The Man in the Blizzard, page 20
“Hey, Augie, look on the bright side….”
“The bright side. I’ve got a missing client, Bobby.”
“She’ll turn up. Hey, Augie, hell of a piece on Rose.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you read the paper, man? Big spread across the front page of the Arts and Entertainment section today. Your daughter’s a star.”
“Did they say where she was going to be performing?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Good.” I took a final sip of coffee that was full of tarry grounds.
I went out to pick up the paper from the front porch, but it wasn’t there. Rose must have taken it with her. I checked in with her blog.
MINNESOTA ROSE
SCHEDULE PRESS GALLERY LYRICS BLOG ACTION
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Hello Friends,
I want to let you know about the shit that’s going down around the national antiabortion rally tomorrow, Labor Day, on the capitol grounds in Saint Paul. This is the megaevent I came to Minnesota to protest, though I’ll stay on for the Republican convention to see what other damage I can do. But the antiabortion rally is my main concern. Watch the site, as I plan on making several updates a day.
I went out very early this morning to get a feel for the scene. A large crowd of evangelicals is already gathered on the capitol grounds. It’s a kind of tent city turned into a banner-making factory. Kids and even old people are down on their knees with markers and signboards.
The main stage is set up right beneath the capitol. It has an enormous banner that reads: “God Is Pro-Life.” On the east side there are medical stations and tents for women in labor who plan to give birth here. Born Free, the event’s sponsor, is trying to reclaim the term “Labor Day” for the antiabortion movement. I thought that was a hoax at first. I couldn’t believe women would allow themselves to be induced for a cause. But pregnant women are arriving from all over the country and the ones at full term will induce. Apparently, it’s being sold as a great honor, a way to become a true patriot. To my mind, the patriots are abortion doctors, who take great risks to uphold our freedom.
Flash Action: Tomorrow, September 1, at noon, meet up at the site of the counterrally, just south of the capitol grounds in Saint Paul. To demonstrate our solidarity with abortion doctors, always under threat, I’d like everybody to show up in doctor’s whites, a medical face mask, and a stethoscope, if you can round one up. That’s how I’ll be dressed, and the more of us like that, the more powerful the statement we make. The idea comes from the Danes. They wore yellow stars during WWII to be in solidarity with the Jews, who were required by the Nazis to wear yellow stars. Sorry for the short notice on all this. Hope to see a great crowd full of doctors tomorrow.
—Rose
ODE TO GEFILTE FISH
The first person I saw when I got out to Kunz’s house was Lionel Ross. He’d just stepped out of his Buick Century and was walking toward the twin Snoopys.
“Hey, Lion,” I called, “what the hell are you doing here?”
The violin dealer kept walking and said over his shoulder, “Detective Sabbatini asked me to come out.”
I remembered that Sabbatini had bought a couple of violas from the man. “Something the matter, Lion? You’re walking away from me.”
“Damn right, something’s the matter,” Lionel said, turning to face me. The violin dealer had a little round bandage covering the cancer on his right nostril. Damn thing must have gone nasty on him again.
“First you drop a stolen instrument on me, unannounced,” Lion shouted, “and then you don’t return my calls.”
“I’m sorry, Lion. I’ve been running around like a madman.”
“I’ve begun to think you are a madman, Augie.”
Agent Synge, in a khaki sport coat, pressed Levis, and his plantation-style Panama hat, stood in the front hall, grinning at Kunz, when Lion and I walked in.
At the sight of us, Kunz threw his hands into the air. “What is this, an open house? We going to let anybody in here?”
I nodded to Synge and then faced Kunz, who was dressed in a blue blazer with gold buttons, a yellow bow tie, and a pair of pleated gray slacks.
“I’m not anybody, Kunz,” I said, “I’m the thorn in your side. And this gentleman is Lionel Ross. He knows violins like you could only dream to.”
“Lion’s Stringed Instruments on LaSalle. I know you,” Kunz said, giving Lion a friendly smile.
“Well, I don’t want to know you,” the violin dealer said.
Synge laughed and shook Lionel’s hand. “Francis Synge,” he said, “FBI. Thanks very much for coming out, Mr. Ross.”
