her partner’s pained expression, took the bid up to six hearts. It would be a small slam if they could take twelve out of the thirteen books. Ernie figured she probably could. Then he got an idea.
“Double,” he said when the bid came to him, taking the responsibility of doubling the stakes.
“Oh, really?” Arlene practically sneered. “Very interesting; very interesting indeed.”
Now knowing that Ernie obviously held the high cards she was missing, she ran every finesse she could past him, and they were brilliant finesses, if only Ernie was holding the cards to be finessed. Trouble was Evelyn, whom Arlene had ignored throughout the whole process, had the cards and got the opportunity to play just enough of them. In the end, Arlene came up one short. That’s all her opponents needed. The positive payoff was small, but the negative payoff was huge. By misplaying her hand, thanks to Ernie’s misdirection, Arlene had blown a windfall of 1,660 points for her team.
“You son of a bitch,” she raged at Ernie, “You doubled me with nothing!”
“Not nothing,” Ernie pointed out. “I had a jack.” Meanwhile, Evelyn was struggling not to fall out of her chair laughing.
“Who taught you to play this game?” Arlene continued. “You never, ever, double with a hand that bad.”