Moses tilted his huge head as a grin spread across his face. "I bought an estate in East Anglia. The guy that I made the deal with was a funny fellow, kind of scruffy, if you know what I mean. Knew an awful lot about antiques, I'll tell ya. The car was in the shed. Thought you might like it."
The Morgan sat parked at the curb in front of the townhouse. A '66 Plus 4 with Triumph engine; Zenith carbs; 4 speed trans; chrome wire wheels; leather bonnet strap; ash wood frame and Brooklands steering wheel. And of course, finished in that wonderful British green.
"Uncle Moe, like it? I love it. How much do you want for it?"
A family owned car company that has persevered since the 1920s manufacturing automobiles the way in which the Morgan family conceives that they should be and in the process, ignoring those that disagree.
"Tis a gift laddie. Drive it in the best of health."
Connor came toddling out the front door. Simon grabbed him around the waist and put him in the passenger seat. They went for a joy ride through the neighborhood.
Moe went into the kitchen to wait. Elisabeth put on some coffee. "Uncle Moe, I don't know what to do. I have to talk to somebody though. Perhaps you can help."
"I'll try my best lassie."
"There's something different about Simon. He's been preoccupied. I thought that I should wait until it passed. But it hasn't, what do you think?"
"Probably only business. I wouldn't be puttin' much stock into it."
"No. No, I don't think that it's business. Please don't say anything, but I think that there's another woman."
"I'd not be an expert, dear, but if you're right, well, sometimes men must be allowed their little indiscretions."
"Maybe you're right. I don't know, he's a good husband and God knows that he's a good father. He dotes on that boy. I'm not sure what to do."
"For the time being, maybe wait and see is the best policy."
"Please don't say anything, I feel so foolish."
Simon walked into the kitchen, Connor was squealing with joy. The men took their coffee into the sitting room.
"This Karl Engelond is trouble, I can smell it." Simon lit a fresh cigar; sipped his coffee.
"Aye, lad, he's a bad one. You'll be needing a contingency."
"He's got men watching the situation in the States."
"That's good, lad. Ye can use it to your advantage."
"The thought has crossed my mind. Even so, if this isn't handled properly it will end badly. Very badly."
"Well, son, there's your answer. There's only one thing that you can do."
"I know, Uncle. There is one thing that I absolutely have to do."
I get arrested
They put me in an interrogation room.
Two police officers brought me in. The booking sheet read as follows:
Last Name: Picker First Name: NFN DOB: 3/21/1976
Height: 6' Weight: 160 lbs
Hair: Blonde/Brown Eyes: Brown
The Sergeant had a difficult time with the 'No First Name' thing but eventually gave up. I tried to explain that my mother never got around to giving me one.
When the service ended the first thing I did was hand Kelly the folded piece of paper.
The next thing that I did was say, "Huh?"
After a moment’s thought I added, "Mac, what are you doing here? This isn't your jurisdiction."
"As a courtesy Picker. Those two guys that you knocked unconscious are feds. They don't take kindly to that sort of thing. They wanted to pick you up here so that there wouldn't be a scene with those killer dogs of yours."
"Who's outside, local or federal?"
"Philly cops."
I pause to consider my options. "Not a problem."
We're walking toward the exit at the back of the church. I turn to Kelly and hand her my cell phone. "Call Larry and have him meet me at the police station."
I notice that TJ is directly behind me, looking as cool and collected as a cucumber. Nothing seems to rattle him. "TJ, go up to the house and grab the security tape, make a copy and bring it to Larry at the station. Kelly, here, take my car keys. You can pick me up in a couple of hours."
The interrogation room was sparse, containing one scarred wooden table with a few molded plastic chairs. Up in the corner of the room was a camera and I assumed there was a microphone somewhere. One wall contained a large set-in mirror that was probably one-way like you see on television.
For several minutes I paced the floor. After some time I sat in one of the chairs determined to set in for the long haul. Approximately thirty minutes into my wait I look up and across the table. Moses is sitting there humming something that I don't recognize.
"This is another fine mess that you've gotten yourself into laddie."
I realize that I'm being recorded and wonder if I want to be seen talking to myself. Oh, what the hell. "You missed a beautiful service Uncle."
"Aye, son, but I've been to enough. No need to attend anymore."
Something was eating away at me, nibbling at the back of my brain. I needed to get a handle on what was happening. "Uncle Moe, I've been playing defense ever since this whole mess began. What do you recommend?"
There's something that you have to understand about Uncle Moe. While it is true that he is a ghost, he is not all knowing. Just like those of us still bound by our mortal coils, Moses Aronson is limited to the things that he can see and experience. And while his limitations are less than ours, he is not able to go anywhere he pleases. I do not pretend to know the laws that govern disembodied spirits, but experience suggests that Moe is tethered to me and my half brother. In turn, this appears to place restrictions on where he goes and what he perceives.
"Talk to Connor."
Several years ago I didn't even know that I had a brother. One September evening I get a phone call out of the blue. Some lawyer in Great Britain
"Mr. Picker, my name is Harold P. Smythe. I'm a solicitor in London representing the estate of the late Simon Jones. The reading of the will is the day after tomorrow. I realize that this is terribly short notice, and while it is not technically necessary, one of Mr. Jones' final requests was that you be present for the reading."
I thought for all of thirty seconds and said, "No problem. I'll be there."
Smythe provided the time and address of the reading and, as the Brits say, rang off.
Two days later, late morning, I arrive at Heathrow. Walking out of the terminal I see a man holding a sign with my name in large, black letters. He's wearing a black suit and I assume that Smythe sent a driver.
"I'm Picker," I tell him and offer my hand.
"Connor," he responds. His black suit is well tailored and expensive. Jones' shirt is quality as well and his tie is silk. The watch on his left wrist is a vintage Patek Phillippe. Maybe he's not a driver after all. Either that or chauffeurs make very good money on this side of the pond.
Outside in a no parking zone is a cream colored Morgan Plus 4. Connor throws my backpack behind the front seat. We get in and take off like bats out of hell. Nice car.
"What do you think?" he asks.
"Beautiful."
And that ends our conversation. Forty minutes later we pull up to 150 Piccadilly.
"There's a room booked and paid for in your name. Get cleaned up, have some lunch. I'll pick you up at three."
At the front desk the clerk offers a pleasant smile. "Welcome to the Ritz, Mr. Picker. Your room is ready."
Needless to say, the room is very well appointed. I take a quick shower and put on clean jeans, a white dress shirt, linen sports jacket and white sneakers.
I'm greeted at The Restaurant, yes, that's what they call it, by the maitre d'. There is a small sign to the right that reads 'gentleman are required to wear a jacket and tie; jeans are not permitted'. He ignores my attire, beams at my arrival and tells me, "Mr. Picker, what an honor. Your father was an old friend of this establishment and we shall miss him terribly. Please come this way."