by Scott Soloff
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 volta: 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-Remy'. 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 13 ^th 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 looking 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."
"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 communique 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 Rosti potatoes for Simon and Boeuf a 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 a Saint-Remy"
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…"
