“Twenty-five K, stripend,” Hectorio said.
“If your shit checks out.”
“You don’t say that shit when we talk back ’ways,” Hectorio said.
“Do I look stupid? You got something good, I’ll pay.”
“Cash, no new bills.”
“However you want it. Can I call the old man, ask him to join us?”
“You seeing my face is enough. I give you this.”
Hectorio handed an envelope to Service. “Your guy look at them pitchers, you caw me.” The man handed the DNR detective a cell phone the size of a cigarette pack. “Prepaid, man. No trace. Only got one number. You hit dial, I answer, we talk. Like dat.”
Service nodded and walked west up the street, not looking back.
“Something wrong?” the professor asked.
“The guy is shy. A lot of shitballs are.” Service handed the man the envelope.
“Should I wear latex gloves or something?”
“This isn’t CSI,” Service said. “This guy’s too cautious to get caught by TV gimmicks. In real life the bad guys aren’t all stupid.”
Professor Ozzien Shotwiff studied the photographs and Service tried to be patient. He lit a cigarette and stood beside the truck, shuffling his weight between feet.
Finally Shotwiff looked up at him. “Am I supposed to think this is genuine?”
“That’s what I’m asking you. Is it?”
“Do you know what it is?”
Service leaned down and looked at one of the photos. “A stick.”
“It’s a chief’s cane, and it’s carved with mnemonics, sort of hieroglyphics that recount Haudenosauneee history, starting with the league’s founding. These canes are incredibly rare.”
“And valuable?”
“Priceless.”
“Does priceless have a pricetag?”
“There are only a few such canes around, and most of those were carved sometime in the nineteenth century. Based on the symbols in this photograph, I’m guessing this dates to the seventeenth century. There are none this old anywhere. It’s one of a kind if it’s real. This man you met, he has possession of this?”
“No, I think he’s more of a middleman. He wants to know what we’ll pay.”
“The State’s broke,” Shotwiff pointed out.
“Never mind the State or the money source. How much?”
“Start low, one hundred thou,” the professor said.
“That’s low?”
“We’ll see.”
“What else can you tell me about it?”
“Ironically, it’s Mohawk.”
Service pressed the dialer on the diminutive phone.
“Hola,” Hectorio answered. “You like baseball, man?”
“Too slow for my tastes.”
“That ’cause there still too many white guys in the game. You got a number for me?”
“One hundred thou.”
“Don’t insult me, man. I fuck you up good.”
“Not an insult, just asking. How about you name a price?”
“You a clever bee-otch, Fish Cop,” Hector said with a chuckle. “Okay, you want number, I say three hundred.”
“No chance. One-ten.”
“Hombre, you got to be serious here. This no game, man. Two hundred.”
“One twenty-five.”
“You loco, man.”
“Hey, my guy says this is priceless. Who the fuck sells priceless? Only somebody feeling some heat. One twenty-five’s the offer.”
Hectorio didn’t answer right away. “An’ my fee, man. One-fifty.”
“You takin’ a fee from both ends?”
“My bidnet, man. Not yours. We got deal, Fish Cop?”
“How long until delivery?”
“Exchange this for dat, same time, si?”
“When?”
“I caw you back, hombre.”
“When?”
“Neswick?”
“How?”
“You got phone. I got your card.”
“What about security?”
“I trust you, Fish Cop. “One twinnyfie and my fee, si?”
“Depends on the exchange details and if the merchandise checks out. My expert gets to look it over first, comprende?”
“You lie, all dis shit,” Hectorio said. “Make your cop stick harr. Okay, bueno, I call neswick. Remember, eh?”
“Lie, die.”
“Beeleedat,” the man said. “Neswick, man. You call me Aitch you want.” Hectorio hung up.
Professor Shotwiff was staring at Service. “You’re leading him on, right?”
“No, that thing’s got to be hot. The owner wants to offload. There’s opportunity here. I can smell it.”
“Sounds risky.”
