Chasing a Blond Moon (24 page)

18

The first thing Service did when he got to his office was to check e-mail. There was a note from Stretch Boyd of the department's PR group saying that DNR Director Eino Tenni had prohibited the use of outside electronic libraries and that he was sorry he couldn't help with the LexisNexis search.

“Great,” Service muttered. He had traded for nothing.

The captain strolled by and looked in at him. “Are you familiar with Captain Richard Sorgavenko?”

“Should I be?” Service countered.

“Air Force Academy of 1963. Graduated at the top of his pilot training class and ended up in F-105s at Khorat in Thailand in 1966. He flew one hundred missions and volunteered for another tour. When he began to approach the end of his second hundred, he volunteered again and was turned down. So he began to destroy paperwork after every sortie and the planners lost track of where he was on his tour. He continued like this until he was shot down and killed on his two hundred and eighteenth sortie. What was his mistake?”

Service stared at his captain. “Pushed his luck, tried to do too much?”

The captain stared at his detective. “He got shot down,” the captain said, walking away.

Service faced a quandary about what to do next. He finally decided he needed to get something started on Irvin “Magic” Wan. He had had the option of calling in a detective from the downstate Wildlife Resources Protection Unit; instead, he had called Treebone, who was supposed to have had a P.I. contact him. So far, not a damn word.

Service hung up and leaned back in his chair. He hated begging and depending on others.

The captain wandered into the office, sat down across from him, looked like he was going to say something, stood up and walked out without speaking.

He snatched up the phone as soon as it rang. “DNR, Service.”

“Good morning. I'm Eugenie Cukanaw. I talked to Tree and I apologize for taking so long to get back to you. I was wrapping up a case.”

Her voice was solid, neither high nor low. “Thanks for calling,” he said.

“You must be a good friend to get Treebone to pull in a chit. I'm doing this gratis.”

“We go back.” Service wondered if gratis was why she was so long in getting back to him.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

“There's an Asian guy who lives in Grand Rapids. He owns some clubs, said to be in the drug and skin biz. I know one club is in Kalamazoo and that's all I know.”

“Magic Wan,” she said. “We know Irvin pretty well. What is it you need?”

The question caused him to pause. What exactly did he want? “We are led to believe he works for a man called Mao Chan Dung and that Wan owns some sort of hunting camp in the U.P. What can you find out about his relationship to and dealings with Dung, and where's the hunting camp?”

“A hunting camp? Interesting. I don't know a man named Dung, but that doesn't mean anything. As for the camp, maybe I can get that information for you. Do you mind my asking why the DNR is interested in such a lowlife?”

“It's our specialty.”

“I imagine it is,” she said, her tone one of amusement.

“I have a potential international poaching case.”

“Now
that
sounds interesting.”

“An informant puts Wan in the business, but he's a new name and personality for us.”

“Shouldn't U.S. Fish and Wildlife be involved in this?”

She knew the bureaucracy well. “At some point. Right now we're just taking a preliminary look at players, trying to figure out what it is we have.”

“Fair enough—why get the feds involved until you have to.”

“You've been there.”

“Too many times to count. What sort of timeline am I on?”

“Soon as.” He gave her his office, home, and cellular numbers. Once again, he owed his friend Tree.

Later, on his way to lunch, Fern LeBlanc said, “You have a visitor.”

He looked around and saw no one. “Outside,” LeBlanc said with a nod of her head.

There was nobody in the parking lot, but as Service got behind the wheel of his truck, the passenger door opened and Limpy Allerdyce struggled to get into the seat.

“Haven't seen much of youse, sonny,” Limpy said wearily.

Allerdyce had shot Service during a scuffle and spent seven years in the State Prison of Southern Michigan for attempted murder. Allerdyce was one of the most notorious poachers in the state's history and the leader of a tribe of poachers, mostly his relations, who lived in the remote southwest reaches of Marquette County—the largest county west of the Mississippi and by itself larger than the state of Rhode Island. The summer after Allerdyce got out of jail, Service had found the murderer of the poacher's son and he and Allerdyce had reached a sort of agreement, which Allerdyce claimed to have had with Service's late father: no poaching in the Mosquito Wilderness, and he would provide tips from time to time. Limpy had made the deal to avoid going back to jail for parole violation, and last year he had helped Service break a major wolf-killing case. But it turned out that Allerdyce also had gotten money from the poachers, who were his competition. He had played both sides like a chess master.

“You're my visitor?” It had been months since he had seen the old man. He looked gaunt and sallow, his neck thin as a bird's, his skin yellow.

Allerdyce put a shaking hand on his belly. “Gives me the
wop-agita
gettin' so close to a cop house. Been too long, hey?”

Wop-agita?
“Not long enough,” Service said. “I'm on my way to a meeting.”

“Don't bullshit me, sonny. You're goin' for grub. Limpy buys.”

“I can't accept a gift from a felon,” Service said. There was no policy that stated this, but he didn't want to spend time with the old man. “I'll pay,” he said when Allerdyce made no move to get out of the Yukon.

They drove into the drive-through at McDonald's. Limpy ordered four large orders of chicken nuggets. Service drove them over to “the island,” what locals called Presque Isle Park, a tiny and scenic peninsula jutting into Lake Superior. Sitting in the truck with Limpy's body odor would have been too much to bear. They got out of the truck and sat on boulders by the water's edge. The rocks were pinkish-red, showing their iron content. It was sunny and cool, clouds racing across under a brisk northwest wind, their shadows skating like sea creatures just under the surface of the frigid gray-blue water. The air had lost its summer softness and Service could feel fall coming.

Limpy put one nugget in his mouth and put the rest of the boxes in a brown shopping bag he was carrying. Service had a cheeseburger and coffee, and after the burger lit a cigarette and held out the pack to Limpy, who refused.

