Pollock No. 5

by Todd Cohen

  Chapter 66

  I snuck Amy out of the truck, and brought her catty-corner across the street into Finn MacCool’s, an Irish tavern and restaurant, frequented by the New York Mets. Amy would be safe in their foyer, and would have full view of the truck from their front door. I texted Alex and let him know what I was doing. Each time I used my phone, I turned it off to conserve energy. There was no place for me to charge it. The text was as follows: “Alex, making a dash for my old place. Need to stock up for trip to survive. Keep u posted in case I need help.” I pressed send. Within an instant, I looked at my screen and saw, “K. Got message. Will be nearby in case.” I then turned off the phone again.

  I ran up Main Street and saw an old banged-up Schwin bike leaning against “BALTIMORE,” the design studio of Keith Baltimore, on the north side of the road. I grabbed the bike and peddled quickly past the center-hall colonials in Monfort Hills, up Orchard Farm Road, and around Ridge. I turned up Crescent Road in Beacon Hill, built on top of a large bluff overlooking the old sand mines that were essential to building the skyscrapers that make up Manhattan. Some of the Beacon Hill homes had views of the Arnold Palmer Harbor Links Golf Course down below. Mine was one of them.

  My home, or shall I call it my soon-to-be ex-wife’s home, was a large brick center-hall colonial with a three-car garage in this all-too-quiet suburban neighborhood. It wasn’t quiet the day I caught Shari humping that motherfucker! I thought. Hopefully, this time I would have more luck than my last visit, I said to myself.

  I jumped off the bike and ran up to the house. There were no suspicious- looking cars out front or in the garage. Not a peep. I was fearful of being seen by a neighbor or an old acquaintance, ever since my story appeared in the newspaper. That would not be good for me, and not good for my chance of recovering the Pollock or finding the murderer.

  What luck, I said to myself. Shari’s car was gone, but Maggie was still home. She was a beautiful Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier that saw me from the front door and started jumping and wagging her tail.

  “At least, someone missed me,” I said.

  Were the locks changed? I nervously reached underneath the planter to the right of the door and pulled out a key, unlocking the door.

  It was great to see Maggie. She gave me the usual lick and promptly returned to her crate.

  I first went through the mudroom into the kitchen and opened up the drawer that was built into the kitchen island. My wallet was still there. It had my license, credit cards, and a few hundred dollars in cash. I took the wallet and put it in my pocket and then quickly went upstairs to grab my MacBook Air and charger from my office. I ran into the bedroom, past that disgusting scene where my wife fucked up our life, so to speak, and through to our large walk-in closet. I went straight across to the far wall, where I kept all my clothes. To the right of the built-in shelves were my dress socks, all neatly folded. Underneath the socks was a small letter envelope. I grabbed the envelope, stuffed it in the dollar-bill section of my wallet, and left down the hall.

  Then I glanced up at the wall. There it stood, in its wooden frame, surrounded by a linen mat. The letter!

  Chapter 67

  The letter was in the form of a card that I purchased from the Museum Shop at the MoMA. The front was a beautiful Rothko painting with slabs of magnificent glowing colors. It was entitled No. 3/No. 13 Magenta, Black, Green on Orange—oil on canvas, 85 3/8 by 65 inches. “Why two different numbers?” I wondered. “Perhaps a lucky three, our marriage?” I thought. “Followed by an unlucky thirteen, our separation?” No, it was ironically a reference to the date I popped the question. Our engagement date. March thirteenth. The Rothko was not that different in size from the Pollock. The first three colors floated on an orange background, and the painting itself belonged to the MoMA’s permanent collection. I had placed the front of the card side by side in the frame next to the written text that originally appeared inside the four-panel card. Mark Rothko, like Jackson Pollock, was a first-generation Abstract Expressionist. Both had an alcohol problem. Pollock died, after getting drunk, from a car crash. Rothko committed suicide after overdosing on antidepressants and slitting his wrists. And there was the text to the letter written by me,

  Dear Shari,

  I have been looking for you my entire life! But what do we need to be happy? What do we strive for? What do we need in life? What things do we as human beings yearn for? Success? Contentment? A Job? Art? Family? Love?

