"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?"