Tin City (3 page)
During the bottom of the third inning of the Twins-Angels game, my cell phone sang “Don’t Fence Me In.”
“I bet that’s the girlfriend,” Shelby said.
“Ahh, Nina,” Bobby cooed.
Nina Truhler was the “jazz girl” Mr. Mosley had referred to. Only it wasn’t her. It was Ivy Flynn.
“Oh, God, Mr. McKenzie …”
“Ivy?”
“Mr. McKenzie, unbelievable …”
“What?”
“The guy …”
“What guy?”
“He shot at me.”
“What?”
“He shot at me.”
“Who shot at you?”
Bobby Dunston’s eyes grew wide. He rose from the sofa where he had been sitting with his wife and stood in front of me.
“Ivy? Are you all right?”
A deep breath. “Yes.”
“Who shot at you?”
“Some guy. In the ditch. He shot at me in the ditch.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in a bar.”
“Are you safe?”
“What do you mean, am I safe? I’m in a bar. I don’t go to bars.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Should I do that? If I was trespassing-that’s probably why the guy shot at me.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Another deep breath. A second. A third. I didn’t rush her. After a moment, Ivy began speaking again in the same patient voice she used when I met her at Lori’s Coffee House.
“I was collecting samples. I came across a large pasture. I might have neglected to tell you, but Sevin XLR Plus is often sprayed on unbroken ground such as pastures and roadside ditches. That’s because grasshoppers tend to lay eggs in undisturbed ground and, after they mature, disperse into neighboring crop systems. Although there are as many as 100 species of grasshoppers on the Northern Great Plains, only five rate as the most important crop pests—the two-striped grasshopper, the migratory grasshopper, the clear-winged grasshopper, and the red-legged and differential grasshoppers.”
This was more than I needed to know, but the longer Ivy spoke, the calmer she became, and I didn’t want to disrupt the process.
“I halted my vehicle and climbed down into the roadside ditch.
There were no grasshoppers there, Mr. McKenzie, which I find telling. I began gathering samples. I heard someone calling something, but the words were snatched away by the wind. I looked up and saw a man approaching. A big man. Fat. He was carrying a gun—a shotgun—I recognized a shotgun. And he started shooting—he just started—I saw muzzle flashes and puffs of smoke—at least I think I saw … Mr. McKenzie, I wasn’t trespassing, it was a public road, a county road.”
There were no grasshoppers there, Mr. McKenzie, which I find telling. I began gathering samples. I heard someone calling something, but the words were snatched away by the wind. I looked up and saw a man approaching. A big man. Fat. He was carrying a gun—a shotgun—I recognized a shotgun. And he started shooting—he just started—I saw muzzle flashes and puffs of smoke—at least I think I saw … Mr. McKenzie, I wasn’t trespassing, it was a public road, a county road.”
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I scrambled out of the ditch, climbed into my car, and drove off. I drove very, very fast. I drove for a long time. I’m not actually in Norwood Young America anymore. I’m in—” She stopped speaking. I heard the sound of music and her voice calling, “Where am I?” The question was followed immediately by laughter and the murmur of voices. “I’m in Glencoe,” she told me after a few moments.
Glencoe is nowhere near NYA.
“Tell me where you are and I’ll come get you.”
“That’s not necessary. I’m okay.”
“Ivy.”
“No, really, Mr. McKenzie. I’m fine. It was scary, but I’m fine now. I’m going to get something to eat and then drive home.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir. But what should we do about … about the guy?”
“I’ll deal with it.”
Bobby shifted his weight and sighed.
I asked Ivy if she had noted the address. She had. She had written it down along with the approximate distance from Mr. Mosley’s hives when she catalogued her samples.
“You collected samples from the ditch even with the guy shooting at you?” I asked.
“Only one. I labeled it before entering the bar. I kinda like this place.”
I kinda liked her.
“It is my intention to begin testing samples tomorrow,” Ivy said.
“Begin with this one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sorry about all this, Ivy.”
“Oh, don’t be. Actually”—her voice dropped an octave or two as if she were afraid to hear herself say it—“it was kinda fun.”
