The Man in the Blizzard, page 12
I smiled up at Odegard. I felt like pouring it on. “I can also tell them about your collection of Nazi-era Lugers, which aren’t registered. And then there’s all that I’ve learned about Frederick Kunz. The fact that he’s the guy who got you off your last rap links the two of you inextricably. I’ll tell them about the Nazi estate in White Bear Lake. About the guy’s impressive collection of Third Reich paraphernalia. And maybe, just to tease their prurient interest, I’ll offer some details of the little party you had the other night with Kunz and the big brunette.”
Odegard nearly lost his balance at the mention of the fat lady. “There’s nothing illegal there.”
I smiled at the violin dealer, who dropped his hands into the pockets of his velour pants.
“Anyway,” I said, “that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
Odegard took a deep breath. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Boyer? Could you get Mr. Boyer a cup of coffee, Liz?”
“I don’t want coffee. I want you two to sit down.” I stood up and stepped clear of the sofa, indicating where I wanted them to sit. I perched across from them in the matching swivel chair.
“Okay, Ms. Odegard, why don’t you tell me your history with Frederick Kunz.”
The violinist took a sideways glance at her husband.
“Go ahead, tell him whatever you want,” Odegard said, wiggling his lip at his wife.
The violinist cleared her throat. “Frederick Kunz is my uncle.”
“Is that right? Uncle Fred.” Now I was pissed at both of them. Why was the prodigy leading me around in circles?
“He’s my father’s brother,” she said. “Both my parents are deceased. I lived with my aunt and uncle from the time I was twelve.”
The violinist scooted back on the sofa, folding her hands in her lap. I thought she was going to kick her legs back and forth like a little girl.
“Tell me some more about your uncle.”
“Well, he bought a violin for me when…” She paused and looked at her husband again. “When I got into Oberlin. I think that’s what got him started with collecting. He plays a little bit himself.”
“I know; I’ve heard him.”
I tried to hold her eyes. “Is your uncle the person who introduced you to your husband?”
The violinist glanced toward her feet. “Yes.”
“And when did you first become aware of your uncle’s taste for Nazi paraphernalia?”
“I never knew,” she said, taking a look at her closely clipped fingernails.
“Never?”
“Not until…not until I moved back out here after I left Oberlin. I…Perry and I would go over to his house.”
“Which house?”
“Well, we went to both.”
“What did you make of that stuff?”
“I thought it was creepy. He said it was just a collection, a good investment, really, because the value of Nazi things appreciates so much.”
“Just like good violins.”
“Right. He said that it had nothing to do with any ideology.”
“And you believed that?”
“Not really,” she said, unbuttoning her blazer and letting it fall open.
I found myself noticing the shape of the violinist’s breasts, blooming under her tight turtleneck. My mindfulness kicking in. I averted my eyes. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t stop myself from a little discreet ogling, but there was something amiss with Elizabeth Odegard.
“So tell me, does your uncle have you play the violins he’s interested in buying, try them out for him?”
The violinist glanced quickly at her husband. “Sometimes.”
“So these fiddles were instruments that your husband located on his trips to Prague and Vienna?”
“She doesn’t know about any of this,” Odegard shouted. Then he turned to his wife and told her to pull her blazer together.
I watched her button it, with a blush of modesty. “How about your uncle’s political views? Does he ever discuss them with you?”
“Not really.”
I turned away from the Mrs. and fixed my eye on her husband. “How about you? Does it ever give you qualms trading these instruments?”
Odegard cleared his throat. “I’m a businessman, Mr. Boyer. A client’s interested in a certain type of instrument, it’s my job to try and find it.”
“No questions asked.”
“Sure, I ask questions.”
“Not just how much he’s willing to pay?”
Odegard unzipped his loungewear a bit at the neck. “Hey, I’m not a moralist, Mr. Boyer. I don’t sit in judgment of another man’s harmless hobby.”
“You sure it’s harmless?”
The violin dealer crossed his legs. “Look, the guy’s a collector. What’s so hard to understand about that?”
“And you don’t give a damn where the violins came from?”
“Let me explain something to you, Mr. Boyer. A fine Italian violin has both a pedigree and a fate. A master made it three hundred years ago and it’s passed through quite a few hands by now.”
I wanted to tell Odegard to take his pedigree and fate and shove it up his herpesed asshole, but another breathing exercise brought me to Gandhi Land. “So, it doesn’t offend your sensibility, Mr. Odegard, that these instruments have been stolen?”
“I have no information about that.”
“What are you talking about?” I said, standing, sending Gandhi for a snooze. “What the hell were you using that fucking Sonderstab catalog for? It’s a goddamn checklist of prime instruments confiscated by the Nazis, isn’t it?”
“I want that back, Boyer.”
“You can kiss my ass, Odegard. Now, how about the big brunette? How does she figure into the package?”
“She’s not germane. I’d rather leave her out of this.”
“I bet you would.”
“Hey, I don’t have to listen to this. I’m sitting here trying to be cooperative, asshole.” Odegard’s nostrils flared. He was genuinely ticked off.
“So, is the brunette Kunz’s wife?”
