I slid into the driver seat. K gave me a big, wet kiss. Uncle Moe wanted to know how I was.
"I'll tell you how I am… My head hurts like hell, where have you been?"
"Laddie, you got yourself a wee boomp on the head. You're not processing quite right, are ye now?"
"You mean bump, don't ya?"
"Aye, that's what I said, boomp".
There was no use arguing. I kicked her over, put her in gear and pointed her to South Philly. Fifteen minutes later we arrived on Federal Street, the home of the late Anthony "Doo-Wop" DeAngelo.
Parking was a bear, so I left the car down near the corner. I said, "Wait here" and headed towards the middle of the block.
These South Philly homes are tiny, maybe twelve foot wide and twenty-nine feet deep. Originally called Trinity homes, that is, three floors, the locals call them Father, Son and Holy Ghost. There's a strong Catholic presence in this part of the city.
Old Italian men and women were everywhere. Men standing on the sidewalk smoking and shooting the shit. Women dressed in black and carrying casserole dishes covered in foil through the front door. I nodded at the men and stepped inside.
Inside I first see Anthony Junior. He steps up, shakes my hand and pulls me into a bear hug. I tell him how sorry I am about the loss of his father.
"Tony, where are your brothers?"
There are five DeAngelo boys. There's a doctor, a lawyer, an actor that sings pretty well, a general contractor and the youngest one is still in college.
"Everyone's here except Bobby. He's driving back from Boston, be back tonight sometime."
"You boys will be around for a few days?"
"Sure…"
"And if I need you…"
"Not a problem. Pick, what are ya going to do?"
"I'm going to take care of it… I promise. Where’s your ma?"
"This way."
We step into the kitchen. There are containers with food on every surface. Sitting at the kitchen table are four women. One is Doo-Wop's wife, Millie.
I put my hand out and pull her up and into me. She's a short woman with dark hair going to gray. There's a strength present in her face that you don't see in young people anymore. I hug Millie and wait. She backs up and I ask her to show me.
She leads me up to the third floor. This is Doo Wop's studio, where he painted for almost forty years. There are paintings in varying degrees of completion lying on the floor, leaning against the wall in piles, some are on easels and dozens are hanging from the walls.
I quickly scan the room. Something is missing. I know what it is…
"It's not here, Pick. Number 37 is missing." She's standing there, back straight, wringing a small, white handkerchief with her fingers.
Maybe I should explain. Doo Wop was an artist. Not just any type of artist. He is what we would refer to in the business as a copyist. He could make a 'copy' of any famous painting, in the style of any artist and it would look just like the original. All of this is perfectly legal if the artist signs his or her own name to the painting. And, equally important, they can't try to pass it off as an original. Other than that, it is perfectly above board.
Now, for several years, perhaps even a dozen, when Doo Wop was a young man, he did exactly what he shouldn't have. He would make copies of world renowned paintings, sign the original artist's name and sell them through proxies at famous auction houses. It was not at all unusual for his 'copies' to fetch mid-five or even mid-six figures when sold.
Keep in mind that this occurred almost forty years ago, so we're talking about some decent money.
Until he got a visit from the FBI. They were, for feds, very nice. Polite even. They gave him a lecture, in front of his wife, about the facts of life. Anthony, they said, you can't continue passing off these beautiful paintings as originals. It's too much money, and at some point these rich people are going to catch on and you are going to go to jail. But, they said, if you can keep them under ten grand and, this is a very big if, keep them away from the major auction houses, well, in that case you can forget we had this little talk.
Initially, I found this a little difficult to swallow. Millie was there, however, and verified it and she is not prone to exaggeration. So, it must be true.
After that friendly visit from the government Anthony "Doo Wop" DeAngelo turned out precisely one "vintage" painting per month. The master works were then sold privately through a network of dealers. Surprise, surprise, the price of these works of art always managed to remain under ten thousand dollars.
This is how he supported his family for the next thirty or so years. There was, however, one small exception. And now, it was missing.
"Millie," I ask, "What can I do?"
"Find whoever did this. Find Number 37."
I leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "I will."
I went down the stairs in search of Anthony, Jr. Found him near the front door. Put out my hand and inquired about the funeral arrangements. He filled me in and I turned to leave. Walking out the front door, over my shoulder I said, "I'll be in touch" turned left and headed for the car.
On the way out I ran into Joey Amato.
"How are you holding up son?"
Joey is Doo-Wop's nephew on his wife's side. Some of the family on that side belongs to the bent nose brigade.
"Not so good Uncle Pick." Joey's in his early twenties. He's average height, well proportioned with black hair combed straight back and dark brown eyes. I've known him since he was a little boy. His uncle and aunt took him in when his father was murdered from a bomb detonated in his car. Rumor has it that it was Uncle Carmine that was behind the killing. Family business, supposedly.
Doo Wop was teaching Joey the family business. Joey bought the supplies for the paintings, took the photographs and maintained the web site. When Doo Wop did antique shows it was Joey that did the setting up and breaking down. In short, Joey did whatever needed to be done. Sort of an old world apprenticeship.
You could see the tears in the kid’s eyes.
"Hang in there Joey. If you need anything give me a call."
"Thanks Uncle P, I will."
It was late and the sidewalk was deserted. The street was quiet and for once the air smelled clean.
A hand, attached to a huge man, reached out from an alley and pulled me in. He shoved me up against the wall and held me there with his left paw. Pointed in my face was a. 38 revolver.
"Hey Tommy, long time, no see", I said as I smiled to the giant.
Tommy Gunn, I kid you not, that's his real name, stood at six-four, maybe six-five. Only God knows what he weighed. Now that I think about it, the last time that I saw Tommy and his brother was at the Columbus Flea just this past Thursday. If my memory serves me correctly, the last thing that I remember is looking at antiques in the back of his van.
Son of a bitch. It was Tommy and that weasel brother of his, Machine, that knocked me out.
"I'm sorry, Pick. Got to do this… I always kind of liked ya. It ain't nothing personal, just business."
"Hey, Tommy… It don't get any more personal than this, pal. But that's okay, no worries" and I snapped my fingers.
Tommy looks me in the eye and gives me this queer look. He's thinking, 'Why in the hell did he just snap his fingers, I got a gun pointed at his head?’
Three seconds later he gets his answer. One hundred and twenty five pounds of pure muscle comes bounding down the sidewalk, leaps and pushes Mr. Gunn to the ground.
"Thanks, Kato, good boy."
Kato, in case I didn't mention it, is a security trained and very loyal German Shepherd. At the moment, Kato's mouth is wide open and strategically positioned around Tommy's throat.
I step forward and bear down on his right wrist with my foot. The hand holding the gun.
"It's him. He's one of them that done it boyo." Uncle Moe is right behind me.