Angela Guthrie - The First Day

Angela Guthrie was upset, more than upset, she was terrified.

She had come to the reading room where she worked, like any other day, only to find the door locked. Her employer, Ingrid Magnusson, was not there and Angela could not get into the store.

She waited outside, feeling conspicuous on Lake Street.

It was a hot August morning, the air was thick with humidity, she feared her make-up would not hold out very long if she had to continue standing in the sun.

In all the time that Angela had been working there, Ingrid had never been late; she had never—not shown up. After about fifteen minutes the anxiety ballooning in the pit of her stomach drove her to walked up Lake, past the Elementary School and down Hennepin Avenue to the bowling Alley across the street from the Granada Theatre where she knew there was a phone she could use to make a call.

She dialed Ingrid’s suite at the National Hotel, there was no answer. She spoke with the front desk at the hotel, they were not able to help her. She left a message there, she wanted Ingrid to know that Angela was doing what she could to get the store open for business. Then she dialed Ingrid’s studio, and still no answer.

As she was walking back to the reading room Angela saw a long black sedan rolling down Hennepin, a chill went up her spine and a wave of nausea rolled through her as she watched it turn onto Lake Street.

Angela knew the car; it belonged to Ingrid’s partner, Karl Thorrson, the new boss of all crime in St. Anthony.

He was a giant with only one eye and a diamond-studded, black-stone in the empty socket.

It was at that moment that the terror set in.

Ingrid and Thorrson came from Sweden, and her twin sister Helga was married to the man, though they lived apart. Ingrid swore that the giant was more than a gangster; she said he was a great sorcerer and necromancer.

Angela had never been forced to deal with him before…not alone, and the prospect of having to talk to him filled her with a deep sense of foreboding.

She did not want to be near the gargantuan if Ingrid was not present.

Nevertheless, she set aside her reservations, suppressed her fears and walked back to the storefront that bore his name on the marquis.

She knew she was expected to be there, and she did not want to give him any reason to doubt her loyalty or competency.

Angela kept her eyes on the black sedan, she watched it pull up in front of the reading room; she watched the monster of a man get out of the back seat, then she watched the car pull away, leaving him alone on the sidewalk.

As she approached him another vehicle pulled up in front of the store and parked, it was gray and clean, and trimmed with fine lines of chrome. The man who got out wore a gray suit, almost silver, just like his car. He was silky and shiny, tall, lean and good looking. Angela thought he was graceful, like a dancer.

The gray man was speaking to Thorrson when Angela stopped in front of them; the gray man looked at her like she was a piece of meant he might carve up on the spot.

She had never met him before, but she knew from that look he gave her that this was Thorrson’s killer, the man Ingrid called The Wolf.

Angela might have been afraid of Karl Thorrson, but she had no fear of his dog. He might be dangerous, but he was an ordinary by Ingrid’s account, the type of man who could not resist her movie-star looks, and that hungry look he gave her told Angela everything she needed to know about him. 

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Ivan “The Wolf” Wolvenson - The First Day

Ivan Wolvenson sat in the back parlor of Karl Thorrson’s home, waiting for his patron to return, sipping from a glass of water.

He had spent much of the evening waiting:

Waiting at the casino for the storm to pass, waiting for the ferry driver at Big Island, who did not have the courage to brave the rough waters.

It had been an exceedingly slow drive through the downpour from Excelsior to Saint Anthony.

Now he was waiting again…and the evening was getting late.

Ivan, who people called “The Wolf,” was pensive.

He didn’t like waiting. He was a man of action, but he never questioned the boss’s orders; whatever else he was, The Wolf was a good dog. He was obedient to his master.

Karl Thorrson had told him to retire to the house in Tangletown, a sleepy neighborhood with lovely cottages on the southside of St. Anthony. The home was on the banks of the narrow rivulet named for the maiden Minnehaha, made famous by the poet Longfellow in his epic The Song of Hiawatha.

The Wolf was fond of reciting it.

His Norwegian grandfather had taken an Ojibwe bride when he came to Minnesota, and he believed the blood of hero’s flowed through his veins.

The Wolf was a killer; he inspired fear in others, but there were few people who would have called him heroic…none in fact, but a wolf did not concern himself with the opinion of sheep, he told himself when the disparity came to mind.

The Wolf sat in the parlor peering into the dark, watching the deluge drench the city.

