#37 (A Picker Mystery)

by Scott Soloff

  Knowing this, you talk to dealers. Listen for rumors, whispers, innuendo. Who purchased what, what's being put up at auction, estates that have come on the market, collections being liquidated? You're hunting for merchandise that is brand new to the market, preferably something that hasn't seen the light of day for decades, maybe more.

  I looked up and Moe had vanished. Time for a break. In the small restaurant, I walked up to the counter and ordered a slice of cherry pie and black coffee. Took them back to the table, sat down and waited.

  Hard Knocks came in the door, got some coffee and joined me. Like many dealers, he's in his sixties and retired from some job or another. Average height, florid complexion with a beak nose. You know, I never did know his real name.

  HK says, "Peoples are asking questions, P".

  Hard deals in militaria, specifically World War II stuff.

  "What questions?"

  "Forgeries, art forgeries. They wants to know who does 'em. How to find 'em. Pick, these ain't plesant folk."

  "Knocky, why are you telling me?"

  "Your name is coming up. Be careful, P. I don't like the way this smells."

  "Thanks Knock. Let me know if you hear anything else. Do you have my number?"

  That, however, was not the end of it. In the course of walking the flea, three more guys tell me something very similar. Two guys, no one we know, well dressed are looking for copies of master works. And, my name keeps coming up.

  Before heading back to the city I stop at Danny Boy's table. "What do you have to get on the rug Danny?" I ask.

  Danny Boy Boyle is a young black man that works almost exclusively in North Philadelphia. His wife, Mai, who is a lovely young Vietnamese woman, purchases antiques and collectibles from the aging African American community. Back in the forties, fifties probably up to the present, many of the people from this neighborhood worked as maids in the wealthy Main Line communities. I suppose that today the proper nomenclature would be domestics. Back then they were simply maids and cleaning ladies.

  Anyway, you would be surprised that a common experience for these domestics was to receive discarded items from their masters, sorry, employers. These items could be anything from silverware, lamps, dishes, artwork or whatever. Many of these discarded items were quality when purchased and have only gone up in value over the years. You would be shocked; I know I was, to walk into a North Philadelphia row home and to see it furnished with quality furniture, knick-knacks and artwork.

  DB is one of only a handful of people of color in the antiques game.

  "Hey, man, I’m thinking, like maybe three hundred. Cool, huh?"

  "No Danny, not cool at all. I’ll give you a grand, not a penny more."

  What DBB had unearthed was a late 19th century Lori Pambak rug from the Southwest Caucasus. These lovely rugs typically have hexagon enclosed cruciform medallions. These medallions will differ in proportion from rug to rug but can be very elegant. They are highly sought after by collectors.

  This particular rug was 5'4" x 6'8" that had a central medallion and two minor medallions surrounded by a series of geometric shapes on a red field. The rest of the colors included both light and dark blue, blue-green, gold, reddish brown and ivory.

  This was in very nice condition and would retail for about eight thousand dollars. I could flip it to a buddy of mine for four grand. Enough money in it for everyone to make a profit.

  Danny goes, "Huh?"

  "Danny, it's worth a little more than you think. Take the G."

  "Sure, P, sure man. Whatever you say."

  Mai smiles and says, "For that kind'a money, Mr. Picker, you can have it gift wrapped."

  "Not necessary Mai. I’ll take it as is. See ya later, guys. And thanks."

  "No, thank you P. Later, dude."

  I run over to New Hope to see my friend Barry. He has one of the more successful antique businesses in the area. Barry specializes in vintage garden decorations and oriental rugs. Oh yeah, we share a love of cigars.

  He sees me pull up and comes out to greet me. After exchanging hellos I pop the trunk and pull out the Pambak.

  "Nice rug. How much?"

  "I got a grand in it. What can you do?"

  Barry walks around the rug which is laid out in the parking lot. He looks at the rug, looks up at me, back at the rug. He smiles, "How's four thousand?"

  "Perfect."

  We walk into his shop and he writes me a check. He reaches into a humidor that sits next to the register and pulls out a cigar.

  "Here," he says, "Try this. And by the way. People have been asking for you. Two guys, dark suits."

  I ask, "And, what did you tell 'em?"

  "Nothing."

  "Thanks. Catch ya later."

  I head home. My place is in a Philly suburb on the other side of the Schuylkill River. My mind begins to wander and tries to make sense of what is happening. Something is tickling at the back of my brain but I can't quite put my finger on it. Everything that I heard today must be related to my South Philly visit yesterday. I still don't see how.

  Early the next morning, around 4:00am, I pull the '56 Chevy pickup out of the garage and head up to the Columbus Farmers Market.

  It was established in 1929 by one Harry Ruopp. Originally, it was a livestock and farm equipment auction held at 11:00am every Thursday. Over the years it has become a well known shopping center and flea market. It sits on about 200 acres and is one of the largest markets on the East coast. It's about an hour from me, located on Route 206 in Columbus, NJ.

