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Authors: Richard A. Thompson
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said.
Finally, he put down the chisel and looked up. “Then why are you here? Feinstein is the master. Everybody who comes here is looking for an instrument.” He spoke with a slight accent that might have been German. It made him sound dignified and maybe important.
I held out a package of warm cinnamon rolls in their steamed-up plastic wrap.
“Got any coffee?” I said.
“I can make some macht schnell .” German, it was. “You are proposing an exchange?”
“More like share and share alike.”
“Sharing is good.” If his eyes had been heat lamps, the plastic wrap would have melted. “What is, as they say, the catcher?”
“I’m also looking for some information.”
“I got out of the spy business years ago. What kind of information?”
“Information about old violins,” I said.
“Ah, yes. Well. Now, that would be quite another matter. What I do know about old violins could fill books. How much time do you have?”
I thought about the alleged police stakeout, and the fact that wherever it was, it did not appear to be in this workshop.
“For once in my life,” I said, “time is not a problem.”
Chapter Five
Cinnamon Rolls and Other Weighty Topics
I followed Feinstein to the back of the shop, where he cleared glue pots and strange-looking tools off a counter and fired up an industrial gas ring burner. He brewed his coffee in a way I had heard of but never seen before, boiling the grounds, all unfiltered, in an enameled metal pot and then throwing in a raw egg to collect the grits. He measured the grounds with his hand, and the water not at all. Four fistfuls to a splash or two. I didn’t want to know what he did with the egg afterwards.
“For the instruments, I have precision, instinct, and soul,” he said. “But first and always, precision. For coffee, however, one needs only instinct.”
“Was I complaining?”
“You looked skeptical.”
“Sorry. Sometimes, that’s the only look I’ve got. Probably comes from the Scottish side of my family.”
“Poor fellow. I’ll ignore it, then. Now, let us see if those rolls are still hot enough to melt butter.”
He opened a drawer in a wooden parts cabinet and took out a dish with a slab of pale yellow stuff and a small spatula. My heart threatened to rat me out to my doctor later, and I told it to shut up and enjoy itself. I can always give up doctors, but real butter, on hot rolls, is a biological imperative. The rich smell of the boiling coffee began to overcome the atmosphere of hide glue, varnish, and musty-sweet wood dust, as we ripped open a package of rolls and performed the definitive melt-test. The butter didn’t go all the way to drizzly-flowy, but it slumped down agreeably, mixing with the white frosting, and we pronounced it a success. I inhaled the first roll, I think. Never even put a tooth mark in it. Then I slowed down and savored the next one a bit. The instrument man looked me over between bites and talked around a mouthful of dough and topping.
“You will forgive the possible presumption, mein Herr , but I don’t see you as quite seedy enough to be a musician or wealthy enough to be a serious collector. What is your interest in old violins, exactly?”
“No apology needed. I should have introduced myself before.” I wiped off my hand on my pocket lining, gave him a business card, and told him my name. “I’m a bail bondsman, and I seem to have acquired an old violin as a security forfeit. I don’t know what it’s worth on the open market, but one person may have literally died for it, and at least two others are willing to break the law to get their hands on it. I’d like to figure out why.”
“A good story.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it was a lie. Fine violins often have an air of intrigue about them. The great ones, tragedy and perhaps even death. So a good, preferably dark, story is appropriate. It’s no guarantee of quality, mind you, but it’s a start.”
He took
Finally, he put down the chisel and looked up. “Then why are you here? Feinstein is the master. Everybody who comes here is looking for an instrument.” He spoke with a slight accent that might have been German. It made him sound dignified and maybe important.
I held out a package of warm cinnamon rolls in their steamed-up plastic wrap.
“Got any coffee?” I said.
“I can make some macht schnell .” German, it was. “You are proposing an exchange?”
“More like share and share alike.”
“Sharing is good.” If his eyes had been heat lamps, the plastic wrap would have melted. “What is, as they say, the catcher?”
“I’m also looking for some information.”
“I got out of the spy business years ago. What kind of information?”
“Information about old violins,” I said.
“Ah, yes. Well. Now, that would be quite another matter. What I do know about old violins could fill books. How much time do you have?”
I thought about the alleged police stakeout, and the fact that wherever it was, it did not appear to be in this workshop.
“For once in my life,” I said, “time is not a problem.”
Chapter Five
Cinnamon Rolls and Other Weighty Topics
I followed Feinstein to the back of the shop, where he cleared glue pots and strange-looking tools off a counter and fired up an industrial gas ring burner. He brewed his coffee in a way I had heard of but never seen before, boiling the grounds, all unfiltered, in an enameled metal pot and then throwing in a raw egg to collect the grits. He measured the grounds with his hand, and the water not at all. Four fistfuls to a splash or two. I didn’t want to know what he did with the egg afterwards.
“For the instruments, I have precision, instinct, and soul,” he said. “But first and always, precision. For coffee, however, one needs only instinct.”
“Was I complaining?”
“You looked skeptical.”
“Sorry. Sometimes, that’s the only look I’ve got. Probably comes from the Scottish side of my family.”
“Poor fellow. I’ll ignore it, then. Now, let us see if those rolls are still hot enough to melt butter.”
He opened a drawer in a wooden parts cabinet and took out a dish with a slab of pale yellow stuff and a small spatula. My heart threatened to rat me out to my doctor later, and I told it to shut up and enjoy itself. I can always give up doctors, but real butter, on hot rolls, is a biological imperative. The rich smell of the boiling coffee began to overcome the atmosphere of hide glue, varnish, and musty-sweet wood dust, as we ripped open a package of rolls and performed the definitive melt-test. The butter didn’t go all the way to drizzly-flowy, but it slumped down agreeably, mixing with the white frosting, and we pronounced it a success. I inhaled the first roll, I think. Never even put a tooth mark in it. Then I slowed down and savored the next one a bit. The instrument man looked me over between bites and talked around a mouthful of dough and topping.
“You will forgive the possible presumption, mein Herr , but I don’t see you as quite seedy enough to be a musician or wealthy enough to be a serious collector. What is your interest in old violins, exactly?”
“No apology needed. I should have introduced myself before.” I wiped off my hand on my pocket lining, gave him a business card, and told him my name. “I’m a bail bondsman, and I seem to have acquired an old violin as a security forfeit. I don’t know what it’s worth on the open market, but one person may have literally died for it, and at least two others are willing to break the law to get their hands on it. I’d like to figure out why.”
“A good story.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it was a lie. Fine violins often have an air of intrigue about them. The great ones, tragedy and perhaps even death. So a good, preferably dark, story is appropriate. It’s no guarantee of quality, mind you, but it’s a start.”
He took
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