"What he did was, Si that is, is ask his Uncle Moe to come to the states to kind of look after me and my mother. Well, she becomes ill unexpectedly and asks Moses to look after me when she is gone. She's getting pretty upset at this point and gets him to swear that no matter what, that he, Moses, will do everything he can to look after her baby boy. That's me."
Moses Aronson spent the better part of twenty years in the service. He had this thing when he was a young man about seeing the world. The military provided him just that opportunity. When he gets out he returns to his first love, antiques. Moe Aronson then devoted his time to traveling the world and hustling antiques.
I continue, "For some reason that eludes explanation, he was extremely fond of his nephew, Simon. Maybe it was because he himself never married or had any children. Regardless. Si asks him to go to America and look after his illegitimate family. Which is exactly what he does.
"Here's the kicker. Not long after that, when I'm six years old, Uncle Moe goes and dies. Nothing surprising, he's a very old man at this point. What is surprising is his commitment. He made a promise to my mother and it was so strong that he stuck around to keep it. It was Uncle Moe that taught me the antiques trade. No kidding."
Kelly is looking at me in complete disbelief. If you looked exasperated up in the dictionary at that moment you would find her picture right there.
"Hell, don't look at me like that. You wanted to know and now you do."
She lets out this huge breath. "You’re shittin’ me. Honest to God, I've never heard such a pile of…" You know, she went on like that for fifteen minutes without coming up for a breath of air.
"Okay," I tell her, "I'll just have to prove it to you."
"Sure. And just how do you plan to do that?"
I look around the room. Kato's yellow tennis ball is on the floor. "Simple. Take this ball. I'll step outside. You hide the ball. Anywhere, anywhere in the house that you like."
You're not going to believe this. This shit goes on for twenty minutes. Kelly, DCMPL, hides the ball, comes to front door to call me in, I go straight to where the ball is hidden. We do this same thing over and over until she has hidden the ball like twenty or thirty times.
And I don't miss once. Not one single time.
"How the hell are you doing that? It's a magic trick, right? I know you do magic, I've seen you with a deck of cards. You're pretty good. You really are…"
Son of bitch, she won't let it go. "No, sweetheart, it's not a trick. It's my Uncle. You hide the ball, he sees where you put it and he tells me. It's that simple."
"I know!" She's onto something else. Something she can sink her mind into, a concept that fits into her mental constructs. "You're telepathic. You come back into the house and read my mind. That's it."
"You know", I say, "That is a possible explanation. And, to be perfectly honest, its one that I've considered. Except for one little thing. Uncle Moe knows things that I can't possibly know. He tells me things when there are no other people around for me to read their minds.
"Here, I'll tell you what…" I pick up a tablet and pen from the kitchen table. I turn my back to Kelly and whisper something. The wait is about three minutes. I take a moment to listen and write something on the top sheet, rip it off and fold in half.
I hand the folded paper to her.
"Have you looked at the computer today?"
She says, "You know I haven't. We've been together since I woke up."
"Well, I've been up before you, but I haven't logged on yet. Turn on the computer and go to the New York Times site."
Kelly logs on and types 'New York Times' into the Google search bar.
I say, "Read me the headline."
"Blast Injures U.S. Soldiers as Riots Rage in Afghanistan."
"Okay", I tell her, "Open the paper and read what I wrote."
Her eyes go all wide. "Son of a bitch”, she says. “Blast Injures U.S. Soldiers as Riots Rage in Afghanistan'.”
Her next question is, “Can anyone else see this Uncle Moe of yours?"
"Yeah, one person."
"Who?"
"You'll find out, all in good time."
And that was that, as least for the time being. At that point, her last remark on the subject was, "That's pretty impressive, but I'm not convinced!"
She wasn't convinced at all, at least not for another several months. Then one day, we're walking past some antique shops in Lambertville. I'm closest to the curb side, she's nearer the stores. We're talking about something or another, I don't recall what.
Now remember, it's just the two of us.
She turns her head to the right. Looks into the window of a store. Kelly sees the reflection of a bear of a man. Tall, wide, with white hair and white beard. This reflection is walking right along side of us. From store to store, window to window.
Kelly’s head starts to gyrate, right left, right left. She looks at the reflection in the windows. She turns her head back to us.
On the sidewalk, it’s just the two of us. In the windows, it’s us and the bear.
Kelly takes a deep breath, lets it out and says, "I don't fucking believe it!" Which is kind of weird because she doesn't curse much.
"Huh?"
"Nothing", she says.
You know what. She never gave me a hard time about Uncle Moe again.
February 1975 New York City
Simon took a sip of his borscht.
"How kind of you to join me for lunch."
"I can assure you, the pleasure is entirely mine." Alexander Price Koch was enjoying his buckwheat blinis with sour cream, chopped boiled eggs, onion, parsley topped with caviar. "It's a nice change of pace to get out of the office from time to time."
For almost fifty years The Russian Tea Room has been a popular location for actors, writers, politicians and businessmen to discuss their deals. The waiter cleared the appetizers.
Two weeks prior to this meeting Jean Pierre had forwarded a communique indicating top Guggenheim Museum personnel that were the most vulnerable. Simon chose Koch as the most pliable.
The waiter delivered their entrees: a red caviar omelette with sour cream, fine herbs and Rosti potatoes for Simon and Boeuf a la Stroganoff for Koch.
The two men made small talk. Simon talked about international finance and his son Connor. Koch lovingly spoke of his three grown children, two boys at university and a daughter about to graduate high school.
When the dishes were cleared they ordered two Moscow Mules; a blend of vodka, ginger puree, lime juice and bitters along with black coffee. Simon offered Price, as he liked to be called, a Cuban cigar.
"Very nice, Simon. Thoroughly enjoyable. But I must ask, why me? I understand that you wish to make a donation to the museum. I'm merely one of several Deputy Directors."
"Price, that's not entirely true. You're also the Chief Curator."
"I don't understand. I thought that you wished to make a donation. Is that not correct?"
"Yes, I wish to make a donation. A rather substantial one. However, not to the museum."
Price folded his hands in front of him and dropped his head to his chest. "I apologize, Simon, I'm a little confused. Perhaps you would be so kind as to spell it out for me."
A private investigation had yielded two helpful facts indicating that Alexander Price Koch was malleable. The first was that although he came from one of America's wealthiest families, APK himself suffered from a severe cash flow problem. This, in and of itself, was not enough to push him over the edge. The second item, the secret that Price held dear, was much more persuasive.
"I want Montagnes a Saint-Remy"
Price got red in the face, nearly screamed "Are you out of your mind?" and stood to leave.