  I pull in around five thirty and park in the customer lot. I'm here to buy, not sell. There are a few high clouds and the air is a little brisk.

  I walk into the indoor market and grab a donut and coffee. Step back outside and wander the flea. I run into Mark, a dealer from Staten Island. We've known each other for a long time. Average height, stocky with thinning hair. I like him.

  His table has an assortment of items from a clean out from his neck of the woods. Clean outs are a superb method of acquiring new stock. This stuff looks like it hasn't seen the light of day for over a century.

  "Yeah, yeah," he says, "This guy lived into his nineties, and get this, he lived in his parents house his whole life. This stuff has some age."

  No kidding. Most of it was just stuff, old stuff, but stuff nonetheless. One thing, however, did catch my eye.

  "Mark, how much for the pocket watch?"

  It was a Swiss 14K gold minute repeater chronograph with a moonphase calendar, circa 1890. It had a white enamel dial, black marking for indicating day, date and month along with a moon phase aperture. The hands were gold and blue steel. This particular watch chimes with different tones to designate minutes, quarter hours and hours. Nice loud and clear chimes. I had only seen one other. The full retail on this is $9,500. Beautiful.

  He says, "It's worth close to ten g's."

  "I know. What do you have to get for it?"

  "I’ll do seven."

  Seven was fair, but I wanted fairer. "Five grand."

  "Sixty-five hundred."

  "Six, cash."

  Mark smiles, "Deal."

  I tell Mark that my runner will be here around eight o'clock. “Tell TJ the details, he'll pick it up.”

  "Picker, one more thing. Tommy Gunn has something to sell. He's asking after you."

  So, I go looking for Tommy.

  I walk up and down the aisles, just looking. Columbus is divided into three outdoor sections. One is a squared lot that sells only new merchandise. The next one is a squared section that deals in anything old. This includes anything from clothes and household items to collectibles and antiques. The third section is a row of dealers that runs along the building and handles the overflow from the 'old' section.

  It was at the very last table, removed from just about everything, that I find Tommy and his brother, Machine, set up.

  Tommy greets me with an effusive smile and a "How the hell are ya Pick?"

  We shake hands and I ask, "Got
something to show me Tommy?"

  "Sure, sure, you're going to love this. It's in the back of my van. Come, take a look."

  Of course, I was born yesterday. I walk over to the back of the van, lean into the rear to get a better view. Guess what? The lights go out. My lights.

  Son of a bitch wacked me upside of my head.

  By this point in the story, Kelly and I had moved into the living room downstairs. We started on our second cups of coffee.

  Over the next few minutes I tell Kelly the rest of the tale, about how the next thing that happens is waking up in a dumpster in Manhattan. I fill her in on what I managed to buy that day, the call to TJ and Doo-Wop's demise.

  The last I tell her is about my visit to South Philly that evening and Tommy G's death.

  She looks at me with those bright green eyes and is incredulous when she says, "You let them kill that poor bastard on the say so of a ghost!"

  "Not just any ghost" I say, "Uncle Moe."

  Now, I have to tell you, PKAL has always had trouble with this ghost thing.

  Moses Aronson, my Uncle Moe, was my father's father's brother. So actually, he's my Great Uncle. Got that? Here's the interesting bit, he has been dead for nearly thirty years.

  Moe has taken an active part in my upbringing since I was six. My mother died young and I never knew my father. The convincing part of this whole ghost argument is that Moe knows things that I can't possibly know. Take that for what it’s worth.

  At that very moment, just as I finished bringing Kelly up to date, the front door swings open. Two men walk in. Their right arms are extended and holding guns. Both are pointed directly at my chest.

  January 1975 Philadelphia

  Vedi! le fosche notturne spoglie

  de' cieli sveste l'immensa vôlta:

  sembra una vedova che alfin si toglie

  i bruni panni ond'era involta.

  All'opra, all'opra!

  Dagli.

  Martella.

  Chi del gitano i giorni abbella?

  Chi del gitano i giorni abbella,

  chi? chi i giorni abbella?

  Chi del gitano i giorni abbella?

  La zingarella! -Waiter singing in the background...

  "Let me see if I understand you correctly, Mr. Jones. You wish to commission not one, but two identical copies of Van Gogh's 'Mountains at Saint-Rémy'. More to the point, these painting are to be indistinguishable from the original. Do I have that right?"

  "Absolutely. And, please, call me Simon."

  The two men were dining at 13th and Dickinson Streets in South Philadelphia.

  "Simon, if I may ask, why me?"

  "Well, Mr. DeAngelo, you come highly recommended."

  Since 1933, the Victor Cafe has served traditional Italian fare along with performances from live opera singers; the waiters.

  Anthony DeAngelo took a sip of his Chianti. "Simon, first of all, I'm flattered. However, let's take a moment to examine the obstacles which have to be overcome to accomplish... this project."

