by Scott Soloff
"How do you know that you'll get paid? We have some people in common. I’ll give you a name. Contact them, they'll vouch for me. What do you say, in or out?"
"In."
Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum
Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. That's the first thought that entered my mind when I saw the two guys with the guns.
I looked up. Stuck a cigar between my teeth and smiled. "Hey, what can I do for you boys?"
Both of these guys stood around six-one or six-two. Both of them weighed in at about 210. They were both white, somewhere in their thirties and each had a buzz cut. T Dee and T Dum each wore a black suit with white dress shirts. As a matter of fact, the only difference that I could see was the colors of their ties.
Dee's was blue and Dum's was green.
Green Tie says, "Don't be stupid here, Mr. Picker. No one has to get hurt."
We were rapidly sliding into B movie territory.
Blue Tie opens his mouth, "We just want the picture. Give us the picture and we're outta here."
What did I tell you, B movie dialog.
Now, I have to take just a moment and tell you what these two gents saw when they barged into my home. The entire first floor of the house is an open floor plan.
Immediately to the right of the front door, when you walk in, is the dining area. The dining room furniture is a Cherry wood ten piece set, very old and sits on an oriental rug. The rug is about 10' x 20' and its main colors consist of red and blue.
To the right of the dining area is the kitchen. The only thing that separates it from the dining area is a counter with some stools.
We were sitting in the living area, just to the left of the front door. The furniture here is a mix of period, Victorian and Mission. One wall is nothing but a book case filled with both antique books and modern mystery novels. At the moment I'm reading Robert Crais’ “Taken”.
Another wall in the living area consists of a very large fire place. The third wall, the one directly behind Kelly and me, has dozens of painting hanging from it. Dozens of oil paintings that I picked up in my travels over the years. Old ones, recent ones, impression, realistic, modern, you name it. You should see it for yourself, really quite impressive.
I look at the wall of paintings. I turn back to Dee and Dum. "Take any one you want fellas. We're running a special today for twins with automatic weapons. Go ahead; take any one that you like."
Blue speaks, "Look Mr. Picker, we're not here to give you any trouble. We certainly don't want anyone to get hurt. Just hand #37 over like a good boy and we'll be on our way."
What I was hearing was both good and bad. Good because I believed him. These guys were too well dressed and polished to be crack addicts or low level hoods. Unless push came to shove no one would be harmed. The bad bit was that these professional, what, security guys, knew not only my name but were specifically hunting for #37.
"Sorry, boys. Believe it or not, I have no idea what you're talking about. But if I did, it would be my job to lie about it and your job is to look for it. In that case, how would you like to proceed?"
The fact that he mentioned the painting by name was alarming. Its existence was known only to a very small circle of people. I wondered, how did this secret get out. More troubling, who was it that was searching for it. It occurred to me that whoever it was, they well fairly well financed. So far, I've dealt with two disparate contingencies, the Gunn brothers and now the professional Bobbsey Twins.
Green Tie tells Blue Tie, "Keep them covered. I'll search."
Interesting and more interesting. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum know the name of the painting. However, and I now know this for a fact, they have no idea what it looks like. Huh?
After thirty minutes of searching the entire house the two of them are standing side by side with their weapons still pointed at us. Tweedle Dum Green appears to be slightly more in charge.
"We're going up to the large house Picker, together. If the painting’s not there we'll have to consider other options."
A not so veiled threat. "That's Mr. Picker to you. Look, fellas… I just rent. The house up on the hill belongs to Mr. Burke, a very wealthy and influential business man. Honestly, I have nothing to do with him. If you want someplace else to search, I also rent the stables just up the drive. The keys are right there on the kitchen counter."
TDG looks at me funny and says, "Tell ya what, smart guy. You grab the keys and we'll follow you over. Don't try any funny stuff or you'll get a bullet in the back."
I shook my head and had to wonder where he got his dialog. Too much television, old movies? Who knows? "Okay, we'll do it your way. Let's go take a look."
