by Scott Soloff
Last evening Emily surprised Simon by inviting him to dinner.
"Are all American women so forward?"
"Do all Brits talk funny?" She actually giggled. They made arrangements to meet when she was done working.
One of the bell hops alerted Simon to the paintings arrival. He directed him to have it delivered to his room, finished the coffee and went up to examine the faux Lautrec.
He unwrapped the picture and set it on a chair. Stood back, perhaps ten feet, and stared at the painting. Last evening, when Emily quoted a figure of thirty-five hundred dollars, he thought that was a little rich. Of course, he bought it anyway. Now that he had the chance to look at it more closely the conclusion was that it was worth every penny. It struck him odd, once again, that the world is such a small place. What were the odds that he would stumble across a work of art done by the very same artist commissioned to paint his fake?
After writing a check and making arrangements to have it delivered, Simon and Emily discovered that they both enjoyed Italian food. He arranged to pick her up after work.
Simon poured Emily some wine while they perused the menu. He was a little surprised to his reaction while sitting across from this woman. Nervous? He seemed to recall being nervous once, when was that, fifteen?
Emily looked up from the menu. "So, Simon, what do you do for a living?"
"I'm a high class con man." Simon was more than a little shocked at his candor.
Being unfamiliar with the city, earlier Simon had asked the hotel concierge for a recommendation. He settled on Dante amp; Luigi’s, one of the oldest existing Italian restaurants in the United States.
Emily smiled ever so slightly. "And exactly what does that involve?"
Simon surprised himself. He spent the next hour and a half telling Emily his life's story. His family moving from Ireland to England while still a boy; being a grifter; moving up the ranks from money laundering for the Russian mob to creating tax shelters for the wealthy and finally changing his name from Aronson to Jones to hide being a Jew. With no hesitation he also told her about Elisabeth and Connor.
"Is that so?” was her only response. Emily went on eating as though Simon had only commented on the weather.
Although he didn't understand why, Simon found himself becoming increasingly uneasy. "Your turn," he said.
Emily, as it turned out, had actually been a hippie. University of California, Berkeley; active participant in multiple anti-war and civil rights protests; living in communes; traveling in VW buses; indulging in marijuana and mushrooms and briefly following the Dead.
"Mom and Dad were both professionals. Mom a university professor; Dad a doctor. Both of them gone. I don't really have any family."
Simon could see that talking about this made Emily uncomfortable. "And the artwork, how did you become involved with that?"
Here she perked up. "I backed into it. Some of the people at the commune made their money by selling at swap meets and flea markets. I used to go along to help. Found out that I have an affinity for art. So, I started buying and selling. I figured out that if I was going to be serious about it that I should go back to school. Got my Masters in art history. Been doing it ever since."
Simon stood there looking at the painting; his mind was elsewhere. Emily baffled him. The best thing, he decided, was to get back to work. A few packages had arrived from Europe.
Two weeks earlier he had rented a building on Pine Street between 9th and 10th Streets. He called the front desk, requested a bell hop and had the packages delivered to his rented car in the hotel garage.
The first floor of the building was set up as a store on Historic Antique Row. Simon went to Freeman's Auction, filled a truck with expensive stock and was immediately in business. To his surprise the shop was a success and would be in the black in record time.
The purpose of the business was to obfuscate the scam. Simon set the second floor up as a studio for Anthony. For Doo Wop's peace of mind, and his own, there was access to the studio through the alley behind the building. Simon wanted to do everything within reason to eliminate ties between artist and painting. No incriminating materials would be found at Anthony's home studio; he could come and go as he pleased, unseen.
Simon unwrapped the packages at the second floor studio. Uncle Moe had been in charge of locating and purchasing the vintage materials necessary to duplicate a late 19th century painting. What he had before him were several canvases from the period; brushes; materials to make brushes, if necessary; two frames; some wood and nails.
The second package contained hundreds of tubes of paint. They were labeled in small black letters. The enclosed inventory listed the following colors: silver white zinc white lemon chrome yellow no. two chrome yellow vermilion chrome yellow no. three chrome yellow geranium carmine prussian blue very light cinnabar green orange lead emerald green veronese green
Jean Pierre had gone to great lengths hiring a German chemist to duplicate Van Gogh's palette. The chemical composition of these oil paints were virtually identical to those used by Vincent himself.
It occurred to Simon that there was a chance; however slight, that the Bureau still monitored Anthony's life. With that in mind, he walked down to the corner pharmacy. In the rear corner sat a telephone booth. Dialed a number in his little black book.
"I'm sorry, Anthony's not home. This is his wife. May I take a message?"
"Please tell Mr. DeAngelo that his order is ready."
I deal with detectives
"Mr. Picker, there are some men here inquiring for you." Mrs. Murphy appeared slightly nervous.
"Who are they?"
"The police, dear. Shall I show them in?"
"Yes, ma'am. Don't worry, I'm sure it's nothing serious."
Three men filed into the kitchen. The first was wearing a dark suit. Early thirties, broad shoulders and a block for a head. The other two were uniformed cops.
"Mr. Picker, stand up and put your hands behind your back."