“Got a question for youse.”

Service didn't look at the old man. Limpy never asked a question without a purpose, did nothing without intent. He was a predator in human form, a demon and shape-shifter, a crow pocketing a bauble at a five-and-dime, a wolf taking easy and helpless prey. He was cold-blooded and calculating, most of his children sired from his other children or their spouses, a dirtbag who took and did as he wanted, with no remorse. In Allerdyce's mind all that mattered was what
he
wanted, and if you disagreed, you were in deep trouble.

“What?” Service asked. The old man was acting strange. He couldn't put a finger on what it was, but something was different—the weight loss, some uncharacteristic fidgeting and nervousness.

“You let queers be game wardens?”

“Why? You looking for work?”

Allerdyce hissed, “I ain't one a dose, hey!” He screamed, “Don't youse never call me no queer!”

Limpy's face was red, his fists clenched, and he looked like he was going to strike out. Service kept his voice soft. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just wonderin',” the old man said. “You hear about Dowdy Kitella?”

“He fell down and hurt himself?”

Allerdyce cackled. “Got shit kicked out of him, is what.”

Classic Allerdyce, always on top of everything that could potentially affect his business. Kitella was a longtime competitor and there was no love lost between the men, though for years they had avoided tangling directly.

“You confessing?” Service asked.

Allerdyce grinned. “A body wants Kitella outa da way, he just go missin', eh?”

Service waited for additional comment, but Allerdyce chewed away and stared at Lake Superior.

“How's Honeypat?” Service asked. Honeypat had been the old man's daughter-in-law. They had been sleeping together before his son Jerry died. Limpy and Honeypat had more or less hooked up until last fall when Service informed her that Limpy had hit on his grandson's girlfriend.

The old man didn't directly answer the question. “Fucked ole Honeypat right here on dis island many da time,” Limpy said. “Could hear her scream all da way to da ore docks. You heard she got her own place over to Ford River?” Limpy added.

Honeypat had a place, meaning they were still apart.

“How's Aldo?” His grandson seemed a nice kid, totally unlike his grandfather.

“Up da college.”

“He still seeing Daysi?” Daysi was Aldo's Ojibwa girlfriend.

“He don't say. Lives da college, nose in books.” Limpy made a sour face and spit. “Guess I better get on.”

When Service got to the truck, Limpy walked past him, heading down the narrow road that looped the park. “You're not riding?”

“Got the time?”

Service checked his watch. “Almost one.”

“I'll walk,” Allerdyce said. “Good for ticker, and good for da ticker's good for da pecker, sonny.” The old man looked Service in the eye. “Ya know, Aldo's queer as da five-dollar bill. Like all dem Hershey packers down to Jackson.” Limpy flashed a look of total disgust and spit a thick line of yellow phlegm.

“Three-dollar bill,” Service corrected him.

Allerdyce grunted and shuffled on.

Service started the truck and followed and when he drew alongside, buzzed down his window. “You still in the bear business?”

Allerdyce gave him a dark look. “Give dat up long time back. No money.”

“I hear it's major money.”

“Not on da gettin' end of da business. Da Chinks make all da money dese days, eh?”

Allerdyce walked slowly, his pace barely a shuffle. Usually the old man could outwalk professional walkers. Service drove to the end of the island, found a parking place, and waited.

What the hell had Limpy wanted? Allerdyce always had a plan. Always.

When the old man passed by his parking place he stopped at a trashcan, took off the top and fished around in it, shoving some of the take into his bag. Then he walked slowly on, looking straight ahead.

Back at the DNR office Fern LeBlanc turned away and Service looked down at the captain's office and saw Aldo Allerdyce in his boss's office, both of them at a small round conference table. The boy wore a long-sleeved dress shirt and a red tie.

The captain waved for Service to join them.

“Hey, Aldo,” Service said. The boy was tall and thin, his hair neatly trimmed and combed, his shoes shined.

“I came to ask the captain about careers in law enforcement,” the young man said. “I'm majoring in criminal justice with a minor in wildlife management.” Aldo paused. “Given my grandfather's predilections, I thought it wise to find out if his history would disqualify me.”

The captain spoke. “Mr. Allerdyce has a four-point average and he's taken the state civil service exams and scored in the ninety-sixth percentile.”

“That's great,” Service said. “Does Limpy know about your career interest?”

“He said it's my choice,” Aldo said grudgingly.

Typical Limpy, playing two angles. He tells the boy one thing, and goes behind his back to poison the well. “How's Daysi?”

“Fine. She's in school at Northern, too.”

“Good to see you,” Service said, excusing himself.

Later, Aldo came to his cubicle. “The captain says that what matters is my record, not my grandfather's.”

“Limpy's trying to stab you in the back,” Service said. “He showed up here at lunchtime and told me you're gay.”

Aldo shook his head and smiled. “Would that matter?”

“Only to your grandfather,” Service said.

“The captain thinks he can get me on as summer help—with one of the biologists,” Aldo said.

“Say hi to Daysi,” Service said. He watched Aldo walk away. The vision of Aldo with a badge confronting his rogue grandfather made him smile.

Simon del Olmo called on the cell phone later that afternoon. Service was in the parking lot, smoking. “Kitella's hired Sandy Tavolacci,” Simon said.

“I'm not surprised,” Service said. “Sandy only cares about how much cash a client has. Guilt's not a factor.” Tavolacci often played the dunce, but it was all an act. He had put a lot of people back in the woods who didn't belong there. But Sandy was cagey and because he had to deal frequently with woods cops, there were times when he would signal something he didn't think was quite right according to his twisted interpretation of Hoyle.