"You're sure?"
"No doubts, laddie."
I hear some footsteps coming from behind. Tony, Jr. reaches down and takes the gun.
"He's one of them", I tell Junior.
"Thanks, Picker. We'll handle it."
I head back towards the car. Moses is already there, Kato jumps into the rear seat. I turn the engine over and then hear two loud pops. Sorry, Tommy.
I head home.
December 1974 New York City
The painting was illuminated by a single spotlight.
"Thanks for meeting me."
The image depicts the Chaine des Alpilles, a small range of mountains visible from the Saint Paul de Mausole mental hospital in southern France.
Jones glanced over. "Never hurts to talk. What can I do for you Mister Smith?"
'Montagnes a Saint-Remy' was painted in the summer of 1889.
"My associate wishes to acquire this painting."
Vincent Van Gogh painted ‘Mountains at Saint-Remy’ when recovering from a mental collapse in the town of Saint Remy. The mountains and sky come alive from the use of heavy impasto, broad brushstrokes plus whatever intangible that VVG brought to the canvas.
"Quite frankly, Mr. Smith, I am no longer involved in acquisitions. If you wish, I can provide the names of two, perhaps three professionals qualified for a job such as this."
The building that exhibited this particular work of genius was located on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.
Mr. Smith reached into his jacket and handed five black and white polaroids to Simon. "I'm afraid that my associate is unprepared to take 'No' for an answer."
Simon spread the photos out in his hands. Connor in his pram, Connor walking with his nanny in the park, playing on a jungle gym… Connor, his one year old son.
Simon Jones paused for no more than a beat. "Fine. I'll do the initial R we'll set up a meeting and finalize the details." Without offering his hand, he turned and walked out of the Guggenheim.
It was 28.8°Farenheit. Simon decided to walk. Think this through. Headed down 5th Avenue, took a left on 76th and entered the lobby at 35 East.
The Art Deco style hotel is named for the Scottish essayist Thomas Carlyle.
Simon took the elevator up to his room. Poured himself two fingers of a twenty one year old scotch, lit a cigar, sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the phone.
"Moses, track down Jean Pierre. Have him call me at The Carlyle, today!"
"Got ourselves a small problem, have we laddie?"
"Not so small, Uncle Moe. I'll be in touch."
Simon stripped, shaved and took a hot shower. Put on a clean suit and went down to the lobby. At the front desk he told the clerk, "Please have all my calls forwarded to the Cafe."
The Cafe Carlyle is famous for the murals by Marcel Vertes who was, of all things, a Hungarian costume designer.
After placing his order the Maitre d approached, placed a phone on his table and plugged it in. "There is a call for you, Mr. Jones."
Bobby Short was at the piano… "Do I hear you saying, I love you! I love you! Are those lovely words for me?"
"Darling, just making sure that you're alright." Elisabeth calling from London.
"Tell me you're not playing, It is true; you do, too, It's too wonderful to be…"
"Yes, dear. Trying to finish and tidy up. Shouldn't be much longer. How's my little man?"
“Just to think that now I hold you in my arms, Sent from heaven just to call mine, all mine!"
"Brilliant. Running around getting into all sorts of mischief."
"If I hear you saying, I love you! I love you! Life's been awfully good to me."
"Tell the little bugger I'll be home soon."
Simon finished his dinner, ordered a coffee; black, and lit yet another Romeo y Julieta. The phone rang…
"Comment ose j'aidez-vous, mon ami?" JP returning his call.
"I had a strange meeting. A certain party calling himself Smith is interested in acquiring a mountain range. Said it's for an associate. The retail on this piece is one hundred million."
"Vous avez refuse?"
"Out of the question, left me no options."
"Laissez-moi deviner? Deux choses. You need a copyist and you wish to exploit a weakness."
"Oui, I mean yes, now you've got me doing it. Someone here in the states, preferably."
"And the location of the ‘faiblesse’, weakness?"
"Upper East Side, Jewish. Comprenez?"
"Oui. Stay put. I'll put it together in a week."
"Less if you can. Jean Pierre, thank you."
“Mon plaisir, mon ami.”
This is how the trouble began.
I go shopping
In my dream hundreds of people milled about. The morning dew tickled my bare feet. The grave stones were marked clear as day; yet I couldn't read a single one. Without warning I was driving my car at high speed; the car doing as it wished. I had no control. Suddenly, I found myself in a home that I was familiar with and didn't know at all.
Anthony was sitting in the center of the room. People filed past; shaking his hand; saying goodbye. Across the room I eyed my mother. She looked radiant. There was a tap on my shoulder. I turned; there stood the father I never knew. He smiled brightly.
"Dad, what are you doing here? You're dead!"
"I've come to help."
At the far end of the room was a long table covered with food. I walked over and piled some onto a plate. As I lifted a fork to my mouth a hand encircled my wrist and gently pushed it down. "Don't eat that. This food is for dead people." My mother smiled sweetly.
Tommy G. appeared next to me. He was wearing a black suit with a white shirt but no tie. He was twisting a wool scully cap with his fingers. Dead center of his forehead was a bright red dot.
The entire scene was pitch black and yet for some inexplicable reason Tommy was bright as day. He was pleading with me, "Picker, I'm terribly sorry, really, I am. Please, Picker, help my brother, don't let anything happen to him…" and on and on he groveled.
In the distance I heard what may have been a large animal snoring.
I rolled over and lifted one eye. There she was, lying next to me; naked as the day she was born. Red hair down to her shoulders and a spatter of freckles across her nose. Sounding like a longshore man.
I roll out of bed. In the kitchen I start the coffee machine. Head for the bathroom, shave and take a hot shower.
The property that I occupy is a carriage house to a twenty acre estate. It has three bedrooms, a nice living room with hardwood floors, an updated kitchen and two working fireplaces. Down the driveway approximately seventy-five yards are the old stables. The owner of the estate, a very old friend that owes me, provides use of the stables as a workshop for Picker Antiques, which is me.
I grab two coffees from the kitchen, one black and the other with cream. Head back to the bedroom. As I'm putting on my jeans Kelly begins to stir.
I sit on the edge of the bed and hand Kelly her coffee. Still a little groggy, she gives me a peck on the cheek and wants to know what's going on.
Penelope Kelly Anne Lane, I shit you not, has been my relatively constant companion for the past half dozen years. We're not married, engaged or even living together. She has a loft in town and I have my place in the suburbs. Still, we manage to spend most of our free time together.
She sits up in bed, wraps the sheet around her and has a couple sips of coffee. When the cobwebs begin to clear I fill her in on everything that has occurred since Wednesday.
This is what I told her…
The events that precipitated this nightmare began four days ago. I was at the flea market in Lambertville, New Jersey. It was 5:00 am Wednesday morning. The trees were beginning to display green; the air was a tad nippy and the sky nearly cloudless.