Synge turned to Kunz and flashed his monkey smile. “So, you never told me how your pastrami was yesterday, Mr. Kunz. And those boys you were with, I’ve been wondering about them. They didn’t exactly look like your people. That’s always been one of the most interesting things to me about crime—the way the classes interact. It’s a sociological wonder, don’t you think? United in crime. I mean, none of those guys looked like the kind of people you’d have over for an evening of quartets in the mansion. Am I right?”
Kunz looked directly at Synge but did not answer.
“Who exactly were they, those gentlemen, Mr. Kunz? We’ve got their pictures, so we’ll figure it out. But it’d sure be nice to talk with you a little. We could send out for some sandwiches. I tell you, I could go for a Russian Reuben right now. How about you guys?”
“Sure,” Lion said, nodding.
“I don’t know,” I said, “I think I’m more in the mood for a bagel dog.”
“All right,” Synge said. “And you, Mr. Kunz?”
Kunz remained mute.
Synge took out a notepad and started scribbling. “Okay, so far we got two Russian Reubens, a bagel dog, and the beginning of a hunger strike. I’m feeling pretty confident I can put Sabbatini down for a third Reuben. I’m thinking coleslaw all around, a little bucket of pickles…last chance, Mr. Kunz; care for a bowl of matzo ball soup?”
“Hey, Augie,” Sabbatini said, walking toward us from the direction of the library. Bobby was dressed in a maize-colored suit and his crocodile shoes. A large blond man with a baby face, a plainclothes cop, walked beside him. “This is Dave St. Clair, Woodbury chief of police.
I shook hands with St. Clair and introduced Lionel around.
“Mr. Ross,” Sabbatini said, shaking Lion’s hand with vigor, “I’m so glad to see you again. We’ve got some instruments out here that I’m sure you’ll find interesting.”
“I can’t believe you let them all in here, Davy,” Kunz said. “Where the hell’s my lawyer? Don’t I have the right to have my lawyer here?”
“First things first,” Synge said. “Bobby, we’re sending out for a little repast. I’ve got you down for a Russian Reuben.”
“Sounds great.”
“Dave, you care for one?”
“Sure.”
“All right, that gives us four Russian Reubens and a bagel dog.”
Kunz looked at the Woodbury chief. “This is ridiculous,” he said.
Synge, who had his phone out, said, “It’s not too late, Mr. Kunz; we can still put you down for some gefilte fish. Gefilte fish is one of the wonders of the world, if you ask me. Bobby, you ever seen a poem about gefilte fish?”
Sabbatini shook his head.
Synge threw his hands in the air. “If Neruda can write odes to conger chowder, to the onion and the artichoke, I don’t see why somebody can’t write one to gefilte fish.”
Sabbatini nodded. “I think the territory is open for you, Frankie.”
“Yeah, I’ll try it after I finish my sestina to celery root.”
Kunz turned toward the Woodbury chief. “Why do I have to put up with this inanity?”
Synge flashed the rest of us his Cheney-twist-mouth smile, and said, “He thinks we’re inane.”
Everybody, except for Kunz, roared with laughter. Even Lion hooted, and the Woodbury chief giggled enough to get his milk mustache rippling.
“And I’m sure that’s a phony search warrant,” Kunz said.
“There’s nothing phony about it, Fred,” the big blond man said.
“Wait,” Frankie Synge said, “I think I’ve got the first line. ‘How much easier to salute the stately salmon than the gelatinous gefilte.’”
“Oh, yes,” Sabbatini said, “you can go anywhere from there, Frankie.”
I’M NOBODY, WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?
As Synge stood back to make a phone call, I stepped toward Kunz. “Where have you stashed your niece?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You have her somewhere?”
Kunz squinted at me. “You’re nobody, Boyer.”
“I’m nobody and, to give Emily a tweak, who the fuck are you?”
“That was good, Augie,” Sabbatini said.
“How about your wife?” I asked Kunz.
“She’s out of town for the weekend.”
“That’s convenient.”
“And Galina?”
