by Scott Soloff
We take the Schuylkill Expressway to South Philly.
While driving, Kelly looks over and says, "So, your father gave you the Van Gogh."
"Yep."
"It's gotta be worth, what, like forty million."
The most recent auction for a Van Gogh is from 1987. It tripled the previous high record price that was established only two years prior. The reason that this sale is so important is that it set a record for a modern painting, in this instance one from 1888. Previous to this sale, record prices had always been held by 'old master paintings'.
"Well," I said, "Considering that it's not the 'Sunflower' painting, I'd say somewhere north of forty."
I risked a glance over. Kelly scrunched up her nose while processing this information. She came back with, "And, you didn't sell it?"
"No, what for?" I paused to get my thoughts in order. "It's true that when my father left it to me that I was still struggling to make it in the antique's business. But it's not like I was starving to death. I realize that this sounds silly, but it kind of has sentimental value. It's one of the things that my father left me."
At this point we were pass Boathouse Row, the houses outlined with lights and all lit up. Very cool.
"What else did he leave you?"
"The Morgan. Apparently he had a thing for Morgans. So does Connor. Somehow he got it in head that I would too. Guess he was right. This is my favorite car of all time."
There's a little mom and pop restaurant at the corner of 17th and Dickerson. Kato leaped from the car. At the front door I told him to wait. Once inside I told 'Mom', I never knew her actual name, "Kato's pulled guard duty". She hustled into the kitchen for something to feed the poor beast.
The owner, 'Pop', came over to the table with a bottle of wine. Then a young waiter, white shirt; black tie and white apron brought some appetizers and placed them before us. We hadn't ordered anything.
Kelly let out a small chuckle. "How long have you been coming here?"
"About twenty years, give or take."
"Sweetheart..."
Oh, no. Here it comes!
"I've been offered a job to curate an exhibition in Paris."
Dinner had arrived. I spun the Spaghetti Aglio Et Olio on my fork and popped it into my mouth. Took a sip of wine. "When?"
Kelly cut a piece of her Eggplant Parmigiana and fed it me. Melted in my mouth. "Next week, if I accept."
"And, how long will you be gone?" The garlic bread was sumptuous.
"Six months, maybe a year."
I didn't say anything. Just finished my dinner and polished off the wine.
The nice young waiter brought over a Cannoli, two Cappuccinos and a couple of forks. I had to ask, "What did you tell them."
She stuck out her lower lip. Very cute. "That I would have to think about it."
I thought about this for all of two or three minutes. Finally, I said, "Let me know what you decide."
Got up, pulled out her chair. There was no bill. Dropped two twenties on the table for the kid, thanked Mom and Pop for a wonderful dinner and held the door for Kelly.
This is what I saw when we got outside. Two bowls on the ground, one with water and the other one empty. Kato's dinner. A very large man with a pot belly wearing a powder blue running suit, sneakers, a heavy gold chain around his neck and a diamond pinky ring.
His back was against the restaurant wall, palms flat touching the bricks, practically standing on his tippy-toes. Kato's mouth was open, teeth bared and positioned right on this guy's nuts. Kato was saying "Grrr."
I reached into my coat pocket and retrieved a cigar. Bit the end off, stuck it in my mouth and lit the damn thing. After a couple of puffs I look over and ask this guy, "What can I do for you?"
His response, "Um, um, um..."
"Don't be frightened, he won't hurt you unless you do something stupid."
The big oaf stuttered, "Uncle Carmine requests that you stop in tomorrow, around lunch if it is not too inconvenient."
"Not a problem. Please tell Uncle Carmine that I will be there at noon."
"Mr. Picker, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure, pal."
"How did your dog know to stop me?"
"Simple, your gun. He hates guns."
"But, but, but," more stuttering, "my gun's under my jacket. How did he know?"
"That I don't know bub. He just does."
We got back into the car and headed over to see Doo Wop's nephew, Joey Amato.
May 1976 Paris
"Bring me up to date."
The two men were enjoying lunch on the Champ de Mars at the cultural icon; La Tour Eiffel. Named after the man who designed and built the tower, Gustave Eiffel.
"Quite simple, Monsieur Engelond. The project progresses on schedule."
They were seated fifty-seven meters above the ground.
"And how do we know this, precisely?" Engelond is large, impatient and overbearing.
An additional meter for the height of the kitchen stove and hence the name of the restaurant; 58 Tour Eiffel.
"Our people have been inside. Jones has set up a retail store. The second floor is a studio. Elaborate security including a 38 cubic foot commercial quality fireproof jewelry safe."