She fear’d no danger, for she knew no sin.
John Dryden had written that over three hundred years ago. Now I knew what he meant.
John Dryden had written that over three hundred years ago. Now I knew what he meant.
Bobby Dunston was still standing above me when I deactivated my cell phone, his hands on his hips.
“Someone shot at someone?”
“Not in your jurisdiction,” I told him.
“Does this involve Mr. Mosley’s bees?”
I smiled at him, although I don’t know why.
“The game’s afoot,” I said.
“Ahh, man. Not again.”
The next morning I found Mr. Mosley working the hives near a shed about the size of a two-car garage—the “bee barn,” he called it. He was wearing a white hat with a round, flat brim not unlike what you’d expect park rangers to wear, with a light-colored wire-mesh veil that hung down over his shoulders. He was carrying a smoker, a galvanized metal container resembling a large thermos with a narrow funnel at the top. You light a fire inside using old newspapers and kindling such as pine needles, cotton rags, corn cobs, tree bark—whatever—and puff smoke into the hive. The smoke masks the pheromones secreted by the sentry bees at the entrance of the hive so an alarm isn’t sounded when you approach. The smoke also compels the bees to gorge themselves on honey, presumably because they believe the hive is on fire and they’ll need to swarm and find a new home. As a result, you’re able to go about your work unmolested. At least that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve never actually tested the theory myself.
I watched Mr. Mosley move among his hives, wondering not for the first time how he did it so fearlessly. I called to him through the screen of his back door. He waved at me to join him near the hives. Yeah, like that was going to happen.
Eventually he moved back to the house. I watched him slowly remove his gloves, then his hat and veil, watched him fluff what remained of his white hair with both hands. Again I was jarred by how old he appeared. It seemed like only ten minutes ago he was telling me to choke up on the bat if I wanted to get around on a fastball. And now … I promised myself I would spend more time with him.
He said, “I liked that little girl you sent over. Ivy Flynn? She knows her
Apis m. mellifera.
Ain’t afraid of ’em, either.”
Apis m. mellifera.
Ain’t afraid of ’em, either.”
“Yeah, she’s tough as nails.”
I deliberately crossed my arms over my gray sports coat and Minnesota Wild sweatshirt, knowing what was coming.
“Pretty eyes. And hair. I don’t recall ever seeing hair that shade of red. Are you involved with her?”
“Stop it.”
“Uh-huh. Well, you should be.”
“She’s a kid.”
Mr. Mosley raised an eyebrow.
“She’s my employee.”
He raised the other. “I’m startin’ t’ wonder about you, McKenzie.”
I doubted my love life could stand much more scrutiny, so I changed the subject, telling him of Ivy’s encounter the previous evening with the shotgun-wielding fat man. Mr. Mosley became so concerned over her safety that I had to assure him twice that Ivy had escaped unscathed.
I told him that earlier that morning I called up Carver County’s Web site on my computer. “Did you know that Carver County was named after a Massachusetts explorer who may or may not have ever set foot in the place? Guy named Captain Jonathan Carver. He had gone
west in the hope of gaining fame and fortune, failed, and then wrote a book—
Travels Through the Interior Parts of North America in the Years 1766, 1767, and 1768.
The book did pretty well until it was discovered that much of the manuscript contained plagiarized accounts of the adventures of other explorers. Carver died penniless.”
west in the hope of gaining fame and fortune, failed, and then wrote a book—
Travels Through the Interior Parts of North America in the Years 1766, 1767, and 1768.
The book did pretty well until it was discovered that much of the manuscript contained plagiarized accounts of the adventures of other explorers. Carver died penniless.”
From the expression on Mr. Mosley’s face, I might as well have been lecturing him about the properties and characteristics of dirt.
“Anyway …” I told him that I fed the address Ivy had given me into a search engine on the Web site that allowed citizens to access their neighbors’ property tax information and was instantly informed that the primary taxpayer/owner of the property was a finance company called Lundgren-Kerber Investments. A phone call to Lundgren-Kerber and a little fast talking revealed that the tenant was named Crosetti, Frank—which made me think of Frankie Crosetti, the great shortstop who helped the Yankees win eight world championships between 1932 and 1948.