“She’s got the day off.”
“She gets a lot of days off. Maybe that’s because you have her working nights.”
Kunz turned to the side and straightened his bow tie.
Synge flipped his phone shut, and said, “All of us are here; we might as well get started. My daughter’s bringing out the chow from Cecil’s. I figure we’re going to be here awhile. I’ve got a couple of more agents coming, each with a van, but we don’t have to wait for them.”
Sabbatini looked at the Woodbury chief. “Dave, how about sticking with Mr. Kunz?”
“You don’t have my permission to search this house,” Kunz shouted, and then made the mistake of reaching into his pocket.
“Hold it!” Sabbatini said, drawing his sidearm.
“I was just getting my phone.”
“Careful,” I called, “this asshole pulled a gun on me the other day.”
“Take your hand out of your pocket. Put your hands in the air,” Synge said, his gun drawn and aimed at Kunz as well.
Sabbatini had Kunz’s hands cuffed behind him in a flash. After a quick frisk, Sabbatini reached into Kunz’s front pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and flipped it over to Frankie Synge.
“I was just going to call my lawyer. See where the hell he is.”
“We have phones down at the station. Should we run him in, Frank?” Sabbatini wondered.
“Let’s do the search, first. Mr. Kunz can stay here with the chief and enjoy the spectacle.”
I was beginning to enjoy the spectacle. Nice to have the guns aimed at someone else. Even Lionel, who was bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet, seemed to be getting a kick out of the action.
“You can’t leave me in handcuffs,” Kunz shouted.
“They’re not very comfortable, are they?” Synge said with a nod of sympathy. “If you want to talk with us, tell us who you’ve contacted about the doctors, we’d be happy to take those cuffs off.”
Kunz held his head high. “I’m not talking to you, not without a lawyer. I know my rights. And you can’t tie me to your fantasy plot with a bunch of phony e-mails that anybody could have written.”
“You’re already tied, Mr. Kunz, and now you’re cuffed. And if anything should happen to one of these doctors this weekend, you’re going to go away for a long time, maybe the rest of your life.”
“You guys,” Kunz said, turning from Synge to Sabbatini, “are so ineffectual at your jobs that you make up fantasy crimes. You’re like a bunch of old high school athletes, like Dave here,” he said, nodding to the baby-faced Woodbury chief, “who, instead of sitting around playing fantasy baseball, play fantasy crime. Why not buy yourself a good video game instead of harassing law-abiding citizens?”
Synge massaged the two-day growth on his chin for a moment. “I don’t know if it’s in your best interest to offend us, Mr. Kunz. Listen, I happen to be a Catholic and I’m opposed to abortion. But the law of the land gives a woman the right to have an abortion, and I’m sworn to do everything in my power to protect that law.” Synge took off his sport coat and tossed it over a small table. His revolver was now visible, tucked in its shoulder holster. “I’m warning you right now that if you’ve set anything in motion that interferes with the law, you’re going to be severely punished, Kunz.” Synge reached into his pocket and pulled out Kunz’s cell phone and put it into the man’s cuffed hands. “So, call it off right now. Because we’re not going to stand for some Nazi-loving pansy in a blazer taking the law into his own hands.”
“Hear, hear,” Sabbatini said.
“There’s a higher law,” Kunz shouted, “you self-righteous prick. You think you’re going to your Catholic heaven for protecting murderers? You’re going to get yours.”
“Are you making a threat, Mr. Kunz?” Synge asked.
“I’m not making any threats; I don’t need to. But here’s a fact,” Kunz said, nodding his head toward Synge, “not a threat, but a fact. I’m going to sue your ass for everything you’re worth.”
“It’s not much, I’m afraid, Mr. Kunz.” Synge chuckled. “I’m putting my daughter through college and I have a wife who doesn’t work. It’s old school, I know, but I like it that way. I’ve refinanced my house so many times that there’s hardly any equity in it. But my wife does have a very nice collection of clocks. She’s got grandfathers, Big Bens, cuckoos. An art deco clock that’s a real beauty. She’s big into nostalgia clocks. I bet she’s the only person on our block to have both an Annette Funicello clock and a Fatty Arbuckle. I got to tell you, the Fatty Arbuckle clocks are rare. So, worse comes to worst, we sell the clocks.”
