Chapter Two: Played for a Fool
(November 4th)
"I'll give you forty-two hundred for it," the withered old man said placing the violin gently back in the case.
"Excuse me?" Steve said, shocked.
The elderly man picked up the violin again and examined it carefully. "The bridge is warped and has to be replaced, it needs new strings, the varnish has clouded a little, and it's dried out. I can restore the proper humidity, but only time will tell if that will keep the glue from cracking."
"Did you say forty-two hundred? Dollars?"
The man ran a hand through his thinning hair, making the few wispy strands stand on end, looked at Steve through narrowed eyes and said, "Ok, I can go forty-five hundred."
"Are you serious?"
"Ok, ok, five grand, but that's my final offer. I am a businessman, not a collector, it does need some work, and I gotta keep some margin of profit. Any higher, and I risk losing money."
"It's not for sale," Steve said.
"Look, mister, I'm not kidding. I can sell it for maybe fifty-five hundred, six thousand after repairs, five thousand is as high as I can go."
Steve smiled, then. "No, you don't understand. It's not mine to sell, and I know the owner will never part with it. I was just surprised that it's worth so much. I want it restored, as a surprise for the owner."
The man closed the case then, and pushed it back to Steve, but left his gnarled hands resting on top of it. "Don't waste your money."
"What? You just said it needed some work, and you still offered me five thousand dollars! How can repairing it be a waste of money?"
The man took Steve's hands in his and turned them over. The grip was firm, the touch warm and dry, the fingers roughened with years of work. "No calluses," was all he said.
"So?"
"So, you don't play, and the owner obviously doesn't either. There ought to be a law . . . " He trailed off for a minute, then explained, "If someone doesn't play it, there's no point in repairing it. Let it die peacefully of neglect, rather than trying to revive it only to let it decline again."
Steve's expression must have betrayed his doubts, because the man continued his explanation.
"Look, I told you the truth on the price, why would I lie about this? A fine violin in good condition becomes a living thing. It needs exercise to stay healthy. It won't take much to rehabilitate this one, but if someone doesn't make the effort to keep it healthy, there's no point."
He turned to a bulletin board behind the counter and took a magazine article off it. The article had been laminated, and was dated 1978.
"The Smithsonian and the Library of Congress even hire people to play the instruments in their collections. It's a vital part of proper maintenance."
As he scanned the article, Steve gave it some thought. Three days ago, after he'd found out the story behind the violin, he'd started calling around, looking for someone who could restore it to its former glory. Three different sources, one of them a stolen art and antiques fence, and the other two cops who had spent years recovering stolen art, had all spoken highly of this acerbic man, Tomas Wilson Downing. If Steve was going to have this work done, he wanted to hire the best to do it.
"Ok, listen," Steve said, trying to bargain with Mr. Downing. "I'll buy the owner lessons for Christmas, too. Then he can play it."
Downing shook his head. "Not good enough. This isn't like a kid who brings home a puppy and doesn't follow through on his promise to feed it and water it and love it and clean up after it. Anyone can care for a dog and use a pooper scooper. You need training to play a violin."
"Mr. Downing," Steve pleaded. "This is really important to me. I just recently found out my mother was a concertmaster with the LA Philharmonic years ago. She quit, just after I was born, and she never played again. It would mean a lot to my dad to have this violin restored, and I am sure he will find someone to play it once I tell him how necessary it is. Please, can you help me out?"
Steve could see the wheels turning in Downing's head. "Your mother was concertmaster at the Phil before you were born?"
"Yes, Sir, but only for a while. She quit before I was a year old to be a full-time wife and mother."
"You're what? In your forties?"
Steve just nodded.
To Steve's relief, Mr. Downing pulled the violin back across the counter. "Tell you what," he said, "LA Valley Community College is offering a six week introductory course. It meets four evenings a week, from eight to nine forty-five. It starts tonight and ends the Friday before Christmas. I'll fix the violin for you. When you convince me you can play, I'll give it back."
"Look, Mr. Downing, I have a full time job that often calls me out nights . . . "
"I know you want the best for this splendid instrument," Downing interrupted, "and I am the best. As you can see," he continued, glancing around his shop which was an obviously thriving enterprise, "I don't need your business as much as you need my skill. Learn to play, and I'll do the work, or," he said as he slid the violin back to Steve one more time, "you can get someone to do a second rate job and hope he doesn't ruin it for you."
"No, Sir," Steve said petulantly, disconcerted that the man found him so transparent, "you do the restoration. I'll . . . work out something that will satisfy you."
Downing nodded. "Good enough." He gave Steve a claim receipt to fill out and said, "But you won't get it back without someone learning to play it. I won't let you neglect this marvelous piece anymore."
"Don't worry," Steve grumbled, "I'll manage something." He shoved the claim receipt across the counter and Downing slid another paper back to him.
"Sign this, too," he commanded.
"What is it?"
"A rental agreement. One dollar pays the first month's rent. It's a holiday special. You'll need something to practice on until you learn to play properly."
After reading the document, Steve, certain he was being played for a fool, reluctantly signed it and handed it back to Mr. Downing.
"Thank you, Mr. . . . Sloan," he said, reading the signature and grinning. "That will be five dollars."
Steve, who had been looking in his wallet for a one, did a double take and said, "You said first month's rent was a dollar."
"It is," the old man replied, smiling beatifically, "but there is no way I am letting an instrument leave my shop uninsured. The insurance is four dollars a month, and the insurance company doesn't run any holiday specials."
Grumbling like the Grinch who Stole Christmas, Steve pulled out a five and grudgingly gave it to Downing.
"I noticed you're a leftie," Downing said cheerfully.
"Yeah."
"You do everything left-handed?"
"Pretty much," Steve rumbled back at him.
"Come here, then," Downing said.
Steve followed the old man over to a wall where several violins hung off by themselves.
"This one is stringed for a leftie," Downing said, taking one down and handing it to Steve. The wood was all honey-colored, the neck black, and there were small colorful dots on the neck to mark the various finger positions. It was clearly a mass-produced instrument, designed for a beginner, and Steve could see the difference in quality between it and his mother's violin. Still, it felt unnervingly fragile when he held it.
"You have big hands," Mr. Downing said, "strong hands. It will not be easy to learn the finesse and agility you will need to play the violin, but if you keep practicing, you will master it."