  Well, now that I have found you, I have each and every one of those things! A Great Job, A Great Family, and most importantly, the Love of My Life!

  And now I ask you? Will you marry me?

  Love you Forever and Ever

  MD

  And signed right underneath:

  I Will! Love you too Forever and Ever,

  Shari

  “Forever and Ever?” I thought. I starred at the Rothko and could not get my mind off of his painting and the two untimely deaths. Rothko at age sixty-six and Pollock at only age forty-four!

  In the mudroom I found my MacBook Air laptop computer still hooked to a charger, as was my iPhone’s extended-battery charging case. I threw the computer, my iPhone charging case, a dozen or so water bottles, and two boxes of Kashi Cherry Almond energy bars in a backpack, ran out the back, and grabbed bike. I peddled as fast as I could back to “BALTIMORE,” and returned the bike where it had previously resided. Then I grabbed Amy from Toscanini.

  The whole trip took twenty minutes. And I now had my wallet plus some other goodies. Mr. Kleinman’s crew was about to bring the wrapped bikes out to the van. We quickly slid into the back of the truck, behind a “Box” and a “Bike.”

  Chapter 68

  After making sure my phone and computer were both on silence, I slid the phone into the battery-charging case to give it some extra juice. I also made sure the phone stayed off when not in use, otherwise, the power would be depleted after about twenty-four hours. When we were on our way, I sat up in the back of the truck and briefly got web access on my iPhone, using a hotspot. The phone created enough ambient light that we were able to see the silhouettes of most of the boxes and crates and bikes being shipped. But I also saw the silhouette of a beautiful angel, one who had entered my life at the worst possible time. She was my only glimmer of hope. My salvation.

  I used the flashlight app designed by a fifteen-year-old kid from our town by the name of Felix Mayer, who already had his own company, “App-ealing, LLC”; he had developed another twenty or so iPhone apps. “He’s probably worth millions,” I thought.

  To my surprise, the largest crate, wedged up against the side of the truck container, was the one we were sitting next to. By my best approximation it was the only one large enough to contain the painting.

  “Amy, this is the one!”

  The crate was a solid wooden box, which appeared to be roughly nine feet by five feet by ten inches. It was stamped fragile in red in multiple places. Smaller wooden crates were just visible as well, also marked fragile in red.

  “Are there other stolen paintings?” I whispered to Amy. “Perhaps Picassos, Cézannes, or even a Degas?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she whispered back. “Evil is evil. And if they could steal a Pollock and kill an heiress, they could certainly steal other great paintings. Maybe art heists are their modus operandi?”

  But the most fragile or shall I say precious thing of all was the woman wedged up against my side. Even with a bruised head and bloodied clothes, nothing, and I mean nothing, was as beautiful as Amy, or as important to me.

  “I still can’t believe it has been nearly forty years since we first met,” I said.

  “I can’t either,” she replied softly. “But I am so glad to be with you.”

  My right arm was draped over her shoulder, and she was resting her head on my shoulder. She turned her head towards mine, and I turned towards hers. And we kissed. As if nothing else mattered.

  I shut off the flashlight app and went onto the Googl
e website and searched for Jackson Pollock No. 5

  Chapter 69

  An image of the No. 5 appeared on the screen. A classic Pollock! But not just any Pollock, the one I’d seen over the Weisbergs’ fireplace! We both closely scrutinized the screen.

  I went to my iPhotos folder on my iPhone and pulled up the painting from the Weisberg place. Again we both looked at that image very carefully.

  “They are identical!” Amy whispered.

  The Google image appeared to have the same brown-and-white drips in the same pattern. And there were greys and oranges, and even the same red splatters in identical places as the one on my iPhone from the Weisbergs’ estate.

  As I zoomed into both the web image and my image, every detail was the same. Apparently, this painting was shrouded in mystery. At least, we gathered as much from the web. Snuggling around the computer, we learned the following facts.

