when his father was murdered from a bomb detonated in his car. Rumor has it that it was Uncle Carmine that was behind the killing. Family business, supposedly.
Doo Wop was teaching Joey the family business. Joey bought the supplies for the paintings, took the photographs and maintained the web site. When Doo Wop did antique shows it was Joey that did the setting up and breaking down. In short, Joey did whatever needed to be done. Sort of an old world apprenticeship.
You could see the tears in the kid’s eyes.
'Hang in there Joey. If you need anything give me a call.'
'Thanks Uncle P, I will.'
It was late and the sidewalk was deserted. The street was quiet and for once the air smelled clean.
A hand, attached to a huge man, reached out from an alley and pulled me in. He shoved me up against the wall and held me there with his left paw. Pointed in my face was a. 38 revolver.
'Hey Tommy, long time, no see', I said as I smiled to the giant.
Tommy Gunn, I kid you not, that's his real name, stood at six-four, maybe six-five. Only God knows what he weighed. Now that I think about it, the last time that I saw Tommy and his brother was at the Columbus Flea just this past Thursday. If my memory serves me correctly, the last thing that I remember is looking at antiques in the back of his van.
Son of a bitch. It was Tommy and that weasel brother of his, Machine, that knocked me out.
'I'm sorry, Pick. Got to do this… I always kind of liked ya. It ain't nothing personal, just business.'
'Hey, Tommy… It don't get any more personal than this, pal. But that's okay, no worries' and I snapped my fingers.
Tommy looks me in the eye and gives me this queer look. He's thinking, 'Why in the hell did he just snap his fingers, I got a gun pointed at his head?’
Three seconds later he gets his answer. One hundred and twenty five pounds of pure muscle comes bounding down the sidewalk, leaps and pushes Mr. Gunn to the ground.
'Thanks, Kato, good boy.'
Kato, in case I didn't mention it, is a security trained and very loyal German Shepherd. At the moment, Kato's mouth is wide open and strategically positioned around Tommy's throat.
I step forward and bear down on his right wrist with my foot. The hand holding the gun.
'It's him. He's one of them that done it boyo.' Uncle Moe is right behind me.
'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.
