Herbert Pond (Commissioner of Parks)

Herbert Pond sat at his desk in the turret of his house, on the third floor of the mansion that had been built on top of King’s Hill, built for him, the Commissioner of Parks.

From his window he was able to surveil the parking lot and headquarters of his police force, the “rangers” as people called them…without affection. From where he sat, he could see over the tops of the hills and through the trees of Lakewood Cemetery; looking west-north-west he could see all the way to Loon Lake; looking south and west he could see across the Robert Sadler Bird Sanctuary, and over the Rose Gardens, all the way to the other lake, the lake named for Harriet Lovejoy.

He sat quietly, watching the pale moon fade as the rising sun pushed it over the horizon. The aching in his joints told him that there would be a storm. It bothered him, but that was not the only thing bothering him.

He had received a phone call from Karl Thorrson, a man who had proven to be a reliable, though vexing ally in his struggle to wrest power from the hands of the commissioner’s most prominent adversary, the ancient and esteemed Colonel Albert Forrester.

Thorrson had informed him of his plan to make a move on a popular tavern at the edge of Saint Anthony’s red-light district. A place called The Round-Up, a few blocks from Miller’s Field and under the protection of the Colonel, and the Fifth Precinct of the Saint Anthony Police Department, which the Colonel controlled.

Thorrson had consolidated power along Lake Street, doing so without much resistance from the Colonel. He had taken over and consolidated the gambling and prostitution markets, the sale of contraband and most of the protection racket as far east as the bridge to Pig’s Eye and as far west as the Big Island on Lake Minnetonka.

The commissioner believed that the Colonel was becoming less and less interested in the streets of Saint Anthony, he was impossibly old and he had become obsessed with finding suitable marriages for his daughters. He was thinking of his legacy.

Thorrson was engaged in a hostile takeover of crime in Saint Anthony, doing so with his blessing. But the commissioner was also taking the time to ensure that the Colonel was being compensated for his losses. However, the Round-Up posed a unique challenge, the proprietor had a relationship with the Colonel that would be difficult, if not impossible to get around. The commissioner had thought he had made it clear to the imposing Karl Thorrson that he wanted him to wait on the Round-Up. He did not agree with Thorrson’s timing. The gargantuan was overeager, in too much of a hurry seize this last little piece of territory, no harm could come from waiting…in another year the Colonel might just be gone, old age finally catching up with him.

This morning he understood that he was losing control of Thorrson, he was unable to dissuade him from the course of action the crime boss proposed. So, he decided to place a call to his estranged wife, Helga Magnusson, to give her a piece of information regarding her husband and her missing lover, Bjorn Elmquist, information that she had been waiting for.

The commissioner did not think it would be a good use of his resources to engage in a direct confrontation with Thorrson, so he decided to complicate the giant’s life by turning his wife into his enemy; violence would come from it, and chaos would follow, of that much he was certain.

Ivan “The Wolf” Wolvenson

Ivan Wolvenson sat in the front parlor of his patron’s home waiting.

He was pensive. He didn’t like waiting. He was a man of action, but he never questioned his.

He had been told to retire to the house in Tangletown, a sleepy neighborhood with lovely cottages on the banks of the narrow stream named for the maiden Minnehaha, made famous by the poet Longfellow.

Ivan, who most people knew as The Wolf, was fond of sitting on a bench on the banks of the stream, allow his mind to move with it: up-stream to its headwaters at Lake Minnetonka and the Big Island where his patron operated a gambling house, and down-stream over the great waterfall, to the Mississippi, New Orleans and the Gulf of Mexico.

Today he sat in  the parlor watching the deluge take the city.

The storm was chaotic; and he didn’t like it, weather like this was not good for business.

His patron had sidelined him, telling him that he would go alone to the Round-up to make the deal. He would not even bring his ordinary muscle with him.

Ivan never questioned Mr. Thorrson, and so he sat in the parlor watching as the sun sank behind its veil and the deep-stormy night set in.

He was pensive. He didn’t like waiting. He was a man of action.

He let his mind ease into the stream flowing past the house, reciting in silence Longfellow’s epic poem, The Song of Hiawatha…

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

He retreated to the interior space of his thoughts, reliving the poem as he had memorized it, waiting for his patron’s call.