Sabbatini and I began laughing hard and were joined pretty soon by the Woodbury chief. Lion, with a smile on his face, bounced up and down on the balls of his feet.
“Let’s go,” Synge said, “and see what we can find in this dump.”
Synge and Sabbatini started up the hall.
Kunz shouted after them, “The hell you’re going to search my house.”
“Not just this house, Mr. Kunz,” Synge said, turning back. “We’ve also got a warrant for White Bear Lake. I hear that’s where you keep most of your Nazi crap.”
“You can’t go out there.” Kunz looked from face to face to see if this was some sort of joke.
“Sure we can,” Synge said. He faced the Woodbury chief. “He thinks that because he bankrolled the Police Athletic League, and has a recreation center named after him, that he can keep Woodbury law enforcement eating out of his hand.”
“To hell with that,” the big blond man said. He waved a folder at Kunz. “We’ve got the warrants right here, Fred.”
Kunz rolled his eyes. “I’m sure they’re phony. How do you get a search warrant on a Sunday morning?”
Synge flashed his monkey grin. “Believe it or not, we have the governor in our corner, Herr Kunz.”
ONE-UPPING HITLER
I led Lion down to the sunken, marble-floored gallery where the instruments were encased.
“My God,” Lion said as he walked from one glass display to another. He took a small pad from his shirt pocket and began making notes. “I’ve never seen anything like this. The man has collected some legendary instruments. I’ve heard about this Carlo Bergonzi, and the del Gesù. Christ, half the world’s been looking for that instrument. It was owned by a violinist in Vienna named Mosky. Supposedly, Heifetz and Mischa Elman played it when they traveled through Vienna. I’d just like to hold it for a minute. It’s been years since I’ve had a del Gesù in my hands.”
I was surprised to see tears welling in Lionel’s eyes. “We’ll see if we can get the case open, Lion, so you can hold it.”
“Do you realize the arrogance of this man?” Lion said as he continued walking past violins. “He makes a point of showing off when and where each instrument was captured. Do you know how many broken dreams are in this room? This man one-upped Hitler. He got to do something the Führer wasn’t able to do—gloat over the Nazis’ plunder.”
“He said he was having friends in town this weekend who could really appreciate the collection.”
“Who the hell would that be?” Lion asked. “The Sheikh of Araby?”
“He said he was still missing an instrument or two.”
“Like that Guad.”
“Wonder why Odegard didn’t sell it to him, Lion.”
“Probably waiting for his price.”
“What do you s’pose it’s worth?”
“Well over a million.”
I shook my head. “Nobody’s getting it now.” I gazed around the huge room. “It’d be nice to return these instruments to their rightful owners. To their heirs.”
“That would be a lifetime’s work, Augie, but worthwhile, certainly worthwhile.”
THE BIG STINK
An hour and a half later, after helping Sabbatini, Synge, and a couple of more agents haul three computers and a half-dozen file cabinets to the van, Synge’s pretty, dark-haired daughter, Maria, arrived with two large sacks from Cecil’s.
“Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I got lost on the way.”
“Happens to me all the time,” I said, and introduced myself.
“Are you Rose’s father?” she asked.
“That’s my claim to fame.”
“I admire her,” Maria said simply, nodding her head a few times for emphasis.
Synge gave his daughter a hug and handed her two fifty-dollar bills from his wallet. When the rest of us started pulling out money, Synge waved us off. “It’s on me, fellas. You can all buy me a sandwich after Mr. Kunz sues me for all I’m worth.”
Synge had ordered a couple of extra Reubens for the late-arriving agents, and even offered half of his own sandwich to Kunz, who only glared back at him. I looked around at the others, who, like me, leaned against a wall in the entry hall, quietly devouring their sandwiches. Like horses, I thought, eating at the trough.
When Sabbatini and the Woodbury chief led Kunz out the front door, he went crazy. Standing between the Snoopy sculptures, he hollered, “I’m just trying to save lives. The lives of innocents.”
