Bad Optics

by Joseph Heywood

  At the end of the road was a tall buck pole by an old house. Swamp Lake stretched out dead ahead. A garage to the extreme left. The vehicle tracks led to the garage. There was a glass panel in the door. He looked inside and saw a red Escalade. Felt his heart skip. No, he told himself, too damn much of a coincidence to be real. But it was real.

  The house was two stories, desperately needed paint. The back door was open. Mudroom off the kitchen. He turned the knob and walked in.

  Not a mite of dust anywhere, which meant it was not your run-of-the-mill hunting camp. Well cared for, cleaned, probably this morning. The outside made it seem as if it were used only a week or two a year. Inside gave a different impression.

  He walked through the kitchen into a living room with a wide picture window overlooking the lake. He looked right. A woman in a scant yoga getup sat on a couch. There was a stainless steel revolver on the coffee table in front of her. A .38 or .357, he guessed, difficult to guess from where he stood. “What a nice gun you have,” he said.

  She laughed. “That should be my line!”

  He pulled apart his vest and showed her the pistol tucked in his own belt.

  “Yours looks bigger’n mine,” she said.

  “It’s the natural order,” he told her.

  “That’s what you meant by protection?” she asked.

  He countered. “What else could it be?”

  She picked up a clear bowl from the floor, set it on the table by her Colt. It was filled with condoms in a rainbow of colors. Foil packs.

  “What caliber are those?” he asked.

  She smirked. “We’ll see,” she said. “You look even bigger than our friend in common said you are.”

  “Friend in common?”

  “Soon as you lay out the down payment. We don’t employ real names in this business.”

  “Two bills,” he said.

  “Right,” she said. “I know who you are,” she added.

  “Really?”

  “The beginning and the end.”

  What’s she playing at? “That’s why I told you that,” he said. “The Alpha and the Omega.”

  “You didn’t tell me that you’re a game warden.”

  Amazing. “Am I?”

  “I’ve heard the governor is after your scalp.”

  This was an interesting development. “Sorry, no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do. King Kong says the governor thinks you’re a world-class shit-disturber, a potential messer-upper of juicy financial deals.”

  “This King Kong knows the governor?”

  “Only superficially socially. This governor walks his own path. They are not what you call asshole buddies, just assholes, each in his own right and way. What is it you want from me, Game Warden?”

  “What’re you offering?” he asked, sitting down on the arm of a chair across from her.

  “That’s an array of possibles too extensive to catalog, like a menu in a hash house. Start with why you’re here,” she said.

  “I could ask you the same.”

  This brought a bitter laugh. “Save the fallen angel? Spare me, please.”

  “I came to talk,” he said.

  “That’s not one of my better skill sets.”

  He shrugged, took a guess, based on what she’d said and the red Caddy. “You’re King Kong’s wife.”

  She nodded. “That was you riding shotgun with the game warden yesterday by the house. You stared at me.”

  “Guilty. You seem to have all the toys a girl could want, so why this?”

  “The pistol?”

  “No, this, your thing, the white phone, all that.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Juice, the edge, the risk of it all—hell, you’re a cop, you should know without asking.”

  He wasn’t sure how to play this. “There’re all kinds of edges.”

  “True, but so far I’ve never met an edge I didn’t like.”

  “That what your old man is—an edge?”

  She made eye contact and stared hard.

  He continued, “Those who like the edge are always drawn to the anticipation and the adrenaline-dump when the moment’s passed. It’s addictive. I get that.”

  “So I’ve learned, the no-drug drug, which eliminates you-know-who. Truth is, King Kong is more like George of the Jungle, totally risk averse, ‘Watch out for that tree!’ See what I’m sayin’?”

  He nodded. “You know much about his businesses?”

  “I’m the trophy wife, and that by definition means I know only what I’m allowed and expected to know. What’s your interest?”

  “Limestone, maybe?”

  “Ah,” she said. “Now I think I see.”

  “Good, then you can enlighten me.”

  The woman stretched like a cat, winding up for a pounce. “Your being here tells me you’re enlightened enough,” Oheneff said.

  What does she mean? He put two one-hundred-dollar bills on the table by the revolver. “That might be chump change for you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Perhaps, in the larger scheme of things. What about limestone?”

  “Same question, back at you.”

  “Could be King Kong’s got his eye on some kind of sweet spot. That’s his term, not one geologists would know, a sweet spot heretofore unknown. He lives for such shit—loot, treasure, the magic score!”

  Service felt his gut tightening. “Where might such a sweet spot be?”

  “One would think, with all the game warden certainly already knows, he would surely know the answer to that question.”

  “I don’t know as much as you think. Give me a name, a hint, a place . . . a something.”

  “Drinkless nights for me, doesn’t do to have the trophy sloppy drunk, some nights the drinkies flow like flash floods down the mountain and names get bandied about. You definitely have enemies, I’ll say that for you. They refer to it only as the ‘Project,’ but I’ve learned to hear between the lines.”