  According to the New York Times, David Geffen sold the painting November 2, 2006, privately. With two other well-known celebrities—Steven Spielberg and Mark Katzenberg— Mr. Geffen was a cofounder of DreamWorks SKG. The article went on to say that one David Martinez, a “wealthy financier” from Mexico, purchased the painting for $140 million.

  According to multiple articles, including one on Wikipedia, Mr. Martinez later denied he was the purchaser. The true owner was reportedly unknown.

  “But how the hell did it get from Mr. Geffen to Mr. Weisberg and NOW next to me? If that is where it is?” I whispered.

  Chapter 70

  With an uncertain but long drive ahead, I had to conserve my computer and iPhone usage. Estimating I had only seven hours max in the MacBook, I turned it off and put it away.

  I used my iPhone to text both Alex and Mr. Schwartz to let them know we were okay and apprise them of what was happening. I typed in the following text:

  Guys, in back of shipping truck with painting. Painting is what I believe to be the 1948 Jackson Pollock No. 5, which sold for $140 million. Going cross-country to San Francisco. Believe drop-off point is at Fort Mason. Please send help! Should be there in three days, though not sure how long it will take. Need to conserve cell and computer power for the trip. Will go dark for hours and keep you posted. Reply by text or email. Will check periodically.

  I pressed send.

  I turned to Amy and melted next to her. She did the same with me. We were both exhausted. I began to doze off into oblivion, rocked by the bounce of the truck. Within seconds Amy was snoozing. I started drifting, drifting into another world.

  I was back in 1972, after “the Bar Mitzvah.” I had received a folded Leonard’s napkin stuffed into my pocket before I left the event. Written on it were the words: “Call me, 516-364-9212, Amy.”

  I called her that week after my algebra test.

  “Amy, would you like to catch a movie and a bite?”

  “Sure,” she replied.

  “How about The Heartbreak Kid?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she replied.

  “My dad will pick you up at six and we can grab a bite and catch the movie.”

  I took her to Friendly’s Ice Cream Parlor and grabbed a burger and a milkshake, while Amy had a tuna melt followed by a Swiss Chocolate Almond Fudge Sundae with Toasted Almond Fudge Ice Cream.

  Then I held her hand as we walked up Northern Boulevard to the Manhasset Bay Cinema and bought two tickets to The Heartbreak Kid.

  “What a screwed-up movie?” I said when we left the theater.

  “Yeah,” Amy said. “If I ever got married and then got a bad sunburn, I hope my husband would not go astray.”

  “If it were me, I would be there through thick and through thin,” I replied.

  The next few months I must have seen her at least a dozen times. And then in 1973, I will never forget the last time. Another trip to the Manhasset Bay Cinema—for the opening of Jeremy, starring Robby Benson, a tearjerker of a love story. It was so romantic and so intense, at least for a thirteen-year-old. It was a love story between a cello student, Jeremy Jones, and a ballerina, Susan Rollins. Love at first sight! Just like Amy and me, or should I say me and Amy, to be less grammatical and piss off Mrs. Parker, my English teacher.

  I was in the theater, the next to last row, making out with Amy. I slid my hand underneath her blouse, inside her bra, and cupped what was a well-formed breast. I was blown away and had a hard-on throughout the entire film. At the end, Amy turned to me and said, “I have to go.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s too intense,” she said. “I’m just not ready.”

  I called and called and called but never got an answer.

  That was the last time I saw Amy—that was, at least until we reconnected at the courthouse in Riverhead.

  Chapter 71

  The syndicate was a well-oiled machine, a worldwide network—Berlin, Mumbai, New York City, Dubai, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Shanghai, London, and Paris. Fine art objects would find their way to the super-rich buyers. The buyers were first identified and their money secured. Then the objets d’art would magically appear. But it was not magic, it was work. Hard work, led by none other than Mr. Big. The master organizer, or kingpin, from the very beginning was Mr. Big, as he was called. He was BIG in stature, and in so many other ways. He had built the empire, and in doing so made BIG connections, he made BIG decisions, and most importantly he made BIG money. He had a myriad of regional directors in each of the world’s art hubs. The directors would find the buyers and sell them the works of art as they were secured.

