The two men sat at the outdoor cafe.
"Le travail merveilleux, mon ami. Our friends are very pleased with the work that you have performed for them."
The Cafe de Flore pavement tables were once the favorite rendezvous of Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre. It was in the mid-seventies and a handful of clouds dotted the sky.
Aronson lit his Cuban cigar, a Romeo and Juliet Churchill. "Good, I wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of the Russkaya Mafiya."
"Tout a fait le contraire, they are interested in more such work in the future."
Simon Aronson had successfully laundered close to five hundred million dollars for the Russian Mafia. He was able to process the funds in record time by purchasing the controlling interest in an established bank.
The Frenchman passed an envelope across the table. Aronson peered inside. A check made out to him for ten million dollars. "Il est suffisant, je font confiance?"
A wry smile crossed Aronson's mouth. "It will have to be, won't it?"
They sat quietly for a few minutes sipping their espresso, enjoying the cigars and discreetly observing the parade of Parisian women.
"Jean Pierre, I'm no longer interested in this line of work."
"Pourquoi non, mon vieil ami?"
"A couple of reasons. Elisabeth is pregnant. I'm not interested in jail time. For that matter, I don't wish to deal with these types of people. They're never happy for long and they think that they own you. Time to move on."
"Comme vous souhaitez.” As you wish. “Congratulations on the baby. Please let me know when he is born."
"He? What makes you think that?"
"Just a feeling. Good luck, Simon. Stay in touch."
The men parted ways. Simon strolled down the Boulevard St Germain. Crossed The Seine river, turned left toward the Allee de Castiglione.
Simon was considering his options. He walked past the Place du Carrousel, situated on the site that was formerly the Tuileries Palace.
The 'bank capture' method that he had used with the Russians was highly effective. It did, however, have serious limitations in terms of scaling.
Simon passed under the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel. It was a sight to behold, especially when viewing it for the first time. It was built between 1806 and 1808 to commemorate the military victories of Napoleon Bonaparte.
Simon Aronson was a talented, yet run of the mill grifter. That is, until one day when he had a realization. Men pitch pennies for pennies and men pitch pennies for a million dollars. His motto had become 'never steal anything small.'
He proceeded straight passing through the public gardens between the Louvre and the Place de la Concorde.
Aronson formulated a new plan. He would specialize in shell companies and trusts. They were the perfect vehicle for hiding the true owners of money. Depending on jurisdiction, corporate vehicles were not required to disclose true ownership.
He continued down the Rue Saint-Honore arriving at 15 Place Vendome, his hotel.
The second tool in his arsenal involved real estate. Done properly, real estate could be purchased with illegal funds and then turned around to be sold. For all intents and purposes the income derived would legitimate. The best bit was, all of this was scalable. But, even better than that, it was all perfectly legal.
It was just past noon. Simon walked into the bar and asked the bartender for his mail.
The Hemingway Bar at the Ritz Paris still functions as a mail drop for writers and journalists.
In fact, if you are an aspiring writer and plan to be in Paris anytime soon, here is what you do.
Have any correspondence addressed to you in the following manner:
Your Name
Bar Hemingway
Ritz Paris
15, Place Vendome, 75001 Paris
When you arrive in The City of Light, drop in at the Hemingway Bar. See the bartender. He will retrieve your mail from the glass display that is directly behind the bar. You don't even have to be a guest of the hotel to enjoy this service.
He strolled over to a table in the corner of the bar.
"Have you been waiting long?"
"No, laddie. Only been a few minutes." Moses Aronson was seated in a black leather chair nursing a single malt scotch.
The hotel was founded by Cesar Ritz in 1898 along with renowned chef Auguste Escoffier. The Ritz Paris overlooks one of the central squares in Paris. Historically it is known to be the first to provide a bathroom in the suite; a telephone and in each room, electricity. Known the world over for luxury, the client list includes royalty, politicians, movie stars, singers and especially writers.
Simon removed the check from his suit coat and passed it to Moses. "Mazel tov!"
Simon ordered two more drinks.
"Uncle Moe, I've been thinking."
"Always a dangerous pastime my boy."
"Bollocks, I've a few bloody dollars now. Haven't had to do any petty ante grifts for ages now. I'll tell you what's crossed my mind. Simply this, laws are written to protect the rich and powerful. Not for blokes like us. It's the wealthy and politicians running the biggest scams and no one can touch them. Well, I'm a scammer and there's no reason why I can't do the same."
"Ye got a point, boyo. The higher they go the crookeder they get."
"Uncle Moe, I've got a question. You see that check there. On the one hand, it's a tidy sum. On the other, it is a fraction of what that job was worth. Not that there is anything that can be done about it, but why do you suppose that is?"
Moses Aronson took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "They don't respect you, son. It be your last name."
"Come again?"
"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 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.