Pollock No. 5

by Todd Cohen

  We walked toward the shipping truck and saw the crates pulled out onto the parking lot. There were a number of crates, but only one large crate was lying right on the asphalt pavement. The crate itself was a work of art, and must of cost thousands of dollars. The Feds opened it up very carefully with a hammer and crow bar. Inside was a large Plexiglas cover. This cover was screwed into the wood itself. One of the authorities had a Black and Decker battery-powered drill with a Phillips screw bit. He unscrewed the Plexiglas and revealed a tight Styrofoam packing approximately an inch thick surrounding the back of a painting. The painting lay on its front, only the back was showing.

  The wire to hang the painting was not missing. The fake, I thought. Around the painting we saw multiple Sotheby’s stickers, similar to the browned one I had found at the Weisberg residence. There were no missing stickers on this one. Double proof of the forgery!

  I couldn’t see the sides of the painting, but the little bits of canvas that made it towards the back contained a brown, yellow, white, and black color similar to what I recalled from the night before the theft, as well as what I remembered from Chico. Two gentlemen wearing white gloves carefully lifted the painting from the crate and swung it around. “Easy,” said a Fed who appeared to know something about art preservation. One would hope an expert knowledgeable about handling fine art would be involved in fine art recovery, and Cecile Donovan was their man. He was very instrumental in helping to recover a very valuable painting by a Norwegian artist by the name of Edvard Munch called The Scream. Mr. Donovan also recovered many of the paintings stolen by the Nazis in World War II. Those included many German Expressionist paintings, twelve Picassos, seven Miros, and five Matisses. But even those probably paled in value compared to the painting now resting on the Fort Mason parking lot.

  The confusing thing about this painting was the identical-looking piece that was lying next to it on the right. That painting was not wrapped in plywood, Styrofoam, or Plexiglass. It was wrapped the way I received my prints back in New York, that is, in bubble wrap and cardboard. Both pieces were identical in every respect from the front.

  Both had identical-colored splatter, with their twirls—the whites and yellows built upon the reds, and the swirling blacks. The back was the difference. The painting removed from the expensive wooden crate had all Sotheby’s stickers in place and an intact hanging wire. The one packed in a cardboard box was missing a sticker and a hanging wire. I still had the folded New York Times pages in my back pocket. I pulled it out and unfolded it carefully. Out dropped the Sotheby’s sticker that I found at the Weisbergs’ Estate. I looked at it closely. There were areas of paper loss on the back of the sticker. Those areas of removed paper were evident on the back on the cheaply packaged painting. Those areas fit like a puzzle.

  “A match,” I stated firmly to Mr. Donovan. “This is the original! You can test them both, but I believe the hanging wire discovered at the Weisbergs’ place and this sticker should help prove which is which.” I was certain that this was confusing to the authorities. But at least they had the paintings.

  “Jackson Pollock No. 5!” I said as I pointed to the one to the right.

  Chapter 90

  We spent a few hours down at the San Francisco Police Headquarters in the Property Crimes Bureau. Jared and Maxwell Vicks had been transporting stolen art for years. They were tied into a much larger underworld that was forging and selling art worldwide. Some of the names that were thrown at us I had heard along the way: Jimmy “The Fish,” Tiki, also known as “The Shadow,” Mustache Man, and Mr. Big, to name a few. The latter was the mastermind and was still at large. Apparently, the other crates contained a variety of paintings including, ironically, a Pablo Picasso, a Joan Miro, a Salvador Dali, and a Marc Chagall. All of substance, but none like Pollock No. 5.

  I was brought into a room where we peered through one-way glass at a police lineup. Four men were lined up on the wall—a teenage thug with two tattoos; an African American man wearing a tank top; a middle-aged, short, bald guy who had taunted me, by the name of Harry; and a cross-dressing junky type that looked like he came from the Tenderloin district.

  “That’s him,” I said as I pointed to Harry. “That was the guy that had us in Chico, and that was the guy who claimed to be the master forger!”