“The bright side. I’ve got a missing client, Bobby.”
“She’ll turn up. Hey, Augie, hell of a piece on Rose.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you read the paper, man? Big spread across the front page of the Arts and Entertainment section today. Your daughter’s a star.”
“Did they say where she was going to be performing?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Good.” I took a final sip of coffee that was full of tarry grounds.
I went out to pick up the paper from the front porch, but it wasn’t there. Rose must have taken it with her. I checked in with her blog.
MINNESOTA ROSE
SCHEDULE PRESS GALLERY LYRICS BLOG ACTION
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Hello Friends,
I want to let you know about the shit that’s going down around the national antiabortion rally tomorrow, Labor Day, on the capitol grounds in Saint Paul. This is the megaevent I came to Minnesota to protest, though I’ll stay on for the Republican convention to see what other damage I can do. But the antiabortion rally is my main concern. Watch the site, as I plan on making several updates a day.
I went out very early this morning to get a feel for the scene. A large crowd of evangelicals is already gathered on the capitol grounds. It’s a kind of tent city turned into a banner-making factory. Kids and even old people are down on their knees with markers and signboards.
The main stage is set up right beneath the capitol. It has an enormous banner that reads: “God Is Pro-Life.” On the east side there are medical stations and tents for women in labor who plan to give birth here. Born Free, the event’s sponsor, is trying to reclaim the term “Labor Day” for the antiabortion movement. I thought that was a hoax at first. I couldn’t believe women would allow themselves to be induced for a cause. But pregnant women are arriving from all over the country and the ones at full term will induce. Apparently, it’s being sold as a great honor, a way to become a true patriot. To my mind, the patriots are abortion doctors, who take great risks to uphold our freedom.
Flash Action: Tomorrow, September 1, at noon, meet up at the site of the counterrally, just south of the capitol grounds in Saint Paul. To demonstrate our solidarity with abortion doctors, always under threat, I’d like everybody to show up in doctor’s whites, a medical face mask, and a stethoscope, if you can round one up. That’s how I’ll be dressed, and the more of us like that, the more powerful the statement we make. The idea comes from the Danes. They wore yellow stars during WWII to be in solidarity with the Jews, who were required by the Nazis to wear yellow stars. Sorry for the short notice on all this. Hope to see a great crowd full of doctors tomorrow.
—Rose
ODE TO GEFILTE FISH
The first person I saw when I got out to Kunz’s house was Lionel Ross. He’d just stepped out of his Buick Century and was walking toward the twin Snoopys.
“Hey, Lion,” I called, “what the hell are you doing here?”
The violin dealer kept walking and said over his shoulder, “Detective Sabbatini asked me to come out.”
I remembered that Sabbatini had bought a couple of violas from the man. “Something the matter, Lion? You’re walking away from me.”
“Damn right, something’s the matter,” Lionel said, turning to face me. The violin dealer had a little round bandage covering the cancer on his right nostril. Damn thing must have gone nasty on him again.
“First you drop a stolen instrument on me, unannounced,” Lion shouted, “and then you don’t return my calls.”
“I’m sorry, Lion. I’ve been running around like a madman.”
“I’ve begun to think you are a madman, Augie.”
Agent Synge, in a khaki sport coat, pressed Levis, and his plantation-style Panama hat, stood in the front hall, grinning at Kunz, when Lion and I walked in.
At the sight of us, Kunz threw his hands into the air. “What is this, an open house? We going to let anybody in here?”
I nodded to Synge and then faced Kunz, who was dressed in a blue blazer with gold buttons, a yellow bow tie, and a pair of pleated gray slacks.
“I’m not anybody, Kunz,” I said, “I’m the thorn in your side. And this gentleman is Lionel Ross. He knows violins like you could only dream to.”
“Lion’s Stringed Instruments on LaSalle. I know you,” Kunz said, giving Lion a friendly smile.
“Well, I don’t want to know you,” the violin dealer said.
Synge laughed and shook Lionel’s hand. “Francis Synge,” he said, “FBI. Thanks very much for coming out, Mr. Ross.”