I stand up, take Kelly's hand and walk over to the counter. Pick up the keys and go through the front door. After about five steps I take the dog whistle, the one attached to the key chain, and blow.
Kato comes bounding across the lawn. Suddenly it occurs to me that plan B was not such a good idea. Mr. Dum and Mr. Dee are standing behind Kelly and me. One slightly to the right, the other slightly to the left. Even if Kato manages to get one of them the other only has to shoot the poor creature. Should have thought this through a little better.
Thwack! That's the sound that I hear immediately to my right. I push Kelly to the ground and turn to my right. TJ is following through his swing with a golf club that just made immediate contact with Dum's head.
Thwack again! This time I turn to my left. Dee is face down on the ground after coming into contact with a forty ounce baseball bat. Jaw-long, TJ's friend, is also following through with his swing. By the way, in case you didn't know, his name means 'like a dragon'. Can't argue with that.
I step over the bodies and retrieve the guns. I hand one to Jaw and tell him to cover these guys. TJ is going through their pockets looking for some identification.
"Nice work, lads. What brings you to my neck of the woods? Oh, I might add, just in the nick of time."
"Uncle Moe', TJ said. “He said to get my sorry ass up here, something about you being in trouble.” It turns out that, like most mornings, TJ and Jaw-long were performing their early morning Tai-Chi rituals in Chinatown. This takes place every morning in the park where dozens, if not more, usually elderly Chinese start their day with this ancient custom.
Kelly pipes up, "You can see Uncle Moe?"
TJ, "Sometimes."
Thomas Jefferson Smith is one of my oldest and dearest friends. Actually, he's a few years younger and more like a little brother.
He stands about 5'10", has an athletic build and dark skin. He keeps his hair cut close to the scalp, has long artistic fingers, a high forehead and intelligent, penetrating brown eyes.
TJ, Nathan Berkowitz and I were in the foster system as children. We were ill mannered, poorly behaved and generally ran wild. If it weren't for Uncle Moe's influence, I doubt that we would ever have come out intact.
It was Uncle Moe that taught both TJ and me about antiques as well as the necessary prerequisites for becoming men. It was through keen insight into human nature that he also steered Nate into his present career and hence, his fortune.
For the lack of a better title, TJ works as my runner. He sniffs out antiques for me to purchase, makes repairs, delivers and picks items up from the auction houses. In other words, pretty much whatever is necessary to make the business work.
Besides Uncle Moe, he is probably the only family that I have.
"Alright, I'm just happy you got here in time. This is what we're going to do. Jaw, you cover them. TJ, grab some of the plastic ties from the stables and secure these two idiots…"
"Hey!" That was Dee.
"As I was saying, secure these two gentlemen, make copies of their id in the office and then call the cops. Kelly and I are going up to the main house. Maybe Mrs. Murphy will make us some breakfast. Get me when the cops arrive."
Dum, "I thought that you had nothing to do with the large house."
"I lied. Kelly, let's get something to eat. Kato, come."
>
April 1975 Philadelphia
"How much?"
Simon had some time to kill. The job involving the painting was slowly coming together.
"Thirty-two hundred dollars," the dealer replied.
The Philadelphia Antiques Show was founded in the early 1960s. Founded by Ali Brown, it was originally called the 'University Hospital Antiques Show'. Simon strolled around the Armory and examined the antiques.
There had been a second meeting with 'Mr. Smith' last month. Simon had laid out exactly what was required in order to proceed with the job. One of the conditions set forth by Simon was twenty million dollars up front with the understanding that this was a 'contingency job'.
Smith contacted his principle. A third, somewhat brief, meeting took place at the Famous Deli.
"My associate has agreed to your terms. The funds will be available this week."
"One last thing," Simon stated. "A meeting with your man."
"Out of the question."
Simon stood up. "I wish that I could say that it has been nice doing business with you, but…" and he turned to leave.