“I know most of my neighbors,” Mr. Mosley said. “I don’t know him.”
“Crosetti moved in just over six weeks ago,” I said. “Which means he probably isn’t responsible for the Sevin XLR Plus that had been sprayed on his land—if, in fact, Sevin XLR Plus had been sprayed on his land. Still, I’m a little annoyed about what happened with Ivy. So I figured I’d wander over there and have a friendly chat with the man. Explain the situation. Ask him not to shoot at Ivy anymore.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“I rather you didn’t. I mean, if he shot at Ivy—”
“He’s my neighbor, I should say hello. I’ll bring him a few jars of honey, welcome him to the area.”
“If you say so.”
Crop and dairy farming had been the chief occupation of Carver County for over a hundred years. But in a blink of an eye most of the farms had vanished and the county was suburbanized by housing tracts, strip malls, and sixty-four thousand additional residents, most of whom commuted to Minneapolis. You could still see a few farms sprawling west of Braunworth Lake where Mr. Mosley lived, although it was just a matter of time before they, too, disappeared. One of them already had a huge sign attached to its fence posts announcing that it soon would be transformed into a housing development called Carver Hills. There wasn’t a hill in sight.
“I hate farming,” Mr. Mosley said as he studied the sign through the passenger window of the Cherokee. “I used to work a farm like this one. When I was a youngster. They sent me there in ‘45, after they closed the Minnesota State Public School for Dependent and Neglected Children—now, ain’t that a mouthful? It was kinda like an orphanage down near Owatonna, ’cept most of us, we wasn’t orphans. We was abandoned, signed over to the state by our parents like we was property, like we was nothin’. That’s the way we was treated, too. Kept in cottages, thirty of us to a room. Made t’ work in the fields. Workin’ on our hands and knees pullin’ weeds. Catch a whuppin’ if’n we didn’t work fast enough. They’d beat you with a radiator brush, man. Pour kerosene on your head. Somethin’ like two hundred kids died in the place ‘for they get around to closin’ it.
“After they did, they sent me to a farm near Waseca. Foster care, they said it was. More back-breakin’ work for no pay is what they meant. I figure I learned everything there is to know about slavery from workin’ that damn farm. After I got some size, I ran off and joined the Marines. They sent me to Parris Island for training, said it was gonna be tough. Tough? Boy, after what I been through, the Corps was like heaven on earth. That’s where I met your daddy, in the Corps.”
“I know.”
“That’s right. You’ve heard all my stories.”
“A couple of times.”
Laughter rumbled out of Mr. Mosley’s throat. “Well, you’ll probably hear ’em again.”
One can only hope.
The house was old and small, a simple two-bedroom split-level with attached garage. Yet it seemed much grander than that, perched on top of a hill at the end of a long gravel driveway, surrounded by a huge green lawn and, beyond that, by acres of shrubs and prairie grass. What would you call it, I wondered as we approached. Not a hobby farm—there was no indication that any work took place there, except perhaps the work of mowing the lawn. A kid could retire on what he’d make mowing that lawn. Not an estate, either. Just a small house in the country, I guessed.
I pulled off the county road and accelerated up the hill, stopping the Cherokee at the top of the driveway. We left the SUV and started toward the house. We didn’t take three steps before a man rounded the corner of the garage.
“Freeze, assholes!”
I saw the shotgun first, a dangerous-looking over-and-under 12-gauge with the barrel sawed off. Then the man’s enormous gut stretching the material of his gray polo shirt—he looked like the “before” picture of every diet ad ever printed. He was wearing black dress pants and a pair of black wing tips that seemed at first glance to be rooted to the ground. They weren’t. He stepped toward us, moving carefully, the shotgun leading the way.
“Freeze,” he said again.
His hair was the color of potting soil, and he was losing it starting in the front and moving back. His eyes were so dark brown that it was impossible
to see his pupils. The expression on his face made me think he was entertaining a private joke and that it was on me.
to see his pupils. The expression on his face made me think he was entertaining a private joke and that it was on me.