It was late spring. Bright, clear sky with temperatures in the high sixties.
"How far along is the painting?"
Engelond was uneasy about this project. Under normal conditions he would have arranged, at the minimum, three levels of insulation between himself and those involved. There, was however, an emotional element here. He had wanted to own this painting for years. Now it was within his reach. Nothing would interfere. Engelond would be on top of this operation every step of the way. The only acceptable outcome was success.
"Honnêtement, it is impossible to tell. To my eye, perhaps three-quarters. The Italian's work is genius, maybe bordering on the supernatural. I can come up with no explanation for how well he duplicates the original."
"How does Jones plan to transport the painting?”
"Monsieur Jones has bought property in the Geneva business district. It is to be an art gallery. The interior is being completed as we speak. Dozens of painting have been ordered from all over Europe. À toutes fins pratiques, the operation will appear to be legitimate. When the time comes, your painting will be shipped to the gallery with six or more other works of art. Quite ingénieux, really."
"How do you suppose that he will switch the copy for the original?"
"Aucune idée! I can only say with certitude that no one will suspect. As far as anyone can tell, no crime will have been committed. This is Monsieur Jones' reputation. I have seen it with my own eyes."
"You're confident that he can pull this off?"
"Oui."
"Good. Very good. You have done well. One last small detail. When this over, I believe that we will no longer need the Italian or Mr. Jones."
"Si vous souhaitez, pourquoi if I may ask?"
"Let's say loose ends. Besides, as for Jones, I don't care for his kind."
"Peux j'assiste toute autre chose?"
"That's it for now."
"Dans ce cas, we shall speak soon, Monsieur Engelond."
"Good day, Monsieur LaVache."
There’s always a body
Joey Amato's apartment was on Snyder between 9th and 10th. It was a third floor walkup. Kelly and I stood outside the apartment door. Kato waited in the car.
I knocked once. The door opened a quarter of an inch.
"This can't be good." I pushed the door open with my foot and turned the light on with my elbow. The apartment had a smell that just should not have been there.
Kelly followed me in. "Don't touch anything," I told her. Our eyes scanned the room. She whispered, "Over there."
Sitting in a reclining chair placed in front of the television was the late Joey Amato with a bullet hole directly behind his right ear.
Call the police. Don't call the police. I walk over to the window and pull the dr
apes back. This is South Philly, home of the original town watch. Perhaps as many as twenty sets of eyes saw us enter the apartment, saw the car, already copied down the license tag.
Doesn't matter. No one will call the cops. Why? Because they also saw who murdered Joey. Time to skedaddle.
Pulling away from the curb Kelly suggests that I drop her off at home. She has an apartment on the Delaware down at Penn's Landing. Although I'm not thrilled with the idea, that's exactly what I do.
Before she gets out of the car, she leans over and kisses me right behind my left ear. "I'm sorry Pick. Call you tomorrow."
And she was gone.
"What's ya goin' to do, lad?" I'm heading back to my place on the East River Drive. Moe suddenly appears in the passenger seat.
"Don't know, Uncle." I assume that he's referring to me and Kelly. "I really don't."
"Far be it for me to tell you what to do, boyo."
"Why would you start now?" I long since learned that sarcasm is completely lost on an apparition.
Back at the house I sat down at the computer. There was a post on the anonymous site from Connor. 'Mission accomplished'. The post also included a link to an article in today's London's Times.
The article began as follows:
London, April 6, 2012 Hint of Previously Unknown Vermeer, Respected art historian, James Thomas Middleton has just published a paper at Oxford University indicating the existence of a previously unknown Vermeer. Middleton, a tenured professor and published author, unearthed documents hundreds of years old that point to an undocumented painting done at the hands of the famous 17th century Dutch artist, Johannes Vermeer.
Middleton is quoted as saying, "The evidence for an undiscovered Vermeer work is rock solid. I shall devote my time and energy in an effort to follow this trail and attempt to locate this missing work of art".
The article goes on to provide some background information on the great artist and speculates about what a newly turned-up masterpiece would fetch on the open market.
Personally, I am not familiar with all of the particulars on how Connor managed to accomplish this piece of legerdemain. I have managed to piece together the following from conversations with my brother. To the best of my knowledge this is what occurred:
Connor managed to be visiting me in the States about the same time that Doo Wop and I were planning his newly conceived retirement program. When the details of this enterprise were confided to my brother, he eagerly offered to supply any assistance that he could provide.