  We answered some more questions and then were turned over to the Personal Crimes and Forensic Services Division. They had many questions about how and why I killed the Vicks brothers. After examining the evidence, and talking separately to Dr. Shaw and Ms. Winters, they came to the only logical conclusion. The Vicks brothers and their gang were the criminals, and I acted in self-defense. After two painful hours we were all released, free and clear to go.

  Mr. Schwartz ran a detailed search on Seymour Vicks of East Hampton. Seymour’s full name was Seymour Jared Vicks. Apparently, he couldn’t stand the name “Seymour,” although I didn’t understand why. All his friends and family called him by his middle name, “Jared.”

  All the evidence about the painting theft was clearly related to “the operation.” But there was still the case of Mrs. Weisberg’s murder. Mr. Schwartz was able to do his fancy footwork, especially with evidentiary findings of the recent hand scars and cuts on Seymour Jared Vicks. Within a few hours, Schwartz had the DA convinced that all the evidence pointed to the Vicks brothers, and we were released.

  “Amen,” I said to Amy as we walked out of the SFPH.

  Chapter 91

  We had one night in Frisco. And it was a night to remember. I took Amy to my favorite little bistro located on Fillmore Street in Pacific Heights, the Jackson Fillmore. We dined like there was no tomorrow.

  I had the bartender, or shall I say sommelier, select a boutique 2008 vintage Californian red wine from Napa Valley with an interesting name: “Forlorn Hope Sangiovese.”

  “Maybe he knows something we don’t?” I said to Amy. We enjoyed our sangiovese wine. together with their spectacular sourdough bruschetta, compliments of the chef. We then shared a delicious California salad and their pasta special, and for dessert there was tiramisu and a classic California espresso (one to make the “Shaw–man” proud). But no evening would be complete without a cherry on top of the whipped cream.

  That cherry was one night and only one night. For years and years and years whenever I went to Frisco, I would stay three blocks away from the Jackson Fillmore Trattoria at a century-old bed-and-breakfast brownstone called the Jackson Court on the corner of Jackson and Buchannan. The inn was only two blocks from Danielle Steel’s mansion, and I was able to reserve the quaint Library Room on the second floor. That room was especially large and quiet. We walked to the Jackson Court, and I buzzed Evelyn, the manager, who let us in and escorted us up to our room.

  “Evelyn, this is Amy, an old friend,” I said.

  Evelyn was smart enough not to ask questions, like any smart proprietor, and I did not have the energy or desire to tell her the whole entire story anyway. At least, not tonight. Every ounce of energy I had remaining was saved for only one thing.

  I closed the door, and we both had to shower and purify ourselves from our imprisoned trip. We were too tired for an upright adventure like in Quiogue, but we were not too tired for a supine physical Fiesta Americana, California style.

  After toweling off, it was just Amy and me. No props, nothing, just pure our physical attraction. But it was much more than that. It was deeper. Not lust or love, but our heart, body, and soul. And that, coming from a cardiologist. We had a connection, a sixth sense if you will, and an understanding. One that stood the test of time.

  Forty years, to be precise!

  Chapter 92

  Evelyn had arranged an early wake-up call and a taxi. I got up early and walked three blocks back to Fillmore Street to grab two cups of Joe from Tullys, which happened to be catty corner from the Jackson Fillmore. I brought them back to the Jackson Court to surprise Amy. And she had a surprise for me. One block away from our B&B was a small beer boutique called
Ales Unlimited, which had beers from every corner of the world, but in particular Belgium and Germany. She had an assortment of interesting bottles, which she was having shipped back to New York. Although I am not a big beer guy, the gesture was very thoughtful!

  Within thirty minutes the Yellow Cab was out front. Unfortunately, there was no vacation left. No vacation in San Francisco, that is!

  We took the next plane back to New York—a Delta flight out of San Francisco International to JFK. Amy treated me to first class. “Ah, the leg room, and even food!” I said as I turned to her.

  “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” I said as I turned to her. She was a big fan of old movies.