I looked up from my coffee and cracked an unpleasant smile. "I don't think so. What can I do for you Detective?"
"Sir, you will stand up now and accompany us to the station." Suit slid his suit coat back and placed his hand on his gun. Mistake.
"Grrrr", was Kato's response. I'm not exactly sure what made that dog so threatening. He was actually lying on the floor and merely growled under his breath.
Suit took a step back. "Mr. Picker, I strongly suggest that you tell that dog to back off or…"
"Or what?" I had enough. "Detective, I doubt that you've noticed, but not only is there this German Sheppard peacefully lying here, but there are two one hundred and twenty-five pound Rotties directly behind those nice officers."
In unison, all three men turned their heads. Sitting nice and quietly were Zeus and Zena. The Rottweilers belonged to my landlord, Nathan Burke.
"Detective, Detective what, exactly?"
"It's Williams. Look, Picker, I suggest…"
"Detective Williams, I apologize for interrupting you but I feel obligated to tell you that if that gun clears your holster that you'll be dead in less than sixty seconds. You see, I hate guns. The only reason to draw one is to shoot someone. It is precisely for that reason that I trained these fine animals to literally go for the juggler vain whenever someone pulls a gun on me or their owner. And, just for your edification, there is no command to stop."
I stood up and looked him straight in the eye. "Now, sir, what's it going to be?"
Williams took his right hand off the gun. Closed his coat. He took a step towards me. Mistake.
"Grrrrr." I don't have to tell you, do I?
Fortunately, at that exact moment, a fourth man strolled into the kitchen. "Williams, get the fuck out of here. Now! Officers, you may go too. I'll take care of this."
Number four was a handsome man in his fifties. Average height, dark hair with an erect posture. He introduced himself as Detective McKee. Ignatius McKee.
"Call me Mac", he said.
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br /> "Picker”, and we shook hands.
"Sorry about Williams. He's not a bad sort, just not too bright. Which is even more the reason you should be careful. Stupid and a gun is a dangerous situation."
"Well, I don't have a gun and I can be pretty dangerous myself."
"Yeah, I noticed." He head swiveled on his neck. Glanced at K and then at the Rotties. “Would they really have, you know, killed them?”
“Couldn’t stop them if I wanted to.”
Mac shook his head and grinned. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
I introduced Detective Ignatius "Mac" McKee to Kelly and Mrs. Murphy and invited him to breakfast. He graciously accepted. He asked me about the incident at my place and I filled him in. The only thing that I left out was the motivation for the intrusion.
"So," he asks, "You can think of no reason why those two gentlemen came into your home brandishing guns?"
He really did say 'brandishing'. "No, the only thing that I can tell you is that they were looking for a painting. I have plenty of those and suggested that they take their pick. One of them searched the house while the other covered us with the gun. But, to be perfectly honest with you, I have no idea what they wanted."
Mac looked at me skeptically. "Okay. That's that then. Here's my card and if you remember anything else give me a call."
He thanked us for breakfast and rose from his chair. I have to say that if this was a version of good cop and bad cop that these guys were doing it very well.
"Mac, one more thing before you go. Walk with me back to the house."
Walking out the kitchen door I said, "Kato, come," and I heard the beast get up and follow me out.
"Some dog you have there."
We walked across the grounds and in the front door. In the living area I opened the draw to the desk and pulled out a small white envelope. Handed it to the Detective.
He opened it and removed two box seat tickets to the next Phillies game. "What's this for? Bribing an officer of the law?"
"Just want to express my gratitude for the fine work of the local police department. Enjoy the game."
"Thanks, I will."
Detective McKee was halfway out the door. "Oh, Mac, there is just one small favor…"
"What's that?"
"I'd like to know who those two guys are when you find out, if it's not too much trouble."
He frowned. "You know that I can't tell you their names."
"Not their names," I replied, "I want to know who they are."
"Sure, not a problem. Try to stay out of trouble. I'll be in touch." And, he was gone.
May 1975 Switzerland
"I'm pleased that we have this opportunity to meet." Karl was a large man with an aristocratic bearing. Round head, silver hair and cold blue eyes.
Simon looked out the wall-to-ceiling window. He could see the Piz Bernina, the Eastern Alps, south of the town; St. Moritz.
Jean Pierre did some research after "Mr. Smith" set up this meeting. Karl Terenz Engelond, Sr. was a German industrialist with fingers in a great many pies.
"I've been looking forward to this myself." Simon's smile had no warmth to it whatsoever.
"Well, I want you to know that all of your terms are quite suitable, almost. I have one small question. I believe that I understand, but if you would be so kind as to clarify." Engelond spoke perfect English wish a precise, clipped accent. "Explain what you mean by 'contingency contract'."
Last week, Simon flew home to spend some time with Elisabeth and Connor. His entire career had been built around living a double life. It had never been a problem before. A new development had complicated matters beyond his comfort zone. Emily was pregnant.
"Quite simple, really. I'm committed to completing this project. However, everything relies on two principle players; the artist and the inside man. If, for any reason whatsoever, one of them becomes unavailable; we stop. Any monies remaining from your initial investment are returned. And hopefully, we part on good terms."
