office.”
At least that was good news. The U.S. mail hadn’t been involved. “You threatened him, Harry.”
“Huh?” He passed a hand over his face.
“You said a guy like him didn’t deserve to live.”
A vague smile returned. “I worked on that letter all night last night. It was my pi&ce de resistance.”
He murdered the French pronunciation, but Sophie got the point. ‘The letter’s been turned over to the police. Yale McGraw, the managing editor, took your words seriously.”
“He should! That Gildemeister is a menace. He’s singlehandedly responsible for ruining my business!”
Sophie could have argued the point, but now wasn’t the time. “Harry, the police are probably going to want to talk to you.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, downing the last of his drink. “They were already here. I was out. I guess I’m supposed to call some sergeant ASAP.”
“Did you?”
“If they want to talk to me, they can come back. I’m not hiding from anyone. I’m a businessman and I’ve got rights.”
“Harry, this is serious!”
“It’s a crock of you-know-what. I’m not gonna hurt that bastard, though I have dreamed of stuffing him in our convection oven and cranking the heat up to broil. Sophie, don’t look so shocked. I just wanted to blow off some steam.”
“The police don’t know that.” The problem was, if she encouraged him to call the officer back now, in his present state, who knew what he’d say?
“Don’t worry,
pikku
Sophia. I’ve got everything under control. As a matter of fact, before long I’m going to be a very rich man.”
He was slurring his words, mixing Finnish with English, so she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. “You’re going to be rich?”
He glanced at her sideways. “I’ve got options. Plans. I always land on my feet. Gildemeister may hate my guts, but this is one guy who’s got tons of
sisu.”
Another Finnish word meaning determination. Not that knowing the definition helped her understand what he meant.
He yanked the bottle away from her and poured himself another drink. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat — in this case, a Gildemeister.” His laugh was more of a cackle.
“Harry, you need to be careful. You’ve got to stay away from George Gildemeister. Promise me you won’t go near him.”
“Hell, sure. You’re so pretty tonight I’d promise you anything.”
He might be old and drunk, but he still knew how to flirt He was laughing so hard now that he spilled half the Scotch lifting the glass to his mouth.
“I think someone should take you home.”
“Nah, I gotta stay here until it’s finished.”
She was losing her patience. “Until what’s finished?”
“My business,” he grunted, turning morose again.
For a moment she thought he might be planning to do something drastic, like burn the building down.
Setting his glass on the counter, he added, “You shouldn’t be sitting here talking to an old man. Go home to that hand some husband of yours. Thank the good Lord every day that you’ve got him,
pikku
Sophia. I’d give anything to have my Lempi back with me.”
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”
“Fine.” He waved her away.
He was a sad man, in a sad situation, but she’d done what she’d come to do. And he was right, she had to get home now. She hoped Bram would be waiting.
Journal Note
Saturday, 11 P.M.
While it s still fresh in my mind, I want to type up my taped interview with Oscar Boland. But first a few general comments: We met at the Lyme House, a restaurant on Lake Harriet in south Minneapolis. It was his choice. The dining room looked inviting, but he wanted to sit in the downstairs pub. Apparently, he goes there quite often. It was too noisy for my taste, but we found a back worn that was less congested than the main one, and I set up the tape
At least that was good news. The U.S. mail hadn’t been involved. “You threatened him, Harry.”
“Huh?” He passed a hand over his face.
“You said a guy like him didn’t deserve to live.”
A vague smile returned. “I worked on that letter all night last night. It was my pi&ce de resistance.”
He murdered the French pronunciation, but Sophie got the point. ‘The letter’s been turned over to the police. Yale McGraw, the managing editor, took your words seriously.”
“He should! That Gildemeister is a menace. He’s singlehandedly responsible for ruining my business!”
Sophie could have argued the point, but now wasn’t the time. “Harry, the police are probably going to want to talk to you.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, downing the last of his drink. “They were already here. I was out. I guess I’m supposed to call some sergeant ASAP.”
“Did you?”
“If they want to talk to me, they can come back. I’m not hiding from anyone. I’m a businessman and I’ve got rights.”
“Harry, this is serious!”
“It’s a crock of you-know-what. I’m not gonna hurt that bastard, though I have dreamed of stuffing him in our convection oven and cranking the heat up to broil. Sophie, don’t look so shocked. I just wanted to blow off some steam.”
“The police don’t know that.” The problem was, if she encouraged him to call the officer back now, in his present state, who knew what he’d say?
“Don’t worry,
pikku
Sophia. I’ve got everything under control. As a matter of fact, before long I’m going to be a very rich man.”
He was slurring his words, mixing Finnish with English, so she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. “You’re going to be rich?”
He glanced at her sideways. “I’ve got options. Plans. I always land on my feet. Gildemeister may hate my guts, but this is one guy who’s got tons of
sisu.”
Another Finnish word meaning determination. Not that knowing the definition helped her understand what he meant.
He yanked the bottle away from her and poured himself another drink. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat — in this case, a Gildemeister.” His laugh was more of a cackle.
“Harry, you need to be careful. You’ve got to stay away from George Gildemeister. Promise me you won’t go near him.”
“Hell, sure. You’re so pretty tonight I’d promise you anything.”
He might be old and drunk, but he still knew how to flirt He was laughing so hard now that he spilled half the Scotch lifting the glass to his mouth.
“I think someone should take you home.”
“Nah, I gotta stay here until it’s finished.”
She was losing her patience. “Until what’s finished?”
“My business,” he grunted, turning morose again.
For a moment she thought he might be planning to do something drastic, like burn the building down.
Setting his glass on the counter, he added, “You shouldn’t be sitting here talking to an old man. Go home to that hand some husband of yours. Thank the good Lord every day that you’ve got him,
pikku
Sophia. I’d give anything to have my Lempi back with me.”
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”
“Fine.” He waved her away.
He was a sad man, in a sad situation, but she’d done what she’d come to do. And he was right, she had to get home now. She hoped Bram would be waiting.
Journal Note
Saturday, 11 P.M.
While it s still fresh in my mind, I want to type up my taped interview with Oscar Boland. But first a few general comments: We met at the Lyme House, a restaurant on Lake Harriet in south Minneapolis. It was his choice. The dining room looked inviting, but he wanted to sit in the downstairs pub. Apparently, he goes there quite often. It was too noisy for my taste, but we found a back worn that was less congested than the main one, and I set up the tape
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