O'Neil, an eclectic dealer, steps forward and places his huge paw on my shoulder. 'Com' on Pick. Give us a price so we can do some business and get on with our day.'
The particular painting that everyone was making a fuss over was an unusual choice for Doo Wop. His common medium was oil, yet with the Turner he chose to work in watercolor.
'Ten grand, cash, firm.' Kato is lying at my feet. Uncle Moe, standing slightly to my left, has a bemused look upon his face.
Part of Doo Wop's genius is that he never copied a known painting. The work of art in question was one that the brilliant Turner at no time painted. But, it could have been. A common theme with Turner was shipwrecks; and this was a beautiful example.
A huge ship; sail extended on a rough sea with sparkling sun light. Anthony DW DeAngelo perfectly captured the master's style. Simply put, it was breath taking.
'Picker, are you out of your mind. The damn thing is a copy. Who in their right mind is going to pay that kind of money for a copy?'
'Hey, guys, I'm selling the painting, not the signature. You don't want it, don't buy it.' Any moron worth his or her salt could easily double their investment. What were they pestering me for?
'I'll take it!' Molly Malloy, a dealer that has an art gallery in the town of Lambertville pushed her way through the crowd. At one time, we spent a couple of evenings together. She reached into her handbag and pulled out her checkbook.
'No checks Molly. Take it with you. TJ will stop by today or tomorrow for the cash.'
'Thanks Picker. You're a doll.'
Meanwhile, the other dealers are shuffling away bellyaching about their misfortune. One thing that antique dealers love to do is complain. I swear that I could hear, “Grumble! Grumble, grumble.”
I threw the easel into the trunk; Uncle Moe hopped into the front seat; Kato into the back. Started my yellow Morgan Plus 8 and took off like a bat out of hell. I caught the first traffic light en route to Interstate 95. The cell phone vibrated in my pocket.
'He's dead.' Bigfoot's wife Amy.
'Dead? Tell me what happened.'
'This morning, around three o'clock, I wake up. Hari's not in bed, he's nowhere in the apartment. I go downstairs to the workshop behind the store.' Harry and Amy have a little antique shop on Bainbridge Street in South Philly. 'I can't believe my eyes. Hari's lying on the floor, dead. I called 911.'
'And?'
'I thought that he had a heart attack or something. The paramedics and police arrived. They talk in a corner; I can't hear anything. Next thing I know, they drag me down to the Round House. Put me in one of those rooms like you see on TV; you know, for interrogation.
'Turns out that Hari was strangled. Picker, somebody murdered my Hari. I got home five minutes ago. I don't know what to do. Will you help me?'
'I'm on my way.'
Ball one
'Tell me what happened.'
Penelope Kelly Anne Lane is my long time girlfriend. Going on seven years. We're not engaged or married. Point in fact, we don't live together. She has a loft in town; on the river. My domicile is a carriage house on a twenty acre estate in the burbs. With all that said, Kelly is the woman to whom I am committed.
'I drove straight to Amy's after she called.'
Kelly is relatively tall. Five eight or nine. She has long red hair and freckles splatter her nose and cheeks. Quite beautiful, really. Don't know why she stays with me. Perhaps it's my rugged good looks. Light brown hair; brown eyes; lanky build; my great posture? Who the hell knows? Oh, by the way, whatever you do, do not call her Penny Lane. She prefers Kelly.
I continued, 'Two days ago Hari did a cleanout in Chestnut Hill. From what Amy said, it was the dregs of an estate. The entire house was empty except for the kitchen, pantry, basement and an extra large garage. Hari told Amy that even the left over’s were worth about ten g's, possibly more.'
We were having lunch at La Fourno on South Street between 6th and 7th Streets. It is one of Philly's better kept secrets. Kelly had the Eggplant Parmesan; exquisite. Mine was Vegetarian Lasagna with a side of fresh sauteed spinach. We shared a 2006 Corvo, a white, medium bodied wine. It tasted a little like tangy citrus along with fresh apple.
'Well, Hari talked with the lawyer handling the estate. Yes, go ahead and take the safe. No, we don't have the combination. Damn thing must have weighed four hundred pounds. It took Bigfoot, his two guys and some landscaping guy to load it onto the van. Amy showed it to me. It's sitting in their workshop with the door open.'
Kelly cracked a smile. 'How did they get it open, tough guy?' She's been calling me 'tough guy' ever since our recent escapade involving international hit men; local, state, federal and international cops; and the sale of a forged Vermeer for a little over $260 million. Probably because we managed to come away from the whole incident relatively unscathed.
'He called Punk.' Punk is a sixteen year old street urchin who has gravitated to the antique's trade. In a nutshell, he steals, lies, cheats and runs scams in general. Reminds me a little of myself at that age. Good kid, I like him.
'Punk cracks the thing in about two minutes. H gives him a Franklin for his troubles. Amy said that there was a cigar box with a bunch of very old baseball cards.'
'When did this happen?'
'Yesterday. In the morning. She said that Hari took the cigar box and headed down to South Philly to see this guy with the sport's shop. He came home; said he left a few of the cards with the memorabilia guy and they went to see the twelve noon showing of 'Green Lantern' down on Delaware Avenue. Amy said that Hari didn't go to the market because it was raining.'
'What else?' All of these questions were good. It helped organize my thoughts.
'This was funny. Hari really enjoyed the movie. He's like a big kid. They stopped at the T-shirt store at 3rd and South on the way home. Bought a Green Lantern shirt. Put it on right then and there. She said that he looked as happy as a pig in shit.
'They returned to the shop. Hari spent the rest of the day restoring some chairs that came out of the Chestnut Hill deal. Tended to customers when they came in; didn't go out the rest of the day.
'So, let me guess.' 'Don't call me Penny Lane' is really getting into this. I can see the wheels spinning. 'You think that there may be a correlation between the baseball cards and Bigfoot's demise.'
'It's possible.'
'And you don't think that's a stretch.'
'Of course it is. But one has to begin somewhere, don't you think?'
'Here's the sixty-four thousand dollar question. Who knew about the baseball cards?'
'Let's see. There's Hari's crew; Rebel and Chucky Cheese. Punk, of course. Danny Boy, who heard it from Rebel. Possibly someone connected with the estate. And then, there's the sports memorabilia guy over on South Broad Street. What's his name? Oh yeah, Leon Burger.'
'What's your next move, big boy?' You know, now that I think about it, Kelly doesn't use my name. I wonder why that is.
'Guess I'll start with Burger. Head over there after lunch. How about you?'
'Going to the museum and work on that Van Gogh exhibit. See you back at your place later.'
Miss Lane is a consulting curator. Various institutions hire her to arrange shows revolving around specific themes or artists. It is Kelly's job to deal with logistics; contact the owners; arrange for terms and shipping; handle the insurance; the promotion. In short, whatever is necessary to move from inception to completion on any given job.