Synge turned to Kunz and flashed his monkey smile. “So, you never told me how your pastrami was yesterday, Mr. Kunz. And those boys you were with, I’ve been wondering about them. They didn’t exactly look like your people. That’s always been one of the most interesting things to me about crime—the way the classes interact. It’s a sociological wonder, don’t you think? United in crime. I mean, none of those guys looked like the kind of people you’d have over for an evening of quartets in the mansion. Am I right?”
Kunz looked directly at Synge but did not answer.
“Who exactly were they, those gentlemen, Mr. Kunz? We’ve got their pictures, so we’ll figure it out. But it’d sure be nice to talk with you a little. We could send out for some sandwiches. I tell you, I could go for a Russian Reuben right now. How about you guys?”
“Sure,” Lion said, nodding.
“I don’t know,” I said, “I think I’m more in the mood for a bagel dog.”
“All right,” Synge said. “And you, Mr. Kunz?”
Kunz remained mute.
Synge took out a notepad and started scribbling. “Okay, so far we got two Russian Reubens, a bagel dog, and the beginning of a hunger strike. I’m feeling pretty confident I can put Sabbatini down for a third Reuben. I’m thinking coleslaw all around, a little bucket of pickles…last chance, Mr. Kunz; care for a bowl of matzo ball soup?”
“Hey, Augie,” Sabbatini said, walking toward us from the direction of the library. Bobby was dressed in a maize-colored suit and his crocodile shoes. A large blond man with a baby face, a plainclothes cop, walked beside him. “This is Dave St. Clair, Woodbury chief of police.
I shook hands with St. Clair and introduced Lionel around.
“Mr. Ross,” Sabbatini said, shaking Lion’s hand with vigor, “I’m so glad to see you again. We’ve got some instruments out here that I’m sure you’ll find interesting.”
“I can’t believe you let them all in here, Davy,” Kunz said. “Where the hell’s my lawyer? Don’t I have the right to have my lawyer here?”
“First things first,” Synge said. “Bobby, we’re sending out for a little repast. I’ve got you down for a Russian Reuben.”
“Sounds great.”
“Dave, you care for one?”
“Sure.”
“All right, that gives us four Russian Reubens and a bagel dog.”
Kunz looked at the Woodbury chief. “This is ridiculous,” he said.
Synge, who had his phone out, said, “It’s not too late, Mr. Kunz; we can still put you down for some gefilte fish. Gefilte fish is one of the wonders of the world, if you ask me. Bobby, you ever seen a poem about gefilte fish?”
Sabbatini shook his head.
Synge threw his hands in the air. “If Neruda can write odes to conger chowder, to the onion and the artichoke, I don’t see why somebody can’t write one to gefilte fish.”
Sabbatini nodded. “I think the territory is open for you, Frankie.”
“Yeah, I’ll try it after I finish my sestina to celery root.”
Kunz turned toward the Woodbury chief. “Why do I have to put up with this inanity?”
Synge flashed the rest of us his Cheney-twist-mouth smile, and said, “He thinks we’re inane.”
Everybody, except for Kunz, roared with laughter. Even Lion hooted, and the Woodbury chief giggled enough to get his milk mustache rippling.
“And I’m sure that’s a phony search warrant,” Kunz said.
“There’s nothing phony about it, Fred,” the big blond man said.
“Wait,” Frankie Synge said, “I think I’ve got the first line. ‘How much easier to salute the stately salmon than the gelatinous gefilte.’”
“Oh, yes,” Sabbatini said, “you can go anywhere from there, Frankie.”
I’M NOBODY, WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?
As Synge stood back to make a phone call, I stepped toward Kunz. “Where have you stashed your niece?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You have her somewhere?”
Kunz squinted at me. “You’re nobody, Boyer.”
“I’m nobody and, to give Emily a tweak, who the fuck are you?”
“That was good, Augie,” Sabbatini said.
“How about your wife?” I asked Kunz.
“She’s out of town for the weekend.”
“That’s convenient.”
“And Galina?”
“She’s got the day off.”