Simon took in the entire room. Jean Pierre's dossier on Engelond listed information about his family; a wife and young son. Apparently they were still together. But from what he could see, there was no evidence of them at the chalet. Karl was alone here; no family, no associates and most important, no bodyguards. The only precaution taken was a cursory pat down when he arrived.
"Hypothetically, what if I found that unacceptable?"
Simon removed a cigar from his pocket; rolled it in his mouth and looked directly into this man's eyes. "Mr. Engelond, you hired me for a reason. I offered your Mr. Smith the names of other men fully capable of performing this job. If I'm not mistaken, you chose me for one simple reason — my jobs are undetectable. There is no such thing as a perfect crime; however, if the parties involved do not know one has been committed, well, then there is no crime to investigate. If the original players have to be replaced, the risk of detection rises to unacceptable levels."
The living area was large; perhaps 25' x 40', decorated with glass, chrome and leather. The walls were covered in expensive art from different periods. Engelond taste was obviously eclectic. The object that most interested Simon was the large crystal ashtray on the coffee table before him.
"You're referring to Mr. Koch specifically?"
Simon's brain went into high speed. Engelond was monitoring the operation. Was this a good thing or a bad thing? The answer arrived in a millisecond. Good thing. He didn't miss a beat… "Absolutely. If anything happens to Mr. Koch; if he has an accident, a stroke or even changes his mind… it doesn't matter. Too much exposure."
"And if he goes to the authorities?"
"We'll know about it. His office and home are tapped; plus he's under twenty four hour surveillance."
Engelond passed Simon a slim leather attache. "Twenty million in bearer bonds. Your thinking is sound and I accept your terms."
Bearer bonds are unregistered securities. There are no records kept of either ownership or eventual transactions. The practical application here is that whoever physically has possession of the bonds owns the instrument. Particularly helpful in instances where one wishes anonymity.
"Then we're in business." Simon stood and they shook hands. "The next time we meet, I'll have your painting."
Simon returned to the London the following morning.
We say goodbye
Monday was the funeral. Kelly and I walked into the church. There were at least a couple of hundred people there to remember our friend, Anthony DeAngelo, Sr. We took a pew directly behind the family.
Before I left the house I went into the stables. Selected a Doo Wop original oil painting and wrapped it in butcher paper. Hid it not-so-carefully in the closet of the master bedroom. Left the security system turned off. Turned the hidden cameras on. I told Mrs. Murphy that we would be gone most of the day and to keep Zena and Zeus indoors.
I took Kato with us.
The church was filled with family. There were uncles and aunts, cousins, nephews and nieces. Plenty of people from the neighborhood and close friends. TJ and the girlfriend of the month was seated with us. A lovely Chinese woman.
I recognized many of the people there, but not all. As a precaution, I had TJ set Jaw-long up across the street from the church with a digital camera. Later, Jaw would continue filming the crowd at the cemetery.
Millie DeAngelo and her sons, their wives and children sat in the front pew as a line of mourners shuffled passed and offered their condolences. You already know that Anthony, Jr. is the eldest. He was accompanied by his wife Angela and their two boys. Anthony's younger brothers were there as well. Michael, Alberto, Paulo and Giovanni. All have wives except for Giovanni, who is attending college in Boston.
I took to this opportunity to remember Doo Wop.
DW got his nickname from the fact that he would sing Doo Wop songs to himself in his studio while he painted.
Doo Wop is a style of music derived from both rhythm and blues and jazz. It originated in the larger cities of the e
ast coast. A Doo Wop group would typically consist of five members. This included a bass, a baritone, two tenors and a lead. And, the subject of the songs was love.
More specifically, Doo Wop music is a certain type of vocal group harmony. It combines various vocal parts, nonsense syllables, a very simple beat and may or may not be accompanied by instrumentation. It was especially popular in the 1950s and 1960s.
To this day a Philadelphia Doo Wop Festival is held annually which Anthony would attend every year.
The song that I most often heard him singing was "I Wonder Why" by Dion and the Belmonts.
As a young man, he demonstrated a brilliant talent as an artist. Initially, he was quite content to work on his craft and turn out paintings, improving as time progressed. While still in his twenties he had managed to become a world class artist.
But he became frustrated. Anthony and Millie married young and started a family. He struggled as an artist and while he achieved great critical acclaim, commercial success eluded him. Finally, desperate for security and stability for his young family, Anthony turned to making 'copies' of famous artists.
These were not copies in the usual sense. Instead of reproducing the works of famous artists, Anthony DW DeAngelo would study and practice the techniques of those artists. Then, and only when he had mastered a particular style, would he create a brand new picture in the style of a certain artist.
Wait, it gets even better. To complete the illusion of authenticity, a provenance for this new work of art would be fabricated. This 'provenance' could consist of any series of documents which would explain both the origin of the work and its history up to the present time. It would even explain, if just implicitly, why this work of art had remained hidden all of these years.
The piece de resistance would be to insert this newly manufactured, but aged, documentation into existing works residing in the archives of educational, cultural and religious institutions.
This entire process from creating works of art with old canvases, handmade pigments and brushes to cannily crafted and well placed documentation was designed to prevent any blow back.