“It could be. I asked that you examine it before we buy. I figure a man who feeds bears would find this pretty tame business.”
“Sarcasm not appreciated,” the professor grumped, his ever-present grin dissolving.
47
Pullman, Allegan County
SATURDAY, JUNE 16, 2007
“You doing okay?” Grady Service asked Professor Shotwiff as they rocketed across I-96 to Grand Rapids and headed southwest toward Allegan. They had spent the previous night at Chief Waco’s temporary apartment in Holt, a Lansing suburb. The chief’s wife was coming in next week to house-hunt, but wouldn’t relocate until their Missouri house sold.
Father Fix-it, Charlie Nickle, had called late last night. “The family’s name is Kerse, in Pullman. That’s in Allegan County.”
“Thanks, Father. We know.”
“You do?”
“Annie, sons Andrew and Al.”
“Remember, Detective, we’re all human.”
“You have the power to absolve sin, Father. Cops don’t.”
Service called Sergeant Lanie Wick, who supervised Allegan County COs. “Family named Kerse in Pullman,” he said.
“Oh yeah, we know that crew,” Wick said. “Allegan’s a big county, but some families and individuals still manage to pop to the top of the cesspool. CO Red Ring has busted them for one thing after another, all of them: Annie, her old man Arno, especially the wingnutter boys Andrew and Al. The sons are nasty little pricks on their best day.”
“Tell me about the parents.”
“Annie is partial to sex with bipeds. I doubt Arno is that choosy. Red just told me a couple of days ago they’re separated again.”
“Again?”
“One of ’em goes astray and the other takes umbrage and moves out. They end up having makeup sex and the cycle starts all over again. Paragons of true physical attraction, those two.”
“And the boys?”
“Running wild and fast with their fists. Classic bullies. Red had to wrestle Andy in Bear Creek the last time he had contact with them. Both boys can fight. One starts it and tires out the victim, then the other one jumps in and finishes, a real tag team.”
“Nice.”
“The next generation in near full flower. Why are you interested in the Clampetts?”
“Situation up in Luce County. They may be tied to it.”
“You catch them on their four-wheelers? We bust them all the time for that in Allegan, Van Buren, and Ottawa. They rarely pay tickets, and we end up grabbing them on warrants the next time we catch up to them. There’s always a next time with the Kerses, who seem genetically incapable of following rules.”
Service said, “Could Red do a drive-by, look for life signs at their address?”
“I’ll bump him. He thinks of them as special clients.”
• • •
CO Othar “Red” Ring called. “Hubby Arno was busted last night, drunk and disorderly in Fennville. The local cops caught him urinating on the steps of a church. He’s in the Allegan County lockup. Nobody’s made his bail yet. Annie’s truck is at her trailer.”
The CO arranged to meet Service at the Kerse residence, a mobile home along a scrub-brush field and an eroded creek called Fungo Dr
ain, on 110th Avenue.
Service offered Shotwiff the chance to stay in Lansing, saying he could pick him up on the way back, but the professor had refused. “I’m having way too much fun,” the old fellow said. “Who knew all this stuff went on!”
A hand-painted sign in front of the mobile home proclaimed ANNARN-FUNGOGRILA. Service shook his head. What the hell? The Kerse place looked like the water-hole for motorhead outlaws: a battered gray camo duck boat; a bent and dinged-up metal bassboat; a trailer with four snowmobiles under tarps; another trailer for four-wheelers, but empty; four mud-caked 200cc dirt bikes; and two full-size Gold Wings that gleamed like polished tinfoil deposited among cigarette butts.
The woman who answered the door was barely five feet tall, with nose veins and nose rings, bloodshot eyes, dilated pupils. “Mrs. Kerse?” Service asked.
“No, I’m, like, her upstairs maid,” she said curtly. “Who the fuck are you, big dude?”
Service showed her his badge. “DNR.”
“What’s Tweedledope and Tweedledumbass done this time?” she asked. “Or is it Tweedledad? They are all morons.”
“Would you mind stepping outside?” Service asked politely.
