Free Fiddle Game by Richard A. Thompson Page A

heard of a Gypsy violin?”
    “I thought that was just an expression, like Dutch courage or a Chinese fire drill. I didn’t know Gypsies actually made violins.”
    “Make? No. They do not make, they fake. The point of all effort with them is fraud. And they are very good at it. Throughout history, they have complicated the lives of both serious luthiers and their customers. And they have destroyed many fine instruments and many lives. The Nazis should have left the Jews alone and concentrated on the damned Rom, and the world would have thanked them for it.”
    I almost choked on my coffee. “What did you call them?” I asked.
    “Is something wrong, Herr Jackson?”
    “Just tell me what you called them.”
    “Damned Rom? What of it?”
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means I don’t think much of them.”
    “Not the ‘damned,’ the other.”
    “Oh, you mean Rom? It’s what they call themselves. Also their language. Rom, Gypsy, all the same thing. Horrible people. Worse than musicians, which many of them are, as well. If you meet one, grab your wallet and run for your life.”
    “Or kill him?”
    “That would be better, yes.”
    “ Déja vu .”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “I don’t either, but I’m starting to.”
    I took my mug and strolled over to the outside window, deep in thought. A wind had come up while we were talking, and the thrashing branches of an elm tree made monochrome kaleidoscope patterns with the corner street light. Now and then, they illuminated a squat, dark shape in the middle of the block.
    “Is this a tough neighborhood, Mr. Feinstein?”
    “We are old drinking friends now. Call me G.B. And no, I don’t think this is an especially bad area.”
    “Is there always a squad car parked across the street, G.B.?”
    “No. It has been there since late this afternoon.”
    “Do you know why?”
    “I think they are waiting for you, Herr Herman.”
    So much for karma.

Chapter Six
    Flight to Avoid
    I suppose most people would have made a mad dash for the rear exit then and there, but I had used up my panic reflex for the day. I moved away from the window, had another sip of coffee, and looked at the man who had been my host for the past couple of hours.
    “Why do you say they’re looking for me, G.B.?” But even as I said it, I suddenly knew the answer. The name on the shop door, that I hadn’t quite recognized, was also on the certificate of authenticity for the Amati. It was an automatic connection, and I had walked right into it.
    “I’m not positive, mind you. They didn’t tell me a name, only that I should be watching for a man who was looking for a very old violin.”
    “Looking for one? Are you sure they didn’t say he would be bringing one for you to look at?”
    He shook his head. “They said what I just told you. But then, they didn’t strike me as the sharpest tools on the bench, either. They could have got it wrong. They fooled around with my instruments, like a bunch of obnoxious little children, and then they tried to act serious and important. I didn’t like them very much.”
    “Are they still here, in the building?”
    “Only the uniformed officer out in the car, I think. Maybe another one out in front. I haven’t looked there for a while.”
    “So what do you intend to do?”
    “Do? Why would I do anything? I already told you, I didn’t like them.”
    “And that’s it?” I said. “That’s all you need to be willing to harbor a possible fugitive?”
    “I have lived in places where the police know how to intimidate people, Herr Herman. Intimidate and hurt. I assure you, these fellows are amateurs, and not very talented ones at that. I don’t like them, and I do rather like you. Yes, that is all I need. What do you need?”
    I thought about it for a while and then told him.
    ***
    When I went over to the squad car at the curb, the officer inside was busy tapping something into the keyboard of his big onboard computer, which left him looking away