Service needed something else to focus on, so he called Chippewa County Undersheriff Hawkins Shoebear. “Hawk, Service.”
“Been a long time,” the undersheriff said.
“How it is. You know a guy over your way goes by Paint?”
“Sure do, our winnable warrior with no war. Not a bad kid, good family, but his thinking’s mud and he hangs with shit birds.”
“I need him picked up.”
“Charges?”
“Person of interest in an aggravated assault. There’s no warrant. He and a pal beat up an old man. We already talked to the other perp and he admits to it, but we need some time with Paint.”
“That’s our Paint, and no doubt his partner was that dumb-ass Polish Prince. Glad to help. We’ll yell at you when we have him. It’ll be my boys or, more likely, the Bay Mills crew.”
Tribal cops? Hmm. “Okay, Hawk. I owe you one.”
Chapter 33
Negaunee
Marquette County
Allerdyce and Treebone dropped him at the state police post and headed to Econofoods in Marquette to shop for groceries. Allerdyce had not come back to camp until late last night and had little to say about where he had been or what he had been up to. Friday’s boss, Lieutenant L’Lonnie de Leon, met Service at the entrance to the state police office and stuck out her tiny toy hand.
“What’s that for, El Tee?” he said, shaking hands with her. She was five-four, petite, and bright-eyed, with the voice of a finch.
“For fighting the good fight.”
“Which fight would that be?” It was unlike the lieutenant to engage in personal chitchat. De Leon was usually about business and only business.
“Your suspension, the gang rush to push you out the door; the US Attorney gambit is a great thing and a tremendous vote of confidence in the kind of officer you are. Don’t let the bastards wear you down, Service. We’re all behind you, two hundred percent.”
Should I thank her, kiss her, hug her, or ignore her and play dumb? She was fairly new, had been sent up from Below the Bridge to take the post commander job and had no real knowledge of the U.P. or its ways yet. How much does she really know? She’s stringing together a bunch of things on what, inside knowledge, instinct? Friday as her source? Not a chance there. She’d die in torture before disclosing anything to anyone. “Thanks, El Tee.”
“Detective Friday’s over to Fletch’s,” the post commander said.
Fletch was Sergeant Egon Arrington, his nickname from his passion for archery, especially hunting deer with bow and arrow. If Tuesday was with Fletch, they’d be close to coffee, because Fletch was a major caffeine addict who slugged full cafento night and day and was always wired because of it. Fletch had once been a great road cop along the Chicago-Detroit corridor, and then as road sergeant, but one day he looked at his workload and odds down there and used his seniority to transfer Above the Bridge, where trooper duty was a piece of cake relative to the risks on downstate interstates.
Ironically, Arrington had grown up in Pickford in the eastern Upper Peninsula and, unlike most native Yoopers, chose to stay Below the Bridge when he left the academy. He had been a great mentor to young troopers.
Service saw Friday smile when she saw him coming. “Look what came in from the cold,” she greeted him.
“It’s spring, and not so cold,” he said, and Fletch laughed.
“You’re not exactly in either, are you bud?” she whispered when she leaned close to him.
Arrington handed him a cup of coffee and made for the door. “I’m sure you two have much to talk about. The room is yours. Take no prisoners, Grady.” The sergeant gave a sharp fist pump and was gone.
“Your El Tee met me outside. She was positively gushy, even gave me sort of a half-time pep talk, I think. I’m not sure what was in or on her mind. Now Fletch’s ‘take no prisoners’? What the hell does that mean?”
“Word’s spreading around Michigan that the state is trying to force you out and that the Feds have intervened in your behalf.”
“You know it’s not quite like that.”
“How was it Mark Twain used to put it? People like stories with stretchers. Perceptions, Grady. The world’s social fuel is half-fact and seven-tenths rumor.”
“That’s more than a hundred percent.”
“Ain’t that something,” she said, smiling.
“Someone downstate has the blabs.”
“Bozian pigeonholed me in St. Ignace.”
“That’s one of the big logs on the rumor fire.”
The Michigan State Police community of sworn officers on active duty as well as retired officers was statewide, but small and tight. Active duty or retired, Troops kept track of and supported each other, like Marines. You were on active duty for twenty-five or thirty years, but you were a Troop for life, just like COs in the old days, his old man’s day. Nowadays, with COs, he was no longer certain of similar solidarity. He suspected the seeds were there, but emerging from the ground was yet to be seen.
“Surprised to see you,” she said. “Consider yourself hugged.”
“We could close the conference room door,” he joked. “Fletch said the room is ours.”
“Fletch says a lot of things,” she said, and flicked her eyes left where Service saw a surveillance camera.
“New toys?”
“Directives from East Lansing, for every room here. Some legislator got it in her mind that if cop cars need cams and street cops need body cams, offices should have cams too. She pushed a bill through and the governor signed it and, voila, we now have statewide state police CCTV, just like we’re our own big lawless city.”
“Politicians,” he muttered.
She said, “Are you here to make a big happy announcement that you’re coming home so that we can resume our special flavor of family life?”
“I wish.”
“That means no,” she said.