  "By all means."

  "To start with, acquiring the necessary materials from Van Gogh's time period. Canvases, frames, brushes. Then whatever paint that he used, we almost would have to make that from scratch."

  Simon twirled some pasta onto his fork, lifted his head, looked at his guest, "So far, no problems."

  "I'm just getting started. I need to see the painting, itself, taken apart. I'll need color photographs, I should take those myself."

  "I believe that can be arranged."

  "And, last but not least, I have a small but very real problem with the FBIs Art Crime Unit."

  Simon pushed his plate aside and ordered Sambuca and coffee for them both. "Ah, yes, so I've heard. Anthony, I won't lie to you. Of course there is an element of risk. I can do everything possible to minimize the risk, nonetheless it exists. On the other hand, you will be very well compensated."

  "What are we talking about?"

  "You name your own price. If I can do it, I will. If I can't, well, I had the opportunity to make a new friend. No haggling. Name your figure and we'll take it from there."

  Anthony DeAngelo sat there thinking about his wife, their growing family and the repercussions about moving forward with this project. He polished off the Sambuca and sipped his coffee. This Simon Jones, whom he had just met only ninety minutes ago also came highly recommended. ‘Someone to be trusted’ his contact had said. And besides, for no concrete reason, Anthony liked him.

  Anthony named a figure and added, "If that's agreeable, then we can move ahead."

  Simon Jones stood and shook his hand. "We'll be in touch."

  I explain my Uncle to Penny Lane

  We had been involved with each other for about a year when Kelly 'Don't call me Penny Lane' said to me, "There's been something that I've been meaning to talk to you about."

  I'm thinking, 'Here it comes,' and actually say, "Oh, shit."

  "No, no, nothing like that. I'm just curious, and it makes no real difference to me, really, it doesn't. I'm just wondering, why do you talk to yourself all the time? I mean, is it just an idiosyncrasy, you know, some personal quirky habit? Or, I'm wondering, are you schizophrenic? Is there a history of mental illness in your family? I'm just wondering, you know. Not really concerned."

  At this point she has a shit eating grin on her face. Kind of egging me on.

  "Honestly, I don't know if there is any mental illness in my family. I never knew them. My mother died when I was very young and my father was never in the picture. Your guess is as good as mine. What do you think?"

  She comes back with, "No, seriously, why do you always talk to yourself. I mean, most people do, sometimes. But with you, really Pick, it's a lot. No kidding, I've never seen anything like it."

  I take a deep breath. Let it out. I take a moment to consider. I really like this girl. I could see myself spending a long time with her. Even the rest of our lives. Best to just come out and tell her the truth.

  "I’m talking to Moses Aronson. My Uncle Moe."

  Moses Aronson was born somewhere around the turn of the century in Ireland.

  He was born into a family that belonged to the Jewish community. The history of Jews in Ireland goes back about a thousand years. Their numbers have always been small, as recently as 2006 there were less than two thousand Jews in the Republic of Ireland. The Jewish community there is well established and fairly well accepted.

  Kelly looked at me funny, squinted her eyes and said, "You're kidding, right?"

  "No. Not at all. My mother died when I was very young. Maybe four or five years old. My father was a married man that she had a brief affair with. His name was Simon. Anyway, Si was very fond of my mother. And, he was very close to his Uncle Moe.

  "What he did was, Si that is, is ask his Uncle Moe to come to the states to kind of look after me and my mother. Well, she becomes ill unexpectedly and asks Moses to look after me when she is gone. She's getting pretty upset at this point and gets him to swear that no matter what, that he, Moses, will do everything he can to look after her baby boy. That's me."

  Moses Aronson spent the better part of twenty years in the service. He had this thing when he was a young man about seeing the world. The military provided him just that opportunity. When he gets out he returns to his first love, antiques. Moe Aronson then devoted his time to traveling the world and hustling antiques.

  I continue, "For some reason that eludes explanation, he was extremely fond of his nephew, Simon. Maybe it was because he himself never married or had any children. Regardless. Si asks him to go to America and look after his illegitimate family. Which is exactly what he does.

  "Here's the kicker. Not long after that, when I'm six years old, Uncle Moe goes and dies. Nothing surprising, he's a very old man at this point. What is surprising is his commitment. He made a promise to my mother and it was so strong that he stuck around to keep it. It was Uncle Moe that taught me the antiques trade. No kidding."

  Kelly is looki
ng at me in complete disbelief. If you looked exasperated up in the dictionary at that moment you would find her picture right there.

  "Hell, don't look at me like that. You wanted to know and now you do."

  She lets out this huge breath. "You’re shittin’ me. Honest to God, I've never heard such a pile of..." You know, she went on like that for fifteen minutes without coming up for a breath of air.

  "Okay," I tell her, "I'll just have to prove it to you."