  “You called him George of the Jungle? He wants me out too?”

  “I gather that your being out of the picture is a key to The Project. As for you, George only hears what he hears and remembers what he wants, usually only those things that directly benefit him. He knows what he hears, and what he hears is that you are a wart on the cheeks of the smooth ass of progress. Think of George as a gubernatorial go-between, the little bird with connections.”

  “Hears what from whom?” Service asked.

  The woman gritted her teeth, puffed her cheeks, and locked her eyes on him. “Look like anyone you know?”

  His turn to laugh. “Our way-back governor,” he said. “Bozian, he’s the source?”

  “Allegedly,” she said. “George’s source, not mine. I can’t stand that greasy priss. I moved here when Lori was in office.”

  Lori was former governor Lorelei Timms, his friend, eight years governor and a sometime pain in his ass. She was now out east in a new career as a TV pundit and a pretty talking head. “She was a lousy governor,” he said, meaning it. Great intentions, poor executions.

  “I agree, but a lovely lady nevertheless, and my friend—and yours too.”

  “She know about this side of your life?”

  “Straitlaced Lori? Not a chance! But she’d kind of understand. The edge calls to different people in different ways. Her way is politics I think, same drug, different name.”

  He agreed with her assessment and almost laughed. Here they sat before a picture window looking out on a small lake with a bowl of condoms on the table next to a handgun. There was not a ripple on the water. Surreal.

  “So,” she said.

  “Our mutual friend says you’re a magnet and she’s right. You’ve got people after your scalp and you seem entirely unconcerned.”

  “Talk is chea
p,” he told her. “Thanks for seeing me. Sorry there wasn’t more in this for you.”

  “You didn’t get much for your money. You want a sampler for the road?”

  “No thanks, this was way more than I expected.” More than he could even hope for. If Bozian was back in the picture, that alone potentially clarified a lot. His suspension wasn’t about Allerdyce, it was about his being an impediment. The question was to what, and his gut said it had to do with the Mosquito Wilderness.

  “One last question?” he asked.

  “Let it fly,” she said.

  “Drazel Sisters L.L.C. Satellite Services & Earth Surveys.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s his business?”

  “Don’t recall ever hearing that name. Why?”

  “Never?”

  She sighed. “I’ve got no clue, sorry. He’s got so many contexts and pots boiling. Like I said, I’m just the arm candy trophy wifey, not his business partner.”

  “Sounds like he’s not much on partnering.”

  She grimaced. “He’s got no idea of how to share, and our marriage was over before it even began.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Service said.

  “Don’t be. I live the good life. His demands on me are small and my freedom is nearly absolute. What more can a married woman ask for?”

  Service put his white phone on the coffee table. “This how we do this?”

  “Usually,” she said, “but put it back in your pocket, please. You never know when it might come in handy.”

  He was tempted, but a cell phone, even shut off, could be pinged by the carrier with astonishing accuracy. He didn’t need that kind of security risk hanging over his head. “Appreciate the thought,” he told her. “I really do. But I have to pass,” he said as he stood up. “You always bring that pistol to your appointments?”

  “Always,” she said. “It jacks up everybody’s juices.”

  “That puffy face you mentioned. He around much?”

  She hawed loudly. “Weekly sometimes. I don’t see him that much, but George does. Me and puffy cheeks don’t much like each other. They meet out at the farm.”

  “George of the Jungle has a farm?”

  “No, the other one’s farm.”

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere north of St. Johns.”

  Strange information from this contact. “Is he living at the farm?”

  “I doubt it. He and his wife still live out east somewhere, I forget exactly where. He’s not one of my favorite people. But he’s been coming back a lot over the past couple of months.”

  Huh, Service thought. And his suspension got extended in that same time frame. Another coincidence? No way.

  “You look like you just swallowed a timberdoodle,” Allerdyce said when he got to the truck and lit a cigarette.”

  “Something like that. You ready to head back above the bridge?”

  “Wah, I was ready when we hit Mack City on way down.”

  Chapter 10

  Maple River Flooding

  Gratiot County

  CO “Sleep” Bubenko was waiting for them at the Maple River Flooding. Bubenko was one of Service’s contemporaries, an old-timer who had been around in the heyday of night poaching and had earned his soubriquet by never falling asleep during long and boring surveillance sessions. He possessed an astonishing ability to function without sleep for many consecutive days and never seem the least bit confused or mentally addled by the lack of rest. Sleep Bubenko, like Service, was one of the last Vietnam vets in a CO uniform.

  The man had the posture and girth of a string bean, white hair, and skin mottled with purple and white blotches. “Thanks for meeting us,” Service greeted him.

  “Is that Allerdyce with you?” Bubenko asked. “I talked to Magwire. She said you and the old asshole were out and about and lurking down this way.”

  “Sleep, meet Limpy Allerdyce.”

  The two men eyed each other rather than shaking hands. “Heard a lot about you,” the old game warden told the old poacher. “You and Service had a dandy deer season.”