“I think I like it right where I am,” she said through the screen door.
“Please step out here,” Service said, lowering his voice.
“Okay I smoke?” the woman asked.
“No,” Red Ring said from Service’s side.
“I don’t mind,” Service said, reaching for his own pack.
“You dudes want coffee?” the woman asked. “Ain’t fancy-schmance, but it’s fresh and hot.”
“Appreciate it,” Service said.
“No, thanks,” Ring said, weighing in.
The woman disappeared inside and came back with two cups of coffee, a cigarette dangling unlit from her lower lip. She leaned against Service, an unspoken hint for a light. She set down the cups and lightly held the back of his hand when he flicked a flame on the lighter.
Annie Kerse had a tiny waist and long stringy brown hair. She was as tan as a coffee bean and wore tight shorts and flip-flops. Her toenails were painted black. Service could hear a tongue post click against her teeth when she talked. She was good-looking, dripping sex, and obviously not all that far up the human evolutionary scale from savage.
“Dudes, s’up, dis?” she asked, her voice not so edgy now.
“Godfroi Deslongshamps.”
She immediately broke eye contact with Service and looked toward the street. “Whodat?”
“Your fingerprints are all over his cabin.”
“He was a mistake is all,” she said after a dramatic sigh. “You never made no mistakes?”
“How was he a mistake?”
“Dumb fucker, like told my old man he and I were hitting it.”
The gist seemed clear. “Your husband disapproved?”
“Ya think?” she retorted, rolling her eyes. “It was like a joke, ya know, the chance to do God!”
“If you say so,” Service said. “Where did you meet Delongshamp?”
“Kids tole me about ’im. Called him Frogman, like he was ugly. Only I think frogs is cute, and he’s, like, hung, dude.” She used her hands to approximate a size.
“Your boys beat him up.”
“On account my old man went wang-chung. God’s okay, ain’t he?”
“He’s disappeared.”
The woman immediately lifted her hands in a defensive posture, stepped back, and shook her head. “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout dat shit,” she said.
“How did your boys know the man?”
“They usta ride out that way.”
“Four-wheelers?”
She shrugged.
“No legal trails there,” Service said.
“They off in the fuckin’ woods, what the diff ’? People ’posed to keep mutts on leashes, but I got ’em shittin’ all over my yard, dude. It ain’t ’zackly murder.”
“Why did your boys beat up Mr. Delongshamp and trash his place?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Duh … like, ’cause maybe the man was fuckin’ their mama?”
“Where are your boys now?”
“Fuck I know, I ain’t their PO. They come, they go, ya know, like that.”
“You need to help us to help them, Mrs.Kerse.”
“Only thing I need is my lawyer. Seriously, where’s God?”
“We don’t know. Maybe the mother ship beamed him up, or something.”
“But he ain’t dead.”
“We don’t know. You think he’s dead? That worry you?”
“Dude, don’t twist my fuckin’ words. I liked the guy. We, like, had us a real good time is all.”
“Do your sons beat on you?”
She laughed, genuinely amused. “I’d cap their sorry punk asses.”
“I need to talk to your sons.”
“And I don’t, which makes that your problem, sayin’?”
“They come in voluntarily, it will make things easier.”
“Them two don’t do nothin’ easy, sayin’?”
“Your husband gonna make bail today?”
She seemed surprised by this. “Bail for what?”
“Drunk and disorderly,” Red Ring said. “Last night in Fennville.”
“I ain’t got no call,” she said. “He okay?”
“I don’t know,” Service said.
“He ain’t yet forgive the Frogman thing. He will. Just take time is all, with that one.”
“Your husband ever beat you?”
“Nobody beat Annie Kerse lessen she mooded for the sex rough. Try beat me, I cap your ass.”
“With what?”
“Got me a Wop Nine,” she said with sudden enthusiasm. “Goes in size of marble, comes out like PBA bowling ball. Bloopf! Shit flies everywheres.”
“What make?”