"Okay, okay. Stop. I'll make the arrangements. It won't be here in the States, somewhere in Europe. I'll get you the details."
After that was done, it was just a matter of time for everything to come together. Simon took a suite of rooms at the Barclay Hotel in Rittenhouse Square.
He had always enjoyed antiquing and decided to visit the show. There were close to four dozen dealers with quality pieces from all over the country.
He stopped at one exhibit that specialized in 19th and early 20th century art. She had her back to him as she arranged the paintings on the rear wall.
"Excuse me, Miss."
Emily Picker turned around and smiled. This is what she saw: a relatively tall man in his thirties; maybe six feet, dark, wavy hair and blue eyes. Intelligent, handsome with a nice smile. Not a warm smile, but a charming smile. And, the cultured British accent did not hurt any either. As she looked at him, two conflicting realizations passed through her. With joy she realized that this man was the one, that he alone could make her happier than anyone. The other flash of insight, this one disturbing, was that they were star crossed.
Emily recovered as quickly as she could. "How may help you, sir?"
Simon's reaction frightened him. There was a sense of deja vu, a compelling feeling of familiarity. Simon's world had just shifted on its axis and for the first time in ages was unsure of himself.
"Hi," he smiled, "Simon Jones," and offered his hand.
"Emily Picker." She returned his smile, blushed ever so slightly, turned and pointed to the sign hanging at the back of the booth. It read 'E. Picker Antiques' as though that explained everything.
Simon's awareness was suddenly hypersensitive. Time froze; everything vanished except for this strange young woman. Tall for a girl; perhaps five-nine, twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old; very long light brown hair, braided; slender and wearing a long dress with a flower print. What struck Simon most was the girl's face; long with prominent cheekbones; nice mouth without being too full; brown eyes and front teeth that crossed ever so slightly. The impression was that of a hippie that had grown up.
Simon quickly scanned the paintings on display. "What can you tell me about this one?"
"Ah, yes. The 'Portrait de Vincent van Gogh' by Toulouse-Lautrec. It is a copy of course. The original hangs in the Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam. Done by a local artist. Very nice, don't you agree?"
Henri Marie Raymond de Toulouse-Lautrec-Monfa; short in stature, alcoholic, friend of Oscar Wilde and one of the greatest post-impressionist painters. Perhaps best remembered for his depiction of the can-can dancers from the Moulin Rouge Music Hall.
"Striking. No question about it. I've seen the original, and quite frankly, I’d be hard pressed to tell them apart. Who is this local artist, if you don't mind me asking?" Simon experienced an eerie chill.
"Doo Wop DeAngelo. Does copies on order. If there is something special that you like, he'll do it. Are you interested in the Lautrec?"
Number 37
"Tis a beautiful morning, is it not?" Mrs. Murphy, bless her soul, was puttering around the kitchen and serving us breakfast. Coffee, fresh juice, freshly cut fruit salad and toasted homemade bread.
"Yes, ma’am."
Kelly and I are sitting at the kitchen table in the main house. She takes a sip of her coffee and looks over at me. "There's something that you haven't told me. Come on, what did you leave out?"
"Okay, here goes. On Tuesday morning I receive a phone call from Doo-Wop. I'm walking the Cowtown flea in Woodstown. He's agitated. Tells me that he'd like to see me asap. I say no problem, let's do it now.
"Less than an hour later we're having breakfast at the Melrose Diner. This is what he tells me…"
"Pick, I have a little problem. Probably nothing serious, but just in case, I'd like your help."
"Sure, Anthony, anything. You name it."
When I was young and running wild in the streets, Anthony and Millie sort of took me in. Not that I lived there or anything. But their door was always open to me; literally, I could walk in and help myself to the fridge. Or, they would invite me to dinner. By the time I started buying and selling antiques Doo Wop would bank roll me. The long and short of it is that they were always there for me. In return, there isn't anything that I wouldn't do for either of them.
