Kelly pipes up, "You can see Uncle Moe?"
TJ, "Sometimes."
Thomas Jefferson Smith is one of my oldest and dearest friends. Actually, he's a few years younger and more like a little brother.
He stands about 5'10", has an athletic build and dark skin. He keeps his hair cut close to the scalp, has long artistic fingers, a high forehead and intelligent, penetrating brown eyes.
TJ, Nathan Berkowitz and I were in the foster system as children. We were ill mannered, poorly behaved and generally ran wild. If it weren't for Uncle Moe's influence, I doubt that we would ever have come out intact.
It was Uncle Moe that taught both TJ and me about antiques as well as the necessary prerequisites for becoming men. It was through keen insight into human nature that he also steered Nate into his present career and hence, his fortune.
For the lack of a better title, TJ works as my runner. He sniffs out antiques for me to purchase, makes repairs, delivers and picks items up from the auction houses. In other words, pretty much whatever is necessary to make the business work.
Besides Uncle Moe, he is probably the only family that I have.
"Alright, I'm just happy you got here in time. This is what we're going to do. Jaw, you cover them. TJ, grab some of the plastic ties from the stables and secure these two idiots…"
"Hey!" That was Dee.
"As I was saying, secure these two gentlemen, make copies of their id in the office and then call the cops. Kelly and I are going up to the main house. Maybe Mrs. Murphy will make us some breakfast. Get me when the cops arrive."
Dum, "I thought that you had nothing to do with the large house."
"I lied. Kelly, let's get something to eat. Kato, come."
April 1975 Philadelphia
"How much?"
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.