  Lucky for Mr. Big he had formed a solid—or should I say BIG—relationship with Harry Massino. You see, Harry, and his master forging team were a perfect complement to Mr. Big. Harry gave Mr. Big the opportunity to more than double his ROI, that is, his “return on investment.” In other words, his profits! All of Mr. Big’s clients were so secretive and anonymous—and from such diverse geographic area—that Massino’s forgeries were often good for two, maybe even three, and sometimes even four sales of the same exact painting. And only Mr. Big got to keep the original. Oh, how thoughtful.

  Mr. Big was still lying in bed, looking out the window onto a parking lot. As he looked out, he saw a few leafless trees, a mostly filled lot, and an ambulance pull up to the façade. He was alone for the moment. But that could change in a split second, with something as simple as his lunch tray. He picked up his antiquated flip cell phone and whispered with his scraggly voice, “The buyer has already paid the two hundred million dollars for the piece. It must arrive on time,” he stated to Jimmy “The Fish” on the other end of the line.

  “It is en route,” replied The Fish. “Should be in San Francisco by the end of the week. I’ve arranged a boat for direct shipping and a land courier right to your client’s destination in Shanghai. I’ll need the first half of the wire transfer to my offshore account before the piece is loaded on the boat. That’s twenty-five million dollars—signed, sealed, and delivered now. And another twenty-five million when the piece arrives at Fort Mason and is secured on the ship.”

  “And the others?” asked Big.

  “The deal is going down exactly like you outlined. All works are in transit. Once in Fort Mason, your piece will go into short-term storage, then be delivered to your Carmel Estate.”

  “When?”

  “One week later.” I have that shipment all coordinated. And the money, Biggie?”

  “Consider it done! Just make damn sure that ‘the piece’ is on board the ship.” This time when he said the piece, he used both hands to indicate the quotations marks and emphasize its importance. “Our client has paid dearly for it. I don’t want any mistakes. If there are any screwups, you will be dealt with in an appropriate manner.” Mr. Big always threatened his connections. It was his way of making sure everything fell into place. And yes, he had a BIG temper. You just didn’t want him to take it out on you.

  “And how about our loose ends?” asked Mr. Big.

  “You mean Dawson and his lawyer? They were in custod
y, but . . . but . . . but . . . they somehow got away,” stammered the embarrassed Fish, who knew he had to squirm his way out of this one.

  “How did that happen? You should never have let them get away! If that was even a possibility, you should have taken care of them the old-fashioned way”—he paused—“the same way you took care of Mrs. Weisberg! What the hell are you doing about it?” demanded an angry Mr. Big.

  “We are on the lookout for him. Remember, he is a wanted man. And how are you doing?” Fish tried to change gears.

  “I’m fine. Just a shock to my system. I will be out in no time. My sons have the rest of the business covered. They are flying into San Francisco to make sure everything goes as planned. Where is Massino?”

  “With me and Tiki in Chico. Everything is fine. Files are uploaded in the computer and we’re waiting delivery of your piece. They should be here in less than twenty-four hours. You have nothing to worry about.” The Fish was very reassuring. He had to be. If Mr. Big sensed an iota of a problem, he would have sent his own assassins to take care of business.

  “I certainly hope not!” Mr. Big hung up his phone, then slowly got up from his mechanical bed and proceeded to open the top drawer at his bedside table and pull out a six-inch- long rubber replica of a grey rat. He grabbed the whiskered fake animal in his hand and started to squeeze it tighter and tighter. This was just a toy, but at home, he had a cage of real rodents and would do the same activity until the beast started to squeal. This was his way of letting out anger. When he had a veritable rodent, he would continue to squeeze until the rat stopped breathing altogether, and began to shake until it became motionless. He would then and only then drop the dead rodent into the garbage. In this sterile place, the toy would have to do. Mr. Big squeezed the fake rat like a stress ball, and after two minutes, imagining its demise, just put it back in the drawer. “Ah,” he said as his muscle started to release, and he felt a warmth spread over him.