Initially, on his return to Europe, Connor made several visits to Holland. It was there that he frequented antique shops, junk stores, flea markets and auctions. His initial efforts were directed to finding canvases, paint brushes, frames and such that were roughly three hundred years old.
As time passed, he became intrigued with the idea of creating a rock solid provenance for this newly created work of art. We began to have a conversation across the Atlantic for several months until he mapped out a convincing history for the painting. Once accomplished, he contrived a series of events for the painting's documentation to unfold.
Step one of the plan was to enlist the aid of a noted art researcher and historian. After deep background checks on several notable prospects, he settled on James Middleton. Connor arranged a meeting at Middleton's University office, ostensibly to hire him for research for a wealthy art collector.
On the appointed afternoon, my brother shows up at the professor's office. Before presenting the particulars of our offer, Connor, being the con man that he is, starts out dangling a very attractive carrot.
"Professor Middleton, am I to understand that your youngest daughter suffers from a debilitating condition."
"Yes, but how did you know?"
"Well, sir, my client is prepared to invest a great deal of money for the research into his family's art collection. It's only natural to perform some background inquiries beforehand. Don't you agree?"
"Yes, yes, I suppose. I just never stopped to think about it. What is it exactly that you require?"
Connor ignored the last question. "And how is your daughter's health at the moment, if I may ask?" I can picture him with his hands folded, index fingers touching and poised under his lips. Looking sincere.
James Middleton sighs deeply. "If you must know, not very well. Up to this point, conventional treatments have not proven to be successful."
CJ: With a sad smile, "And..."
Middleton: "And it appears that there is an experimental treatment which could possibly work. The problem is that the health system refuses to pay for experimental treatments."
CJ: "How much money are we talking about?"
Middleton: "Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds."
CJ: "What if I told you that my client is prepared to pay you precisely that amount, per year, in monthly installments for a two year period."
Middleton lets out a low nervous laugh. "Who would I have to kill?"
Connor proceeds to lay out the plan. Keep in mind, Middleton only hears about the portion of the plan that involves him. I don't have to tell you that this established and respected Oxford professor was not a happy camper.
Time to sweeten the pot. "Professor, two quick things. Aside from this small favor that we're requesting, the research work that I mentioned is genuine. You will be employed for two years at the numbers quoted and you can work at your own pace. This work does not have to interfere with your present responsibilities.
Also, when the two years are up, you will receive an additional quarter of a million pounds, deposited in your name in any bank of your choosing, anywhere in the world. You will receive this bonus regardless of the success or failure of our plan, assuming of course that you part is carried off without a hitch."
At this point, like all good salesman, Connor probably shut his mouth. In reality, this deal was a fait accompli. But, as you already know, the Brits are sticklers for appearances.
Middleton: "I'll have to think it over."
CJ: "Take all the time that you want, Professor."
Early the next morning the professor called. He was in.
June 1976 London
"They're planning on killing you."
Jean Pierre had made the trip from Paris for this meeting.
"I'm not surprised."
They were sitting in the library of Simon's London townhouse. Outside was overcast with low clouds; a gentle rain was falling; the temperature 80 degrees.
"And the Italiano, l'artiste." JP's delivery of the news was calm; matter of fact. His tone never divulged the seriousness of the situation.
Connor was playing with wooden trains on the Persian carpet.
"That's unfortunate."
Simon understood that the operation was spiraling towards the finale. In the end, only one of the players could triumph.
"They broke into the studio." Jean Pierre removed a video tape from his attaché. He stood up; placed it into the machine; pressed play.
The entire building on Antique Row was wired with state of the art security apparatus; including hidden surveillance cameras. On the screen two men methodically searched Anthony's studio unaware of being taped.
Simon offered the humidor to Jean Pierre. They lit their Cuban cigars; sat back in their wing chairs and watched the screen.
"I see that Mr. Brown managed to compromise the safe." The oversized jewelry safe contained the copy that Anthony was working on. Brown also discovered the museum's 8"x10" color photos of the original tucked in the safe drawer.
"Simon, where's Van Gogh's painting?"
"Watch." The camera followed the two intruders around the studio. "There. Under the table with all the other canvases."
"Mon ami, you left a hundred million dollar work of art out in the open?"
Simon cracked a smile. "Hidden in plain sight."
The two men on the screen recorded everything in the room with a camera. They took great pains to ensure that the contents of the room appear undisturbed
.
"Brown n'est pas son nom réel."
"I figured as much. Does he do Engelond's dirty work?"
"Oui. Brown is the only one that he confiances complètement."
Simon sat, closed his eyes and sat perfectly still. After a few minutes he sat up and looked directly at JP.
