#37 (A Picker Mystery)

by Scott Soloff

  "Sure. And just how do you plan to do that?"

  I look around the room. Kato's yellow tennis ball is on the floor. "Simple. Take this ball. I'll step outside. You hide the ball. Anywhere, anywhere in the house that you like."

  You're not going to believe this. This shit goes on for twenty minutes. Kelly, DCMPL, hides the ball, comes to front door to call me in, I go straight to where the ball is hidden. We do this same thing over and over until she has hidden the ball like twenty or thirty times.

  And I don't miss once. Not one single time.

  "How the hell are you doing that? It's a magic trick, right? I know you do magic, I've seen you with a deck of cards. You're pretty good. You really are..."

  Son of bitch, she won't let it go. "No, sweetheart, it's not a trick. It's my Uncle. You hide the ball, he sees where you put it and he tells me. It's that simple."

  "I know!" She's onto something else. Something she can sink her mind into, a concept that fits into her mental constructs. "You're telepathic. You come back into the house and read my mind. That's it."

  "You know", I say, "That is a possible explanation. And, to be perfectly honest, its one that I've considered. Except for one little thing. Uncle Moe knows things that I can't possibly know. He tells me things when there are no other people around for me to read their minds.

  "Here, I'll tell you what..." I pick up a tablet and pen from the kitchen table. I turn my back to Kelly and whisper something. The wait is about three minutes. I take a moment to listen and write something on the top sheet, rip it off and fold in half.

  I hand the folded paper to her.

  "Have you looked at the computer today?"

  She says, "You know I haven't. We've been together since I woke up."

  "Well, I've been up before you, but I haven't logged on yet. Turn on the computer and go to the New York Times site."

  Kelly logs on and types 'New York Times' into the Google search bar.

  I say, "Read me the headline."

  "Blast Injures U.S. Soldiers as Riots Rage in Afghanistan."

  "Okay", I tell her, "Open the paper and read what I wrote."

  Her eyes go all wide. "Son of a bitch”, she says. “Blast Injures U.S. Soldiers as Riots Rage in Afghanistan'.”

  Her next question is, “Can anyone else see this Uncle Moe of yours?"

  "Yeah, one person."

  "Who?"

  "You'll find out, all in good time."

  And that was that, as least for the time being. At that point, her last remark on the subject was, "That's pretty impressive, but I'm not convinced!"

  She wasn't convinced at all, at least not for another several months. Then one day, we're walking past some antique shops in Lambertville. I'm closest to the curb side, she's nearer the stores. We're talking about something or another, I don't recall what.

  Now remember, it's just the two of us.

  She turns her head to the right. Looks into the window of a store. Kelly sees the reflection of a bear of a man. Tall, wide, with white hair and white beard. This reflection is walking right along side of us. From store to store, window to window.

  Kelly’s head starts to gyrate, right left, right left. She looks at the reflection in the windows. She turns her head back to us.

  On the sidewalk, it’s just the two of us. In the windows, it’s us and the bear.

  Kelly takes a deep breath, lets it out and says, "I don't fucking believe it!" Which is kind of weird because she doesn't curse much.

  "Huh?"

  "Nothing", she says.

  You know what. She never gave me a hard time about Uncle Moe again.

  February 1975 New York City

  Simon took a sip of his borscht.

  "How kind of you to join me for lunch."

  "I can assure you, the pleasure is entirely mine." Alexander Price Koch was enjoying his buckwheat blinis with sour cream, chopped boiled eggs, onion, parsley topped with caviar. "It's a nice change of pace to get out of the office from time to time."

  For almost fifty years The Russian Tea Room has been a popular location for actors, writers, politicians and businessmen to discuss their deals. The waiter cleared the appetizers.

  Two weeks prior to this meeting Jean Pierre had forwarded a communiqué indicating top Guggenheim Museum personnel that were the most vulnerable. Simon chose Koch as the most pliable.

  The waiter delivered their entrees: a red caviar omelette with sour cream, fine herbs and Rösti potatoes for Simon and Boeuf à la Stroganoff for Koch.

  The two men made small talk. Simon talked about international finance and his son Connor. Koch lovingly spoke of his three grown children, two boys at university and a daughter about to graduate high school.

  When the dishes were cleared they ordered two Moscow Mules; a blend of vodka, ginger puree, lime juice and bitters along with black coffee. Simon offered Price, as he liked to be called, a Cuban cigar.

  "Very nice, Simon. Thoroughly enjoyable. But I must ask, why me? I understand that you wish to make a donation to the museum. I'm merely one of several Deputy Directors."

  "Price, that's not entirely true. You're also the Chief Curator."

  "I don't understand. I thought that you wished to make a donation. Is that not correct?"

  "Yes, I wish to make a donation. A rather substantial one. However, not to the museum."

  Price folded his hands in front of him and dropped his head to his chest. "I apologize, Simon, I'm a little confused. Perhaps you would be so kind as to spell it out for me."

  A private investigation had yielded two helpful facts indicating that Alexander Price Koch was malleable. The first was that although he came from one of America's wealthiest families, APK himself suffered from a severe cash flow problem. This, in and of itself, was not enough to push him over the edge. The second item, the secret that Price held dear, was much more persuasive.

  "I want Montagnes à Saint-Rémy"

  Price got red in the face, nearly screamed "Are you out of your mind?" and stood to leave.

  Calmly, Simon took several photos from his pocket and passed them to Price.

  The look on Price's face can only be described as horror. He collapsed into his chair, all the wind taken from him.

  "You... you... you can't be serious. How did you get these? This will ruin me!" At this point Price was babbling, maybe about to lose control.

  The photographs were rather explicit. Price in a comprising position with a younger man. A much younger man.

  "Take a deep breath Price. Have a drink. It's not as bad as you think."

  After a few minutes Price sat upright in his chair, took a deep breath and said, "Okay. What do you mean by it's not that bad."

  Simon spent the next fifteen minutes going over what he needed from Price. As he listened, he managed to relax somewhat and regain some semblance of composure.

  "When the project is completed, successfully, you will receive ten million dollars in your name at any bank anywhere in the world."

  "And the pictures?"

  "You get all the pictures and the negatives. But, to be perfectly honest Price, and this is none of my business... the pictures are not your problem. Our investigator managed this in a very short period of time. Anyone wanting to put you in a difficult situation could easily do the same. Hey, look, Price, I've only met you two hours ago. You seem like a decent enough guy. Don't you think it would be wise to do something about this?"

  "Yeah, I've thought about it. I guess that I should get some help, you know, professional help. Listen Simon, I don't mean to impugn your integrity or anything..."

  "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 & 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. "He
y, 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."