“Beretta,” she said. “Want to see?”
Gun nuts were much the same, always gaga to talk firepower and other technical firearm trivia. “Sure.”
She came back with the weapon, held it out handle first. The clip protruded from her other hand. “Shoots sweet,” she said, “once you learn to dance the kick. I looked at one of them forty-cals like you DNRs carry, but I wanted knock-dudes-on-they-sorry-asses power.”
Service hefted the pistol. Freshly oiled, well maintained. He had no doubt she practiced with it. “Yours or your husband’s?”
“Sheeit,” Annie Kerse said, “he a shotgun man.”
“You got a holster?”
“Yeah, soft leather.”
“Can I see it?”
She wrinkled an eyebrow momentarily, but went to fetch it and brought it to him.
“You got a carry card?” Service asked.
“I only pack it up north in the woods.”
“The holster’s rigged for concealed,” he said, “and concealed from view is concealed from view. You got to have a concealed-weapon carry permit. Venue’s not the issue.”
“Maaan, this is chickenshit. Dude, why you hassle me?”
“We need to talk to your sons, Mrs. Kerse.”
“Or you take my piece, thachersayin’?”
“That’s up to you. We need to talk to your sons.”
She seemed to ponder her predicament for a moment. “Fuck the little shits. They got a flop about a mile north on Van Riper.”
“That’s also Pullman?”
She nodded.
“Got an address?”
Service followed her inside and she grabbed for her cell phone. He covered her hand with his and took it away from her. “Unannounced,” he said. “No head starts.”
“I was, like, just gonna put the phone on the charger, dude.”
“Right.”
“Can’t blame a mama for being a mama,” she said with a pathetic grin.
A belated, ill-timed start at mothering probably beats no start at all. “You got a landline?”
“No, dude.”
“Computer?”
“Dude, back off.”
“We get there and they aren’t there, we’re coming back here and you will get to go visit hubby. Aid and abet, flee and elude, illegal carry firearms, unregistered weapon—there’s all sorts of potential stuff on your menu, Annie. Felonies included.”
She crossed her arms. “Like I said, fuck ’em both. They all yours, but make sure ya tell ’em they mama loves ’em.”
Red Ring rolled his eyes as they walked toward their trucks. “You want dep support?”
“Think we need it?”
“Wouldn’t hurt. This pair ain’t the most steadfast dominoes in line.”
“But they defend their mama’s reputation.”
“Ah, one redeeming quality,” Ring said. “If that qualifies.”
• • •
The address took them to a small one-story ranch house, neatly kept, lawn mowed, not at all what Service had expected. Overly enthusiastic deputies from Allegan County were already there and had made contact. The boys were on the sidewalk in cuffs, wriggling and grunting curses, their faces bright red. They wore long basketball shorts, no shirts. Service saw that they were big kids, six-fourish, bulked and ripped, obviously tasered into submission. Drool hung from their mouths, snot from their heaving nostrils. Delongshamp was lucky to have survived a beating from this pair.
An Allegan County deputy looked at Service and patted his taser. “Hard-asses. They forced us to go to old Flash Gordon and give ’em a ride on the lightning.”
The brothers glared at Service. Two girls sat on a white wicker love seat on the porch. They wore string bikinis and had mussed hair, both of them smoking. “Their story?” Service asked the dep.
“Scrompdoggies,” the deputy said dismissively.
“How old are they. They look twelve.”
“How many twelve-year-olds you know built like that? This is Allegantucky, man. Girls grow up fast out here.”
“Age of the boys?”
“Nineteen and twenty, you believe their licenses.”
Service took the licenses from the deputy and compared photos to faces. Andrew was the eldest. “Andrew?”
“Fuck off,” the boy said.
“These girls with you and Al, they’re underage.”
“Said they was over eighteen,” Andrew countered.
“Inches maybe,” Service said. “They’re jailbait, Andrew, and I smell dope.”
“Dude, it rude ask ta check ID wit’ my dick inner mouth, true dat?”
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