  “I was just tag along,” Allerdyce said. “Sonnyboy dere do all da heavy liftering.”

  Bubenko turned to Service. “Something special I can do you fellows for?”

  “I’ve heard Clearcut has a farm north of St. Johns.”

  Bubenko furrowed his brow and frowned, stared out into the flooding. “That’s new information to me. How long’s he supposed to have had this place?”

  “No clue, might be recent, might be old history. Might not even be under his name, but I’ve been told he’s up in the area, maybe as much as monthly, maybe more frequently than that.”

  “You and Bozian gonna lock horns again?”

  “Never can tell,” Service said.

  “You want me to verify he’s up this way, if he is?”

  “If you can.”

  “Any more word on your suspension, when you’re coming back?”

  He told him what he told Magwire.

  “That’ll be what, six months? I never heard such shit before. Feels like funny business to me, Grady. Quacks like a duck, eh?”

  “Feels like something, not sure funny’s the right word for it.”

  “You’ll be back, man. Remember, it don’t mean nothing. I’ll give you a bump when I learn something. There’s a good chance my partner down in Clinton County will know something.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Dover, here a year, keeps to himself, but he’s got a hound’s nose and the focus of a cobra.”

  The men shook hands. Bubenko said, “We’re all with you, Grady. And we are all watching what goes down, and how it goes down.”

  “Take care,” Service said. First Magwire, now Bubenko making masked noises of solidarity. Good for me, he thought, not so good for the state. You need to think on this shit. Your fate is not a reason to destroy the force.

  “You guys want to grab lunch?” Bubenko asked.

  Allerdyce spoke before Service could. “Just want be over damn britch. We stop outside Iggy, at Wildwoods or da Lehtos’ place, get good pasty, yum-yum eatem up.”

  “St. Ignace is a long haul from here.”

  “We stop eat down here, I get daspitupitations. He made a rubbing motion in front of his belly.”

  “We sure wouldn’t want that,” Bubenko said, glancing at Service, who was rolling his eyes.

  “I’m airsick ta down here, Sonny.”

  “Allergic?”

  “I said airsick. I breet dis shitty air, it make me sick, air . . . sick. You got listen better.”

  It was an odd way to put it, but Allerdyce had a point, and he felt pretty much the same way about almost anything Below the Bridge and the Straits of Mackinac.

  Chapter 11

  Soaring Eagle Casino

  Mount Pleasant, Isabella County

  Grady Service drove into the casino parking lot, which was, as always, full to the gunwhales. “We need luck,” he told Allerdyce.

  “I got plenty luck,” Limpy said, “go play one-arms, hey.”

  “They’ll drain your wallet.”

  “Not mine,” the old man said. The two men went inside and tried to move through the maze of old folks who had been elder-toured in buses to the casino to chip away at their fixed incomes. They were everywhere, many ambulatory, some on canes and crutches, many with oxygen bottles hung around their necks like necklaces. Many were carrying drinks, and judging by the volume of voices, they were not all drinking fruit juices. The smoke was heavy and hung over the floor at eye level, like smoke over a battlefield.

  Allerdyce grumbled, “T’ought dis was no-smoke inside state.”

  “We’re not in Michigan. This is a separate country, a sovereign nation, totally separate, with their own rules and
ways of doing things, all in the name of money.”

  Allercyce frowned, said, “Indi’ns,” and added, “Like dat Wally Dicksney jamoke. He got two country of ’is own jest like dis, hey?”

  Service said, “Something like that.” The old poacher’s view of the world was unique, but the points he made weren’t all that far off. He was thinking about lighting a cigarette to join the crowd when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered.

  “Grady Service, will you please explain what in blazes is going on?”

  It was his friend, the former governor, Lorelei Timms. He said, “Can you narrow that down a bit. The earth continues to orbit the sun, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  He had met Timms at a wreck years before. She was on her way to the Huron Mountain Club early one very rainy and nasty morning. She was small, beautiful, smart, and intense, wired tight enough to break wine glasses just with her presence. She had also become a good friend and was someone who believed it her holy right to meddle in friends’ lives. It was an annoying combination.

  “I’m serious,” she said.

  “Me too.”

  “Do I have to go lawyer on you?”

  “Aren’t you already?”

  “You’re on suspension?”

  “Yes.”

  “Until September?”

  Until September? This is new, he thought, but no doubt lots of rumors were flying. “Until July 1.” Originally it was supposed to be until spring. Now September?

  “What heinous thing brought this down on your head?”

  “Allerdyce was my partner during deer season.”

  A long silence ensued. “Limpy Allerdyce? That Allerdyce?”

  “Yes, he’s the only Limpy I know.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  He sighed, hated how she liked to interfere in his life. “I was thinking,” he explained, “that nobody knows more about dirtbags and poaching than him. And I was right . . . by the way.” Not that it matters now.

  “For which you are now suspended. You think it was worth it?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s the official charge?”