From the Tales of Saint Anthony, the Johnny Holiday Mysteries
These short stories follow the lives of people who populate the fictional city of Saint Anthony (Minneapolis, Minnesota), and make their appearance in the first Johnny Holiday novel, The...
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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