“She gets a lot of days off. Maybe that’s because you have her working nights.”
Kunz turned to the side and straightened his bow tie.
Synge flipped his phone shut, and said, “All of us are here; we might as well get started. My daughter’s bringing out the chow from Cecil’s. I figure we’re going to be here awhile. I’ve got a couple of more agents coming, each with a van, but we don’t have to wait for them.”
Sabbatini looked at the Woodbury chief. “Dave, how about sticking with Mr. Kunz?”
“You don’t have my permission to search this house,” Kunz shouted, and then made the mistake of reaching into his pocket.
“Hold it!” Sabbatini said, drawing his sidearm.
“I was just getting my phone.”
“Careful,” I called, “this asshole pulled a gun on me the other day.”
“Take your hand out of your pocket. Put your hands in the air,” Synge said, his gun drawn and aimed at Kunz as well.
Sabbatini had Kunz’s hands cuffed behind him in a flash. After a quick frisk, Sabbatini reached into Kunz’s front pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and flipped it over to Frankie Synge.
“I was just going to call my lawyer. See where the hell he is.”
“We have phones down at the station. Should we run him in, Frank?” Sabbatini wondered.
“Let’s do the search, first. Mr. Kunz can stay here with the chief and enjoy the spectacle.”
I was beginning to enjoy the spectacle. Nice to have the guns aimed at someone else. Even Lionel, who was bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet, seemed to be getting a kick out of the action.
“You can’t leave me in handcuffs,” Kunz shouted.
“They’re not very comfortable, are they?” Synge said with a nod of sympathy. “If you want to talk with us, tell us who you’ve contacted about the doctors, we’d be happy to take those cuffs off.”
Kunz held his head high. “I’m not talking to you, not without a lawyer. I know my rights. And you can’t tie me to your fantasy plot with a bunch of phony e-mails that anybody could have written.”
“You’re already tied, Mr. Kunz, and now you’re cuffed. And if anything should happen to one of these doctors this weekend, you’re going to go away for a long time, maybe the rest of your life.”
“You guys,” Kunz said, turning from Synge to Sabbatini, “are so ineffectual at your jobs that you make up fantasy crimes. You’re like a bunch of old high school athletes, like Dave here,” he said, nodding to the baby-faced Woodbury chief, “who, instead of sitting around playing fantasy baseball, play fantasy crime. Why not buy yourself a good video game instead of harassing law-abiding citizens?”
Synge massaged the two-day growth on his chin for a moment. “I don’t know if it’s in your best interest to offend us, Mr. Kunz. Listen, I happen to be a Catholic and I’m opposed to abortion. But the law of the land gives a woman the right to have an abortion, and I’m sworn to do everything in my power to protect that law.” Synge took off his sport coat and tossed it over a small table. His revolver was now visible, tucked in its shoulder holster. “I’m warning you right now that if you’ve set anything in motion that interferes with the law, you’re going to be severely punished, Kunz.” Synge reached into his pocket and pulled out Kunz’s cell phone and put it into the man’s cuffed hands. “So, call it off right now. Because we’re not going to stand for some Nazi-loving pansy in a blazer taking the law into his own hands.”
“Hear, hear,” Sabbatini said.
“There’s a higher law,” Kunz shouted, “you self-righteous prick. You think you’re going to your Catholic heaven for protecting murderers? You’re going to get yours.”
“Are you making a threat, Mr. Kunz?” Synge asked.
“I’m not making any threats; I don’t need to. But here’s a fact,” Kunz said, nodding his head toward Synge, “not a threat, but a fact. I’m going to sue your ass for everything you’re worth.”
“It’s not much, I’m afraid, Mr. Kunz.” Synge chuckled. “I’m putting my daughter through college and I have a wife who doesn’t work. It’s old school, I know, but I like it that way. I’ve refinanced my house so many times that there’s hardly any equity in it. But my wife does have a very nice collection of clocks. She’s got grandfathers, Big Bens, cuckoos. An art deco clock that’s a real beauty. She’s big into nostalgia clocks. I bet she’s the only person on our block to have both an Annette Funicello clock and a Fatty Arbuckle. I got to tell you, the Fatty Arbuckle clocks are rare. So, worse comes to worst, we sell the clocks.”
