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.