Simon had some time to kill. The job involving the painting was slowly coming together.
'Thirty-two hundred dollars,' the dealer replied.
The Philadelphia Antiques Show was founded in the early 1960s. Founded by Ali Brown, it was originally called the 'University Hospital Antiques Show'. Simon strolled around the Armory and examined the antiques.
There had been a second meeting with 'Mr. Smith' last month. Simon had laid out exactly what was required in order to proceed with the job. One of the conditions set forth by Simon was twenty million dollars up front with the understanding that this was a 'contingency job'.
Smith contacted his principle. A third, somewhat brief, meeting took place at the Famous Deli.
'My associate has agreed to your terms. The funds will be available this week.'
'One last thing,' Simon stated. 'A meeting with your man.'
'Out of the question.'
Simon stood up. 'I wish that I could say that it has been nice doing business with you, but…' and he turned to leave.
'Okay, okay. Stop. I'll make the arrangements. It won't be here in the States, somewhere in Europe. I'll get you the details.'
After that was done, it was just a matter of time for everything to come together. Simon took a suite of rooms at the Barclay Hotel in Rittenhouse Square.
He had always enjoyed antiquing and decided to visit the show. There were close to four dozen dealers with quality pieces from all over the country.
He stopped at one exhibit that specialized in 19th and early 20th century art. She had her back to him as she arranged the paintings on the rear wall.
'Excuse me, Miss.'
Emily Picker turned around and smiled. This is what she saw: a relatively tall man in his thirties; maybe six feet, dark, wavy hair and blue eyes. Intelligent, handsome with a nice smile. Not a warm smile, but a charming smile. And, the cultured British accent did not hurt any either. As she looked at him, two conflicting realizations passed through her. With joy she realized that this man was the one, that he alone could make her happier than anyone. The other flash of insight, this one disturbing, was that they were star crossed.
Emily recovered as quickly as she could. 'How may help you, sir?'
Simon's reaction frightened him. There was a sense of deja vu, a compelling feeling of familiarity. Simon's world had just shifted on its axis and for the first time in ages was unsure of himself.
'Hi,' he smiled, 'Simon Jones,' and offered his hand.
'Emily Picker.' She returned his smile, blushed ever so slightly, turned and pointed to the sign hanging at the back of the booth. It read 'E. Picker Antiques' as though that explained everything.
Simon's awareness was suddenly hypersensitive. Time froze; everything vanished except for this strange young woman. Tall for a girl; perhaps five-nine, twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old; very long light brown hair, braided; slender and wearing a long dress with a flower print. What struck Simon most was the girl's face; long with prominent cheekbones; nice mouth without being too full; brown eyes and front teeth that crossed ever so slightly. The impression was that of a hippie that had grown up.
Simon quickly scanned the paintings on display. 'What can you tell me about this one?'
'Ah, yes. The 'Portrait de Vincent van Gogh' by Toulouse-Lautrec. It is a copy of course. The original hangs in the Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam. Done by a local artist. Very nice, don't you agree?'
Henri Marie Raymond de Toulouse-Lautrec-Monfa; short in stature, alcoholic, friend of Oscar Wilde and one of the greatest post-impressionist painters. Perhaps best remembered for his depiction of the can-can dancers from the Moulin Rouge Music Hall.
'Striking. No question about it. I've seen the original, and quite frankly, I’d be hard pressed to tell them apart. Who is this local artist, if you don't mind me asking?' Simon experienced an eerie chill.
'Doo Wop DeAngelo. Does copies on order. If there is something special that you like, he'll do it. Are you interested in the Lautrec?'
Number 37
'Tis a beautiful morning, is it not?' Mrs. Murphy, bless her soul, was puttering around the kitchen and serving us breakfast. Coffee, fresh juice, freshly cut fruit salad and toasted homemade bread.
'Yes, ma’am.'
Kelly and I are sitting at the kitchen table in the main house. She takes a sip of her coffee and looks over at me. 'There's something that you haven't told me. Come on, what did you leave out?'
'Okay, here goes. On Tuesday morning I receive a phone call from Doo-Wop. I'm walking the Cowtown flea in Woodstown. He's agitated. Tells me that he'd like to see me asap. I say no problem, let's do it now.
'Less than an hour later we're having breakfast at the Melrose Diner. This is what he tells me…'
'Pick, I have a little problem. Probably nothing serious, but just in case, I'd like your help.'
'Sure, Anthony, anything. You name it.'
When I was young and running wild in the streets, Anthony and Millie sort of took me in. Not that I lived there or anything. But their door was always open to me; literally, I could walk in and help myself to the fridge. Or, they would invite me to dinner. By the time I started buying and selling antiques Doo Wop would bank roll me. The long and short of it is that they were always there for me. In return, there isn't anything that I wouldn't do for either of them.
He's looking slightly nervous. 'Yesterday', he said, 'I was at the Italian Market. I'm picking out some produce for the wife. Two guys come up behind me. One guy said, 'Hey, aren't you Mr. DeAngelo. You're the famous painter, right. You're him.''
Anthony said, 'Who's asking?'
The other guy says, 'Hey, Mr. D, we're big fans. We've seen some of your work. Beautiful man, simply beautiful. Just like them famous painting you see in the museums.'
I interrupt him. 'What did these men look like?' Guess what, not that I knew it at the time, but the description sounds an awful lot like our new friends, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.' I tell Kelly that's what I named these guys in my head.
DW: 'They start asking me what I'm working on now, what do I have for sale, can they come look at my stuff? Me, I don't want any trouble. I said, 'Sure, sure, give me you number, I'll call ya'.
'Anthony, what can I do. Tell me.'
'Come on over to the house, let me give you something to hold on to. You know, just for the time being.'
And, that's just what we do. Go over to his house. He gives me two painting wrapped up in butcher paper. 'This is 'Millie'. I want you to hold onto her for the time being. This other painting is for you. My way of saying thanks.'
'Anthony, you don't have to thank me for anything. If anything, it is me who should be thanking you.'
I finish my orange juice, take a sip of coffee and tell Kelly, 'Now you're up to date. You know everything that I know.'
'Not quite mister.' She grins. 'Besides being his wife's name, what is a 'Millie'?'
'Okay. I'll tell you, but this is strictly between us. I mean, no kidding, once I tell you it's just between you and me. You cannot share this with anyone. Agreed?'
Kelly works in the art world. She is what I jokingly refer to as a consulting curator. Quite simply, when an exhibition is being organized, when artwork is coming from several sources for a limited engagement, it is not unusual to retain Ms. Lane's services. As a matter of fact, that's kind of how we met.
What I was about to share with her might be considered, shall we say, a tad illegal. The information that I was about to share would, more than likely, compromise her professional standing.
'Okay, big boy, you got my word. Now spill!'
'Here goes… About ten years ago, possibly a little more, Doo Wop gets it into his head that he wants to set up a retirement fund. Don't get the wrong idea, he makes a pretty decent livelihood from turning out his one good 'copy' per month along with the others that he cranks out for shows.