  “I love Casablanca,” she said. “But I really want you to see Vertigo, with James Stewart and Kim Novak. That film treats the viewer to the beauty of San Francisco in the 1950s, with its hilly streets, trips to the Legion of Honor Museum, and a mysterious romance. We can watch it on Netflix back in New York and still enjoy San Francisco.”

  “Amy, we have so much in common: old movies, art, love, and time. And Lord knows I now have a lot of time. No more early-morning trips to Mount Sinai. I guess I could do what I always wanted to do. That is, to try to write a novel, go to museums, and maybe work on my next big invention with dear old Alex.”

  She kissed me on the lips and we opened a goody bag from the SF Police commish for all our help. It contained Ghirardelli chocolates in small, colored tinfoil wrappings. We chose the dark chocolates. There was a half bottle of PlumpJack cabernet, from a winery owned by San Francisco’s former mayor, and then there was a small Boudin sourdough bread and a container of fresh Dungeness crab. The commish had arranged a heated New England clam chowder that the stewardess poured into a scooped-out sourdough bread bowl!

  “Just like down at Fisherman’s Wharf,” I said to Amy.

  “Delicious,” she said as she licked the dripping clam chowder off my lips.

  We feasted on this and toasted to our future.

  Chapter 93

  When we arrived at Kennedy, we walked out the door towards the cabbies. They were not the Yellow Cabs of San Francisco, but they were still nice and pleasant. The weather was not like in San Francisco either. It was after eleven p.m., cold and rainy. The temperature felt to me like it was in the low forties.

  “Taxi, sir?” the attendant asked.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Where to?”

  “Westhampton.”

  Amy and I rode the cab all the way back to my place. We took the Belt Parkway and sat in some traffic until we hit the Southern State, which melted into the Sunrise Highway.

  “All Roads lead to Rome,” I said.

  On the way, I finally spoke to Mr. Weisberg. AT LAST! Finally, the police did get in touch with him overseas. He apologized for his inaccessibility and confirmed that his report substantiated his request for my presence at his residence. You know what they say—better late than never. But I always prefer the statement: better never late! He was very appreciative of my help but still reeling in pain from the loss of his beautiful wife. He apparently took the next flight home from Asia, after he learned about her murder, and the funeral occurred while we were on the West Coast.

  Mr. Weisberg said to me, “I knew it wasn’t you, Dawson. I always knew it wasn’t you.”

  When we hit exit 63 off the Sunrise, we headed south past Gabreski Airport, over the railroad tracks, across Old Montauk Highway, and then around the circle. Amy had fallen fast asleep in the passenger seat. This time I did not stop at Hamptons Coffee, but proceeded past the Westhampton Beach Police Headquarters, and eventually made it to Homans Avenue.

  “The Shed,” I thought to myself.

  Chapter 94

  The cabbie pulled up to my circular driveway and let us off. I nudged Amy and she awoke and got out in half a stupor. The cabbie deposited our bags on the sidewalk, and I paid his fare plus a generous tip. The neighborhood was pitch black. There was no life to be seen, even three weeks after Sandy. I looked out at the bay and heard an errant seagull in the distance, then went to the side door. There was a yellow-and-white DHL shipping envelope wedged between the screen door and the wooden one. From Morgan Capital Associates. I was too tired to deal with it then, but I had some idea what might be inside. I picked up the envelope, opened up the door, and then flicked the light switch. It went on. Power had been restored to our quaint little hamlet and our entire neighborhood. I tossed the envelope on my kitchen table, and then Amy and I brought our bags inside and didn’t even bother to carry them up to the bedroom. We were so completely exhausted we didn’t have the energy to do anything other than pull off our clothing, except our underwear, slide underneath the covers, and melt into bed.

  “There’s no place like home,” I said to Amy.

  “Yup,” she said as she spooned into me.

  “Goodnight, my love,” and I meant it to the bone.

  “Goodnight, darling,” she replied as we cuddled each other to sleep.

  At two a.m. I heard a door creek. The wind, I thought as I tossed to the other side of my pillow and thought nothing more of it. Then, as I started to doze back to sleep, my wooden floor creaked again, and then again. I looked up and saw a silhouette of a man. A man with a gun!

