'They don't respect you, they don't like you, you might even say that they hate you. But they'll use you. Jewish, it's because you're Jewish.'
'Fucking hell! Are you serious?'
'Damn straight, son.'
Simon walked over to the bar and picked up a copy of The Times. One headline read, 'Tom Jones Live At The London Palladium.'
'Jones, that's as good as any gentile name. From now on that's who I’ll be, Simon Jones.
Millie Is Missing
I stepped out of 30th Street Station on the Market Street side. It was a little after eight in the evening. Parked directly in front of me at a meter was my Morgan. The old man was sitting in the front passenger seat. K was in the back.
I returned to Philly as quickly as I could after speaking with TJ.
'Doo Wop's dead?'
'Murdered. Beaten to death. Mrs. D. found him in his studio when she got home.'
'Where are her boys?' What the hell was going on? Who would want to hurt that sweet old man?
TJ said, 'They’re on their way. What do you want to do?'
'Can you pick me up?'
'No, busy, sorry. I can drop the car, though.'
I had to think… 'Park it on 30th, bring K, leave the keys in the ignition. Call Mrs. D., tell her I'm on my way. Where's Kelly?'
'Mrs. D.’s already expecting you, Kelly's out-of-state, no idea where or when she'll be back.'
'Talk later, stay in touch.'
The Morgan Motor Company was founded in 1910 by Harry Frederick Stanley Morgan. It is a British company. Morgan is located in Malvern, Worcestershire and today employs approximately 160 people. All of their cars are hand assembled. The waiting list for a new car runs between one and two years.
My Morgan is a Plus 8, the lightest V8 passenger car in the world. It has a BMW 4799CC engine with max power of 367 horse power. The top speed is, can you believe it, 155 miles per hour. Mine is sport yellow. Very cool.
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