“Hell no. The wife never goes to White Bear Lake. She stays in Woodbury.”
“Okay, let’s leave out the fat woman you were screwing, for a minute.” I turned to the violinist, who was clearly agitated. “Has your uncle Fred ever discussed his views on abortion?”
“Not…not in my presence,” she said. Then she clenched her teeth and I watched her cheeks turn a quick, fevered rose.
“You shouldn’t play poker, Ms. Odegard.”
I turned toward the violin dealer. “How about you, Odegard? Have you heard Kunz talk about abortion?”
“Absolutely,” he said, glad, perhaps, to have the attention shift away from the Nazi fiddles and the fat brunette. “Kunz is a real hothead about that issue.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know, the guy’s got some rather extreme views on the subject.”
“Like what?”
“Perry,” the violinist said.
“You don’t have to worry about protecting your uncle, Ms. Odegard. And for that matter, you don’t need to worry about protecting your husband. They both seem like men who know how to take care of themselves.”
Odegard took this last bit as a compliment and flashed his pretty-boy smile. He shifted his neck sharply to the left and a bone in his back cracked, satisfying him.
“Okay, Odegard,” I said, “tell me about Kunz’s views on abortion. Do you share them?”
“No way. The guy becomes a madman on the subject.”
“What’s he say?”
“Hey, I don’t want to get anybody in trouble.” Odegard folded his hands in his lap and did his mum’s-the-word routine.
I turned to face the violinist. She moved her lips without speaking. “My uncle has…he has a theory,” she said, finding her voice, and then nibbling on the nub of her thumbnail.
Odegard sneered at his wife. “You don’t have to tell him anything, Liz.”
“Shut up, Odegard,” I hollered.
The violinist turned away.
“Elizabeth,” I said, trying to bring her back.
Odegard was wiggling his lip at her.
“You were saying your uncle had a theory.”
“It’s none of your business, Boyer,” Odegard said.
“It is my business, asshole, because your wife’s hired me.”
“I’ve had enough of this.” Odegard stood up and flipped me off. “You know, you’re not the first one she’s hired,” he said, and walked out of the room.
I swiveled in my chair to watch Odegard head down the hallway and disappear into the bedroom suite. Maybe the guy would console himself with a stroll through his wardrobe. More likely he’d be on the phone with Herr Kunz. I turned toward the violinist.
“What’s going on here?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“What’s this about you hiring other investigators?”
My client fidgeted. “That was a long time ago.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Do you want me to help you? What’s with your husband doing his mind-control number?”
The prodigy answered with a blank stare. I felt as if I was talking with somebody whose grasp of English was limited.
“You were saying that your uncle had a theory.”
“Yes.”
“What kind of a theory?”
The violinist nibbled on her nubbed thumbnails. “He believes that all abortion doctors are Jewish and that they’re using abortion as a tool to eliminate Gentiles.”
“Really. What else does he say?”
“He says that Jewish women don’t have abortions themselves, that they’re under orders to breed as many babies as possible. He says that’s what they do in the Zionist state.”
“The Zionist state?”
“That’s what he calls it. He thinks that if abortion isn’t stopped now, the Jews will end up winning a war of attrition in this country.”
I scratched my head. “That’s an interesting notion. I read somewhere that Jews account for less than 3 percent of the U.S. population. Do you know how long this war of attrition would take? Let’s just say we’ll all be globally warmed out of existence before that.”
The violinist nodded.
“Have you heard him mention any action he plans on taking? Has your uncle expressed a wish?”
“Well, I suppose if my uncle had a wish…”
“Yes?”
“It would be to eliminate abortion altogether.”
“And how would he do that?”
The violinist folded her hands together. “Eliminate the clinics.”
“And short of that?”
“Eliminate the abortion doctors.”
“Does he use the word eliminate?”
The violinist drew her head down, turtle-style, closer to her shoulders.
I wondered if she’d ever had an abortion. The woman was hard to read. A blank slate. I’d heard about certain child prodigies who grew up to be emotional dwarfs. Spent eight hours a day practicing, could play Paganini at six, but never developed a genuine personality.
“Has your uncle mentioned his activities with Born Free or the national Mother-Child Labor Day rally on the capitol grounds?
She met my gaze but didn’t answer.
“Are you aware of any of your uncle’s plans for the rally? Are you trying to protect him?”
The violinist had shut down, but I didn’t stop asking questions.
“Is this why you hired me, Ms. Odegard, to find out about your uncle? Is that why you’ve hired others? How does McCracken fit in? Does he work for your uncle?”
The violinist stood and strolled over to the window.
“Do you think your husband is involved with any of this antiabortion business?”
With her back turned to me, my reluctant client spoke again. “Perry has no ideology. He has no ideas. He’s all about merchandise. He’s all about buying and selling.”
I stood. “And what are you all about, Ms. Odegard?”
“I don’t know,” the violinist said sadly. She turned to face me.
“So, you’re just a victim of circumstances?”
She looked blankly at me.
“I want you to take me to meet your uncle.”
“I don’t know that I can do that. My uncle is a very busy man.”
“You can do it. I’ll be with you.”