            The storm was chaotic, and he didn’t like it. Weather like this was not good for business, it gave the pimps and hustlers who worked under him an excuse to cheat, he knew that business would be down, but revenue would be down even more.

Tonight his patron had sidelined him, telling him that he would go alone to the Round-Up to conclude his business with the owner. The one-eyed giant told him that he wanted to take care of the matter himself, that he would not even bring his ordinary muscle, the Ingelson brothers with him.

The Wolf never questioned Karl Thorrson, and he knew that his patron did not require anyone’s protection, it was the appearance that mattered. Even a man like Karl Thorrson benefitted from the projection of force. Both he and the Ingleson brothers represented that force, along with the dozens of other gunmen that did their bidding throughout the city, and they all benefitted from appearing with their patron in public, it bolstered their authority as well. But there was nothing to be done about that now, so he sat in the parlor watching for a break in the clouds or some hint of the moon...waiting for the rain to stop.

The Wolf was pensive; he didn’t like waiting, he was a man of action.

He looked out of the windows, out toward the creek; he could not see it through the rain, but he focused on his breathing and allowed his mind to hover over the flowing water, to enter the stream and flow with it: from Tangletown up-to its headwaters at Lake Minnetonka, then down-stream over the great waterfall, to the Mississippi river, to New Orleans, to the Gulf of Mexico and the wider world beyond.

He found a place of stillness in the current, and quietly recited Longfellow’s poem. 

By the shores of Gitche Gumee

By the shining big-sea water

Stood Nokomis, the old woman,

Pointing with her finger westward,

O'er the water pointing westward,

To the purple clouds of sunset…

          The Wolf waited for his patron’s call. 

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Marie Beguine, A Forrester Maid - The First Day

Marie Beguine returned to the maid’s chamber, attached to Amelie’s suite of rooms in the wing of the Forrester Mansion that was reserved for her and her guests, leaving her mistress alone with the young man her father, the Colonel had brought into the house.

She wasn’t sure if she liked this Johnny Holiday, though she had to admit that he was a handsome fellow, tall and strong with a smooth complexion and a generous smile. He was just the sort of young-man that Amelie was fond of, and because of this old-maid thought it was dangerous to have him living in the house, even if he was downstairs in the Colonel’s guest quarters.

Amelie had already asked Marie for the key to his room, and she planned on giving it to her as soon as she could, even though Nils, the head butler, would be upset with her if he found out. She would much rather face a reprimand from Nils than Amelie’s anger.

The old maid was worried for the Colonel’s older daughter; she had not been herself for months, neither she nor her sister Celene had been behaving properly in her estimation, but Amelie seemed particularly unpredictable, surprising even herself.

Amelie had been drinking heavily, throughout the day and into the evenings. There were several times in recent weeks when she had come to Marie to ask her what time she had come home, or with whom she had been out, what if anything had she might have said about the things she was doing.

Her blackouts were contributing to a deepening sense of paranoia, especially concerning her father and her missing husband, Bjorn Elmquist, who had disappeared around the time that she had begun to spiral out of control.

The other servants in the Forrester mansion had noticed Amelie’s behavior as well, but none of them were as close to her as Marie was. They enjoyed their gossip, but Marie thought of the girl as a daughter, and she wanted her to be happy.

The other ladies in the household said that Amelie had driven her husband away, but Marie believed that something terrible had happened to him, though she did not know what it might be, and she was quietly concerned that Amelie had something to do with it.

Bjorn was her second husband, her first marriage ended in scandal and had been annulled on account of adultery, his not hers, but Marie knew that she had been unfaithful as well.

Amelie had met Bjorn a short time later and after a brief engagement the two of them were married. The old-maid believed she had noticed a change in her mood and behaviors then.

Her husband was a gregarious and fascinating man; Marie loved to eavesdrop when he was telling one of his stories to Amelie’s father.

This new young man, this Johnny-boy, had been hard on Amelie and Marie did not like that. He had excited her nerves causing Amelie to spill her drink. Marie was happy to come in and clean things up, but she could tell that her mistress was deeply embarrassed by the mishap, and it would not have happened at all if Johnny Holiday had simply been more polite with her during their conversation..

He must be something extra special to the Colonel to think that he could get away with that kind of behavior in the Forrester mansion, Marie thought, and if that were the case all of the staff should know to let the boy have plenty of space.

 It would be best if Nils handled his needs directly while he was a guest at the mansion, Marie said to herself.

It would be best.

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