Sabbatini and I began laughing hard and were joined pretty soon by the Woodbury chief. Lion, with a smile on his face, bounced up and down on the balls of his feet.
“Let’s go,” Synge said, “and see what we can find in this dump.”
Synge and Sabbatini started up the hall.
Kunz shouted after them, “The hell you’re going to search my house.”
“Not just this house, Mr. Kunz,” Synge said, turning back. “We’ve also got a warrant for White Bear Lake. I hear that’s where you keep most of your Nazi crap.”
“You can’t go out there.” Kunz looked from face to face to see if this was some sort of joke.
“Sure we can,” Synge said. He faced the Woodbury chief. “He thinks that because he bankrolled the Police Athletic League, and has a recreation center named after him, that he can keep Woodbury law enforcement eating out of his hand.”
“To hell with that,” the big blond man said. He waved a folder at Kunz. “We’ve got the warrants right here, Fred.”
Kunz rolled his eyes. “I’m sure they’re phony. How do you get a search warrant on a Sunday morning?”
Synge flashed his monkey grin. “Believe it or not, we have the governor in our corner, Herr Kunz.”
ONE-UPPING HITLER
I led Lion down to the sunken, marble-floored gallery where the instruments were encased.
“My God,” Lion said as he walked from one glass display to another. He took a small pad from his shirt pocket and began making notes. “I’ve never seen anything like this. The man has collected some legendary instruments. I’ve heard about this Carlo Bergonzi, and the del Gesù. Christ, half the world’s been looking for that instrument. It was owned by a violinist in Vienna named Mosky. Supposedly, Heifetz and Mischa Elman played it when they traveled through Vienna. I’d just like to hold it for a minute. It’s been years since I’ve had a del Gesù in my hands.”
I was surprised to see tears welling in Lionel’s eyes. “We’ll see if we can get the case open, Lion, so you can hold it.”
“Do you realize the arrogance of this man?” Lion said as he continued walking past violins. “He makes a point of showing off when and where each instrument was captured. Do you know how many broken dreams are in this room? This man one-upped Hitler. He got to do something the Führer wasn’t able to do—gloat over the Nazis’ plunder.”
“He said he was having friends in town this weekend who could really appreciate the collection.”
“Who the hell would that be?” Lion asked. “The Sheikh of Araby?”
“He said he was still missing an instrument or two.”
“Like that Guad.”
“Wonder why Odegard didn’t sell it to him, Lion.”
“Probably waiting for his price.”
“What do you s’pose it’s worth?”
“Well over a million.”
I shook my head. “Nobody’s getting it now.” I gazed around the huge room. “It’d be nice to return these instruments to their rightful owners. To their heirs.”
“That would be a lifetime’s work, Augie, but worthwhile, certainly worthwhile.”
THE BIG STINK
An hour and a half later, after helping Sabbatini, Synge, and a couple of more agents haul three computers and a half-dozen file cabinets to the van, Synge’s pretty, dark-haired daughter, Maria, arrived with two large sacks from Cecil’s.
“Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I got lost on the way.”
“Happens to me all the time,” I said, and introduced myself.
“Are you Rose’s father?” she asked.
“That’s my claim to fame.”
“I admire her,” Maria said simply, nodding her head a few times for emphasis.
Synge gave his daughter a hug and handed her two fifty-dollar bills from his wallet. When the rest of us started pulling out money, Synge waved us off. “It’s on me, fellas. You can all buy me a sandwich after Mr. Kunz sues me for all I’m worth.”
Synge had ordered a couple of extra Reubens for the late-arriving agents, and even offered half of his own sandwich to Kunz, who only glared back at him. I looked around at the others, who, like me, leaned against a wall in the entry hall, quietly devouring their sandwiches. Like horses, I thought, eating at the trough.
When Sabbatini and the Woodbury chief led Kunz out the front door, he went crazy. Standing between the Snoopy sculptures, he hollered, “I’m just trying to save lives. The lives of innocents.”