“When?”
“Today.”
“What if he’s not available?”
“We’ll try our luck.”
I heard Odegard padding down the hall. He’d dressed in a gray houndstooth suit with a rosy silk square ruffling out of his breast pocket. The suit fit him beautifully, except for the fact that his right coat pocket was bulging with a Luger that his small hand couldn’t quite cover.
“You ever thought about becoming a model, Odegard?”
“Get up, Boyer.”
I remained seated. “Pardon me, but I’m a guest of your wife.” I smiled over at the violinist.
“The party’s over, Boyer.”
I reached into my pocket for my tin of Altoids. Nothing like playing chicken with a stolen-violin-dealing, Luger-packing, Nazi-trading fop. I opened the tin and saw I’d pulled out the wrong one. I admired the tight little joint I’d twisted that morning. I wanted to take it out, have a couple of tokes, pass it around the room, but I feared that might be pushing it. I shoved the tin back into my pocket.
“Get up, Boyer.” Odegard drew the gun.
“What are you doing, Perry?” the violinist screamed.
“Shut up, Liz.”
“That thing’s not even loaded,” I said, on a hunch.
“Want me to try it out on you, asshole?”
I stood, thinking about how long Odegard had been down the hall. Had it taken him that long to change into his suit? Or was he figuring out how to load the gun? As a parlor game, chicken isn’t all it’s made out to be. I thought of my former client Gregory Sands, whose eyes were shot out in this very building because he offended the pride of a couple of imbeciles.
Odegard waved the long pistol back and forth. “Get out of here. I don’t want to see your tired ass again, Boyer, or I’ll blow your brains out.”
I nodded agreeably to the violin dealer, and then pulled my cell phone from my pocket and punched Blossom’s number on my speed dial.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Odegard hollered, moving toward me now. Did the guy intend to shoot me point-blank? Luckily, Blossom answered the first ring. “I’m at the Odegards’ in Loring Park,” I blurted.
“Put that down,” Odegard shouted.
“One fifteen Willow. Le Palais. The guy’s holding a Luger on me and making threats.”
“Put it down!”
I nodded and dropped the phone back into my pocket. “That was my assistant, Blossom. I like to keep her up to speed.”
“Get out of here, Boyer,” Odegard said, waving the gun again.
I’d pushed the guy as far as I should. But I had to push him just a little further. “Come on, Elizabeth, you’re coming with me.”
“The fuck she is,” Odegard shouted.
I spoke directly to the violinist. “I can’t leave you here with this madman. Come on.”
“I’m going to blow your brains out.”
“You already said that, Odegard.” I took a deep breath and thought of a brown pebble dropping into a deep river. “Listen,” I said, “the cops are on their way. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in Stillwater as the candy-ass for a gang of hard guys, I’d put the gun down.”
I stepped slowly toward the violinist, keeping my eye on Odegard, then grabbed hold of the violinist’s arm and led her toward the door.
“You’d better not,” Odegard shouted. He held out his arm with the gun.
“Let go of me,” the violinist shouted. “He’s going to shoot.”
The crazy shit aimed above my head and pulled the trigger. The blast lifted me off the ground. The violinist screamed. Half the known world shattered. Or so it sounded when the floor-to-ceiling hall mirror exploded in a bright metallic shower of glass.
“See, it’s loaded,” Odegard shouted, in awe.
The dude had created his own Kristallnacht in the middle of the morning. As I opened the front door and yanked my sobbing client into the hall and down the stairway, I hollered, “That’s gonna bring a lot of years of bad luck, asshole.”
THE MINNESOTA MARTYRS
“Perry’s not coming after us,” the violinist said as soon as we hit the street.
“What makes you say that?” I asked, leading her across to the park.
“I know what he’s doing.”
“What’s that?”
“Sweeping up the glass. If there’s one thing Perry hates, it’s a mess.”
“Well, he’s certainly made himself a nice one.”
The violinist pulled a handkerchief from her blazer pocket and patted her forehead. “God, it’s hot out here,” she said.
“You’re dressed for winter.”
She unbuttoned her blazer and slipped out of it.
I checked my watch. “It’s hard to believe, but you still have time to get to McCracken’s. Seemed like your husband was holding a gun on me for a couple of days.”
As we approached Harmon Place, I led her out of the park. It seemed safer to be on the sidewalk with other people.
“You shouldn’t have pushed Perry like that,” the violinist said.
“I shouldn’t have pushed him? Your asshole husband shouldn’t have held a loaded gun on me. That wasn’t my idea of fun.”
I opened the yellow passenger door of my forest green Mazda for the violinist.
“This is your car?” she said.
“In all its glory.”
Once the prodigy was buckled in, I drove up Lyndale and made a U-turn a couple of blocks north of McCracken’s, in front of Vera’s, home of the caffeinated happy hour. I pulled a ten-dollar bill from my wallet.
“Elizabeth, would you mind running in and getting me a large Americano? Get yourself whatever you’d like. I’ll be right here.”
The violinist took the ten—she seemed to like the assignment—and said, “Anything you want with the Americano? A muffin, a scone?”