  “Dawson, you are a dead man!” he yelled.

  I reached under my bed, and there it was. Old reliable. Like the day my dad gave it to me. My Munson-signed Louisville Slugger. And with one large swing I whipped the bat around and hit the man on his ankles.

  I made contact the way Munson used to, right in the meat of the bat.

  And then—

  “BANG.” The gun fired.

  Chapter 95

  The sound echoed in my ears. I wasn’t hit, but what about Amy? She was okay too. The bullet had hit the ceiling. “Close one,” I thought as I grabbed the bat and quickly hit the man with all I’ve got in his chest. The gun was knocked loose. But the man was unconscious. At least. it seemed.

  I went to pick up my cell phone to call the police, and then the man grabbed me with his rough, wrinkled hands, right around the neck. I could barely breathe. He then kneed me right in the solar plexus. I was doubled over with pain and still could not breathe. Any attempt to swing at him or kick him was futile. I was running out of steam and would surely fade away in unconscious oblivion unless something happened and quick.

  Then I heard a smash. “BAM!” Amy shattered the vase on the nightstand over the figure’s back. As he turned to look behind him, he released his grip and I was able to free myself and catch my breath. Then Amy flipped on the desk lamp and I could see his face. I checked for his pulse—it was still regular and he was still breathing. He was alive but unconscious. I could clearly see his face.

  It was Samuel Vicks, the senior statesman from the neighborhood.

  Again, I grabbed my cell phone and finished dialing police headquarters. But before I could even hear the voice on the other end, Mr. Vicks had risen and now was holding the gun to my head. I dropped the phone to the floor and just froze. “This guy had more lives than a cat,” I thought to myself. I was helpless.

  “Dawson, you didn’t think you would get away with what you did. You killed both my sons and destroyed my entire network. You and your lovely friend are not going to get away with it. Say your last prayers, Dawson!”

  Closing my eyes, I began to pray fervently for salvation. Then within a split second I heard it:

  “BAM!” followed by a loud scream. I opened my eyes just in time to see Mr. Vicks, crash down to the floor with a big thud! This time he went down for good!

  I looked at Amy. She was standing there, shaking, with the Louisville Slugger in her hand. She had picked up the bat and, using every ounce of energy, hit Mr. Vicks on the head. He was lying there, completely out. I went over to her and just hugged her.

  “It’s over,” I said. Amy just shook in my arms.

  I picked up my phone from the floor, and there was a familiar voice o
n the other line.

  “Hello, hello, anybody there? Please pick up,” said the voice. He had heard the smack of the bat over Mr. Vicks’s head. It was Sergeant McElroy. “Address, please, I’m sending help!”

  “It’s Dawson, this time at my place, Mr. Vicks tried to kill us and we knocked him unconscious. Come for help!”

  “Not you again, Dawson? I heard what happened in Frisco. Be right over.”

  I looked at Mr. Vicks, who was lying face down with blood running from the back of his head to the nape of his neck. He was lying motionless on the floor. I checked his pulse and breathing. His pulse was rapid and thready and his breathing shallow. I examined his pupils with my phone’s flashlight app; they were fixed and dilated. Vicks was in a deep coma from the blow to his brain and the intracranial bleeding that ensued. Then he started to shake. He was having a seizure.

  Three squad cars arrived. McElroy entered, to find Mr. Vicks unconscious, shaking on the floor. One of the officers was part of the Westhampton Beach EMT unit. I noticed his breathing had stopped and immediately checked his pulse and breathing. They were both gone. The EMT started CPR and for the next twenty minutes we both worked to revive the bastard. It was to no avail. The code was called. There would be no more lives for Mr. Vicks. His party was over.

  I got up from the dead body and looked at McElroy.

  “The Feds had alerted us to what happened to the Vicks brothers, and I always had a suspicion about Samuel Vicks’s involvement. This time, I’ll take the report right here. You won’t have to come down to the station, Dawson,” he kindly stated.