I flashed on the guns that I keep locked in the safe embedded in my basement floor, yet only for a moment. I could have been carrying as many weapons as a character in a Schwarzenegger movie and it wouldn’t have done any good. Crosetti had us cold.
“Don’t move,” he screamed in case we didn’t know what “freeze” meant.
“Whoa,” I said, showing him my hands. “There’s no need for that.”
“Whaddaya want?”
I was closer to him, but he wasn’t aiming the shotgun at me. He was pointing it across the hood of the Cherokee, glaring at Mr. Mosley with unblinking eyes as if willing him to melt.
“I’m talking to you, nigger.”
Ahh, fighting words.
I stepped toward him.
He swung the barrel in my direction. “You want some of this?”
I showed him my hands again, both sides this time, making sure he could see that they were empty.
“Mr. Mosley is your neighbor. We just dropped by to welcome you to Norwood Young America.”
“Fuck that. Who sent you?”
“No one sent us.”
“What do you want here? Talk.”
“We wanted to give you a couple jars of honey.”
Mr. Mosley was behind me and to the right, the Cherokee between us. I don’t know what he did, but Crosetti didn’t like it. Again he swung the shotgun in Mr. Mosley’s direction.
“Somethin’ funny, nigger?”
I said, “Mr. Crosetti, please—”
“You know my name. How you know my name?”
Explaining to him that I looked it up on the Internet somehow didn’t seem like the wisest course of action at that moment, so instead I started backing slowly toward the Cherokee. I hoped Mr. Mosley would do the same.
“Mr. Crosetti,” I said carefully, “I promise we mean you no harm. We’re going to leave now. And we’re not coming back.”
“Don’t move.”
I stopped moving. I stopped breathing. I stopped blinking my eyes. If I could have stopped my heart beating, I probably would have done that, too.
“First the girl yesterday, now you. What’s going on? Tell me.”
It was a cloudless day in mid-May, warm but not hot, yet Crosetti was sweating. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead and ran in rivulets down his temples and cheeks. His shirt under his arms and across his chest was wet. Suddenly it occurred to me that even though he had the shotgun, Crosetti was more frightened than I was.
“The girl you mentioned is a student at the University of Minnesota.”
I started to lower my hands, but he flicked the business end of the shotgun at me and I raised them again.
“She was taking soil samples to test for traces of an insecticide called Sevin XLR Plus. The insecticide has been killing off the area honeybee population—”
“You’re here because of some goddamn bees?”
I heard the car before I saw it, heard the engine racing as it accelerated up the hill. I didn’t turn my head to look until Crosetti did. A yellow Mustang convertible, its top up, coming fast, tires pitching gravel and dirt behind it. It swung off the driveway, arced across the enormous lawn, and cut between Crosetti and the Cherokee. The driver was out of the Mustang before it came to a complete stop.
“For God’s sake, Frank,” the driver shouted. Crosetti lowered the barrel, but he wasn’t happy about it.
“What’s going on here?” Now he was shouting at Mr. Mosley and me. “Answer me.”
I gestured at Crosetti
“Get in the house,” the driver yelled. Crosetti didn’t move. “I mean it. Get in the house, now.”
Crosetti gestured toward me. “Fix this.”
“I’m going to fix it.”
“You’d better.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worried. You’re the one better be fuckin’ worried.”
“Get in the house.”
Crosetti looked about to say something, thought better of it, and retreated back around the garage. I didn’t know whether he had left or was just lying in wait.
“What do you want?” the driver asked. He was wearing a dark blue suit, a white shirt, and a dark blue tie flecked with red and tied in a Windsor. I nearly asked what he was doing driving such a beautiful car in such an ugly color. Instead, I said, “Who are you?”
“Never mind who I am. Who are you?”
I introduced Mr. Mosley and myself. I explained about the insecticide and the bees.
“Honeybees?” The driver made the word sound like a felony.
I explained some more, told him about Ivy Flynn.
“I’m sorry about the girl. But she was trespassing. So are you. Leave now. Do not return.” He spoke like a man who was used to having his own way.
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