He's looking slightly nervous. "Yesterday', he said, "I was at the Italian Market. I'm picking out some produce for the wife. Two guys come up behind me. One guy said, 'Hey, aren't you Mr. DeAngelo. You're the famous painter, right. You're him.'"
Anthony said, "Who's asking?"
The other guy says, "Hey, Mr. D, we're big fans. We've seen some of your work. Beautiful man, simply beautiful. Just like them famous painting you see in the museums."
I interrupt him. "What did these men look like?" Guess what, not that I knew it at the time, but the description sounds an awful lot like our new friends, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum." I tell Kelly that's what I named these guys in my head.
DW: "They start asking me what I'm working on now, what do I have for sale, can they come look at my stuff? Me, I don't want any trouble. I said, 'Sure, sure, give me you number, I'll call ya".
"Anthony, what can I do. Tell me."
"Come on over to the house, let me give you something to hold on to. You know, just for the time being."
And, that's just what we do. Go over to his house. He gives me two painting wrapped up in butcher paper. "This is 'Millie'. I want you to hold onto her for the time being. This other painting is for you. My way of saying thanks."
"Anthony, you don't have to thank me for anything. If anything, it is me who should be thanking you."
I finish my orange juice, take a sip of coffee and tell Kelly, "Now you're up to date. You know everything that I know."
"Not quite mister." She grins. "Besides being his wife's name, what is a 'Millie'?"
"Okay. I'll tell you, but this is strictly between us. I mean, no kidding, once I tell you it's just between you and me. You cannot share this with anyone. Agreed?"
Kelly works in the art world. She is what I jokingly refer to as a consulting curator. Quite simply, when an exhibition is being organized, when artwork is coming from several sources for a limited engagement, it is not unusual to retain Ms. Lane's services. As a matter of fact, that's kind of how we met.
What I was about to share with her might be considered, shall we say, a tad illegal. The information that I was about to share would, more than likely, compromise her professional standing.
"Okay, big boy, you got my word. Now spill!"
"Here goes… About ten years ago, possibly a little more, Doo Wop gets it into his head that he wants to set up a retirement fund. Don't get the wrong idea, he makes a pretty decent livelihood from turning out his one good 'copy' per month along with the others that he cranks out for shows.
"But, he's getting up there in ye
ars, he's put some money aside but what he really wants is f-you money. He wants a God damn legacy.
"He starts talking to me about it. Just me, nobody else. We've been close for ages and because of our bond he trusts me. For weeks we toss about different ideas and schemes. Finally, one day at the season opener for the Phils, we're sitting in box seats on the third base line, we hit on it. The one that we decide will actually work. The plan that will produce the big score.
"Anthony, God bless his soul, is going to paint a Vermeer."
Johannes Vermeer was a Dutch artist that lived in the middle of the 17th Century. His specialty was interior scenes of domestic life of the middle class. His work is exquisite.
Vermeer is known to have worked very slowly and with extreme care. His paintings exhibit bright colors which often were the result of expensive pigments. He demonstrated a particular preference for cornflower blue and yellow. Vermeer is especially known for his obvious mastery of light.
Johannes Vermeer acquired some modest recognition during his life only to become obscure after his passing. He is just barely referred to in the 17th Century "Grand Theatre of Dutch Painters and Women Artists”. He seems to be completely omitted from other references for close to two centuries.
Then, in the 19th century he was once again rediscovered. Vermeer's reputation has continued to grow and is acknowledged to be one of the most renowned artists of the Dutch Golden Age.
There are thirty-six paintings that are definitely attributed to Vermeer.
The value of an undisputed Vermeer would likely exceed $100,000,000.
"Anthony 'Doo-Wop' DeAngelo made up his mind to create a brand new, never before seen Vermeer. Number 37. As for the model in his painting, he used his wife, Millie."
April 1975 Philadelphia — The Next Day
The 'Portrait de Vincent van Gogh' was dropped off the next morning at the hotel's front desk. Simon was having breakfast at the hotel restaurant at the time.