“We’re moving around a lot,” Service said. “Do these cameras record everything?”
She said, “I bet my man needs him a smoke.”
They walked outside to her car. He went to light a cigarette and she rolled her eyes and said, “What I said was to get us outside so we’d have some privacy, not so you’d have a damn cigarette.”
“Good to know,” he said and brought her up to date, Fellow Marthesdottir, M, Kalleskevich, Clearcut, the current governor, the MWT, Ty Dotz, the Drazel Sisters, all of it, concluding with the Prince and Paint beating up Aller-dyce. Friday, as she always did, listened attentively until he was finished. He included diamonds and the marvelous cave artifacts. He confessed to her that he had not quite leveled with the US Attorney when the questions of NAGPRA notification came up.
Treebone and Allerdyce drove into the lot and parked beside Friday’s vehicle.
“Lovebirds,” Treebone said when he let down his window. “Should we let you two alone for a few?”
“A thoughtful gesture,” Friday said with a smile, “but we are adults in full control of our animal urges.”
“Damn shame,” Treebone said.
Friday looked in the truck window at Allerdyce. “Looks like they gave it to you pretty good,’ she said, “but it’s statistically impossible to uglify past baseline.”
Allerdyce grinned. Treebone smirked.
“Are you guys going to find the thugs who pounded Allerdyce?” she added. “They need some education.”
This surprised him. “You don’t especially like Allerdyce.”
“True, I especially don’t like him, but that doesn’t mean I want his ass kicked by jerks trying to use him to get to you.”
“We’ll be attending to that forthwith. I stopped to tell you we’re headed to the Soo to find Jerk No. Two when we leave here.”
“Damn,” she said, “and here I thought you came for a smooch and a hug. Li
sten to me, Grady, this whole thing has you playing very close to the edge, and it makes me uncomfortable for you and for us, especially this thing with the US Attorney.”
“I know, I know, but if what we know becomes public, that’s the end of the Mosquito.”
“Lying to the US Attorney can be the end of you, too.”
“I didn’t lie,” he said. “Exactly. I can live with my conscience.” So far.
“All right,” she said with a reedy voice. “I guess you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do. Whatever happens,” she added with a deep sigh, “I’m with you.”
What had he done to deserve her? “Thanks,” he said, and they embraced, and he closed his eyes and decided maybe retirement and more of this might beat the hell out of all the stuff he was juggling now.
“Our kid and dog send their love.”
“Not the cat?”
“That cat is about hate—and food.” She took hold of his elbows and held them. “Tell me this thing will end.”
He nodded.
“Say it,” Friday said.
“It will,” he said.
“Will what?”
“End.”
“Good boy, give us another big smooch.”
“You’re working.”
“Big whoop,” she said, pursing her lips.
“The guys are watching.”
“Oh no, heavens no, the boys!” She looked at Treebone’s truck and said, “Turn your heads, you animals!”She kissed him and whispered, “You’re not the only hardhead in this family. Now beat it and go earn your paycheck while you still have one.”
“I don’t have one,” he said. “Do I?”
“Pretend you do; all money’s an illusion and theoretical concept—unlike sex, which is real and needed way more than money.”
Chapter 34
Bay Mills
Chippewa County
Undersheriff Hawkins Shoebear called as they were climbing up the steep hill south of Munising. “We’ve got your subject out in Bay Mills.”
“He say anything?”
“Tribals picked him up and you know how that game goes, both sides posturing for whatever they posture for. I’m sure he knows better than to mouth off to them, since they are a sovereign country and have their own notions. They’ve got him on ice, no hurry. Want to grab a bite while you’re over here?”
Should they take time for a social lunch? Service wondered. It was often important in cementing relationships between police agencies. “Rain check on chow, we’re on a tight timeline.”
“Rain check,” his colleague agreed. “But let’s not forget. Be good to jaw a bit.”
Service tried to remember the Bay Mills village layout. “The jail’s on West Lakeshore?”
“That’s the one. Call if you need anything.”
How was it that most local and regional state law enforcement could get along just fine, but the Feds seemed to find it impossible. Eight years after 9/11 and he was still hearing disturbing stories about silos and self-serving bureaucratic behaviors. Not your problem. Keep your mind on your own problems.
“Dere still good sin-mans in MacMillan?” Allerdyce asked as they hit the Seney Stretch coming out of Shingleton.
Treebone said, “Closed a long time, family health issues, flu in the family, divorce, some bullshit excuse to save face, who knows why for sure.”
“That kind of flu causes all kind of nasty,” Service said. “Kind of stuff you don’t see till it slaps you up side the head.”
Tree said, “Kalina leave me, she reach for nukes on way out. When say till death do us part, she got in her mind maybe she’ll be doing the killing on the other end.”
“Could use Ind’in frybread,” Allerdyce said. “Put da sin-mans on dose too, squooch out some horny, nice.” He smacked his lips.
“Horny?” Treebone asked.
“Wah, horny from butts and beets.”
“Horny comes from beets?” Good god, talking to the man was like trying to connect with a Martian.
“Horn-y, not horny, you no listen good your problem,” Allerdyce complained.
