The Violin Conspiracy(74)

“What the—”

“You did such a fine job tonight,” Andrea said. She sounded earnest, but he somehow thought she was mocking him.

“Why are you here? Are you following me?”

“We know you’re often traveling, so we just wanted to see for ourselves that you’re taking good care of our violin,” Dante explained.

Heat surged through Ray. Our violin. The words lay on the pavement, cold and dead, like something run-over. He took a step forward. “I don’t know what drugs you two freaks are doing that make you think you can follow me around, but let me make it clear to you: This is my violin. I’ll say it again. My violin. It belonged to my great-great-grandfather and now it’s mine. You’re out of your fucking minds if you think you’re getting your dirty fingers on it.”

“Rayquese, or whatever the hell your name is,” Andrea said, “we are getting that violin back. If you think you have a chance in hell of keeping it, you better think again.”

The tall man loomed over all of them, glancing around as if waiting for something.

“You know damn well what my name is, lady. If you think I’m giving you my violin—”

“Our violin,” Dante said. “See, we tried to be nice and give you a chance to give back our violin without getting lawyers involved, but you had to try to be Billy Badass and act all tough. You’re not gonna win this one.”

Our violin. Ray could hear only those two words. Something cut loose inside him and he was suddenly yelling. “Shut your fucking mouth. I swear if you say ‘our violin’ one more fucking time, I won’t be responsible for what happens next. Your rapist great-great-great-grandfather gave that fiddle to my PopPop. He didn’t steal from you or anyone else. If it was so important to you, why the fuck didn’t you try to get it back thirty years ago?”

Passersby turned to look at him. He didn’t care. Both Dante and Andrea seemed, maddeningly, to be smiling. The tall man looked off to the right, behind Ray.

“Stay the hell away from me. If I see you again, I swear the cops—”

“The cops what?” a deep, thick Boston accent said behind him.

And another voice: “What’s going on over here?”

Ray turned: two big-bellied police officers, hands on their belts, stood splay-legged on the sidewalk. Steam seemed to snake from their nostrils and form a plume above their heads. The one on the left was in his fifties, a little heavier, with a clean-shaven face that looked scraped raw. The one on the right was younger, with a thin dark mustache and the promising beginnings of a paunch to rival his partner’s.

“Officers, thank goodness you’re here,” Andrea said. Ray would have sworn she batted her eyelashes like some kind of geriatric Miss America contestant. “We were simply asking this young man to return some property when he started threatening us.”

“What?” Ray said. “That’s not—”

“You got some ID?” the cop on the left said.

Ray let out a breath. “Officer, this isn’t what it looks like. These people are basically stalkers. They showed up at my house. They showed up here, and—”

“ID. Now,” the older officer said. He shifted his hand from his belt to his holster.

Dante’s smile broadened.

Ray glared at both Markses as he reached for his wallet.

“Whoa there, chief. Slowly,” said the younger cop.

“My name is Ray McMillian. I’m a concert violinist—see, this is my violin? I’m here from out of town and I’m just trying to get some dinner before I go back to my hotel.”

“I didn’t ask you any of that, chief. I just need to see some ID. Now.”

“I’m going to reach into my back pocket, okay?” Slowly he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He was fumbling for his driver’s license as another police car pulled up. Several bystanders and people inside the diner held up their phones, filming him.

“Thank goodness you showed up when you did, Officer,” Andrea gushed, as if she had just been rescued from a serial rapist. “I was worried he was about to get violent.”

“Fuck you,” Ray said to her.

“You see, Officer? All we want is for him to return some property that belongs to us and he goes off and calls us names and threatens us.”

“I need you to put your hands behind your back while my partner runs your name to see what your deal is,” the older cop said.

“What? See what my deal is? You don’t ask these three nutcases for their IDs. I didn’t threaten them. Why am I being cuffed?”

“Because you are being very aggressive and these people seem to fear for their safety. Now put your hands behind your back.”

“Oh, I get it. Angry Black man dangerous. Protect innocent white folk. This is bull.”

“I suggest for your own good that you keep your mouth shut.” Metal cuffs, warmed from the police officer’s body, curled and wrapped around Ray’s wrists. Nervously he kept reaching up with a finger or two to touch the violin case on his back, as if he needed extra reassurance that it was still there. The younger officer took Ray’s wallet and retrieved his driver’s license. Two more patrol cars pulled up. “Gentlemen, ma’am, why don’t you go inside and give this officer a statement while we check this guy out.”