“Button it, you two. Allerdyce, you may have to swear charges to get this guy to talk.”
“I can do dat?”
“You bet.”
“Dat be new, me, make charge against udders. I work t’other end of dat most my life. I tink I like dis change.”
Allerdyce had his mask perfect. Who’d think such a simple fool would be the one-man scourge he had been for so long. “Don’t get used to it,” Service told him.
The old man frowned. “Youse don’t t’ink I changed?”
“Never say never.”
“What dat means dat never never?”
Service said, “I believe you’ve changed. But I’m still trying to figure out your angle and how long all this may last.”
“Last forever.”
Service shrugged, turned his mind to Gerard “Paint” Angevin. Thaddeus Zyzwyzcky was a dumb ass, much to his old man’s obvious chagrin, and who could blame him. Big Z had been a lifelong poster boy for white hats, and Service wondered which of the two boys, Paint or Thad, was hard-core and which was the lesser of the two cement-heads. One had to be a bit smarter than the other, and be the ringleader, otherwise both would be doing hard time. Service was determined to find out.
*****
The Bay Mills Indian Community had its own police force of three officers, its own court, its own jail (for short-term, immediate post-arrest purposes), all the good things casino income could bestow on a tribe, at least for a while. The police department was in the Tribal Justice Building, which also housed the court. The jail was a block away in a stone cube that reminded Service of military architecture: plain and solid, no art, no frills.
The jailer offered them a room, but Service declined. Angevin was alone in a holding cell with no windows, external ambient light, or other distractions. Service decided it would be a good location, with tight space so they could squeeze the man psychologically and physically. The goal here was to capture the man’s attention and make sure he understood that what was going down here was not some half-ass deal.
The man was as described, six-four, three hundred pounds, and ripped the same as his partner, the Prince. Where Thad was fair, Angevin was dark-skinned with long, shiny black hair and black eyes. Huge hands, lots of scars on his knuckles, a veteran of a lot of close-in dustups and no doubt accustomed to using his size to set the tone and the pace.
“Mr. Angevin, I’m Deputy US Marshal Service. Mind if I call you Paint? That’s an interesting name. You did take it for yourself, right? Because your folks they named you Gerard, and it seems you took a different name the way actors take new names, you know, to be cool and send a message and all that superficial, meaningless crap, right?”
Angevin said nothing, but Service could see he had the man’s attention.
Treebone said in an extreme falsetto voice, “Those actors, most of them are gay gay gay, man, high-heel sneakers club, pumping iron. They looking at themselves in mirrors to get off on themselves, eyeball masturbation, ain’t a pretty picture, pretty pretend-man.”
“I ain’t none of them things,” Angevin said through his teeth.
Got him going, now keep him on his heels. “You mean you’re not an actor?” Service asked.
“Not one of them others,” he said.
Treebone kept pressing. “What you thinkin’ run around with a pretty boy like Polack Prince. He alla them things you ain’t, see what I’m sayin’?”
“Polish, not Polack,” Angevin asserted.
“That what your gay boyfriend say, Pole-ish? He like that word pole, do he, the prince’s pole.”
Angevin looked at Service. “What is his problem?”
“You, you’re his problem, Paint. So you’re not gay. The word
around Bay Mills is you like to wear ladies’ shoes, so we should pay no attention to that kind of talk, sayin’?”
“Sir, I don’t wear no damn high heels.”
Sir? Good, Service thought, really got his attention. “I believe you, man. Where would a man with feet like yours find shoes that big?” He continued, “Mr. Angevin, you and your love-bro put a nasty whipping on our friend, Mr. Allerdyce.”
Service would swear forever that all the color had drained out of the Indian’s boy’s face like it was loaded on a freight elevator and his face had gone from dark to pink to a color approaching parchment-paper pale.
“Man,” Angevin said very carefully and deliberately, “that woman she did not never say the dude’s name, I swear.”
“She?”
“Call herself Andy. A gon-gos-ik-we. She hire us to convince an old guy to give a message to friend of his.”
Service said, “A gon-gos-ik-we, a Swedish woman, right?”
Angevin’s eyes widened. “You speak Nish?” He looked appalled to learn this.
“I’m rusty but sometimes I can dredge up what I need. Here’s the deal, Gerard, I’m the friend in question. No charges have been filed . . . yet. But Mr. Allerdyce there behind us is just waiting for us to tell him if that’s going to be necessary, right, Mr. Allerdyce?”
“Absolutely correct,” Allerdyce said, and Service was startled by the man’s normal human voice and diction. He glanced at Tree and saw it had rocked him a bit too.
Service said, “If you cooperate at a level we find satisfactory, no charges will be filed and you and your ‘boy-girlfriend’ will be free.”
Angevin didn’t attempt a comeback this time. Instead, he sat quietly, listening.
Limpy said, “We shall all behave like civilized adults here.”
Service ignored the old man, who was embellishing his new role. “You’ve got to level with us, Gerard. We’ve already talked to your partner. Your story better match his.”
“Yes sir, but how will I know what he said?”
“We’ll tell you, is how. This Andy, this Swedish woman, how do you know she’s Swedish?”
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