Bad Optics

by Joseph Heywood

  Allerdyce reached out to Service with a hand-gesture Service recognized as “gimme smokes.” Not just one or two, but the whole pack. How has it come to pass that I’m now financing both of our habits with damn ciggies topping five bucks a pack? “Maybe I should quit smoking and improve the health of the both of us,” he said out loud. Allerdyce was nonplussed and kept wiggling his fingers.

  Having gotten what he wanted, the poacher lit up and grinned. “I like how youse laugh when t’ings turn shit. I gone take little walk-about now, hey.”

  Service told him, “We’ll probably head for the county building to see what they know about this business, or we’ll canvas neighbors. Meet back here in a couple of hours?”

  Allerdyce grunted and shambled away looking like he might fall over dead any minute, which was just part of his act. Service wondered if this whole shtick was developed gradually over time, or if it was situational and designed to match his new-leaf persona. Ought to mention this to somebody at the college, see if they want to study Allerdyce. The problem with the old man was that even when he was acting normal, he wasn’t, and recently he had been acting odd beyond his normal odd, a difference almost unparsable but to a select few. Whatever the source of this change was recent, and the weird sleep at Tree’s cabin was a pretty strange symptom. Usually the old man went to bed and was out immediately. He did not sleep on his heels against cabin walls. Service tried to think back to when he first noticed a change. But nothing came.

  Treebone interrupted his thoughts. “Black paint job inside the windows suggests this was neither a sudden decision nor a short-term one.”

  There was an old gas station across the street, repurposed into the “WHOLESALE PAINT EMPORIUM, ALL BRANDS, ALL WHOLESALE PRICES.” Service pointed at the building. “What’re the chances the good neighbor knows something?”

  Tree said, “Don’t ask questions, don’t get answers. Let’s go talk to the man.”

  The two walked across M-35. One end of the building had been painted in a primitive camouflage pattern, which was becoming the fashion statement of the day in the U.P. for all sorts of products, from toilet paper and romantic candles to T-shirts. He’d recently seen a bumper sticker on a black Hummer, CAMO IS THE NEW BLACK. Treebone, who had seen the sign at the same time, quipped, “What is wrong with people’s heads?”

  A sign in the paint store door said, CLOSED, OPEN AT 9 A.M., and it was just past eight, but there was one man moving around the store and Treebone knocked to get his attention. The man was thin, early thirties, with gelled spiky hair and gold posts in each earlobe, yet another sign of the changing times. Was a time when piercings and jewelry were exclusively for pirates, Gypsies, women, or drunk sailors. These days it seemed everywhere.

  The man inside came to the door and pointed at the CLOSED sign. Treebone banged his fists aggressively on the glass, yelled, “We don’t want to play your game. Open up.”

  Service stepped over and flashed his badge and the man reluctantly opened the door and said, “What up?” followed by a stupid grin and “What kind of badge is that?”

  “The badge you’re looking at, is what. I’m a US Deputy Marshal. When did your neighbors across the street move?” Service asked.

  The man stuck out his lower lip. “I’ll be. Are you like a Fed?”

  “Not like a Fed, I am a Fed. You never noticed they were gone?”

  “Sorry, I was out to my camp,” the man said.

  Service tried to look him in the eye but the man kept looking elsewhere. His instinct said the man was lying. He seemed edgy. “If you didn’t notice the move, how do you know you were at camp when it happened?”

  The man chewed his lower lip. “How do I know?” the man repeated. A sure sign a lie was working came when people repeated your questions. “Not sure,” the man said.

  “Did you work yesterday?”

  The man shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Who did?”

  “Nobody. Yesterday was Sunday and we never work on Sundays, you know how that is, I’m sure.”

  Yesterday was Sunday. Damn, I’m losing track of everything. “Did you know the people over there?”

  “No, and now I guess I never will.”

  Odd way to answer the question. Gut says game-player, but why? What game?

  “So you didn’t know the people?”

  “Define know,” the man said.

  Smart-ass. “Coffee now and then, say hi to Andy, ask how’s business today, sell them some paint, you know, like interact with and know them.”

  “I don’t know no woman Andy,” the man said.

  “I never said Andy was a woman,” Service said.

  “It’s a woman’s name,” the man came back.

  Tree glanced at Service.

  Service said, “Andy Devine, Amos and Andy, all men.”

  Treebone pressed the man physically, using his size to loom over him. “Like my partner just said, nobody said there was a woman named Andy,” Tree said, stepping closer to the man and pressing his blackness into the man’s personal space. “Why would you say there’s a woman named Andy?”

  The man looked like he would have preferred to have been anywhere but here. Service was sure he was sorry he’d opened his door.

  “I don’t remember,” the man said.

  Tree leaned toward the man. “You don’t remember why you said Andy’s a woman?”

  Service jumped in, “You’re telling us that the people across the street pulled out lock, stock, and barrel and you didn’t notice.”

  “I’m not gonna lie. I didn’t notice and that’s the simple truth.”

  What fools came up with that phrase? Cops heard it all the time. This was not the time to get hung up on trivia. “When did you see them last?” Service asked.

  The man looked at the sky. “Friday, or was it Thursday? I guess I don’t really remember. Sometime last week, could have been Monday, I just don’t know.”

  The old runaround. Why? What’s this jerk’s angle? “Did you ever sell them any of your paint?”

  “I don’t believe so,” the man said. “But my memory’s not what it used to be.”

  “Listen up, we can have a federal subpoena here for your records faster than you can call a lawyer,” Service said. “Does that help your memory?”

  “I guess there’s only one way to find out,” the businessman said.

  Is he consciously playing for time for the sake of neighbors who are watching? Up here this happened all the time. People didn’t mind talking to cops, as long as nobody else knew. He claims not to know about the move, which seems like bull. Or is this guy just a lamebrain? Either is possible.

  “How many employees do you have, Mister . . .?”

  “Trelawney, Nalor Trelawney,” the man said. He made no effort to shake hands.

  “Cousin Jack?” Treebone asked.

  The man took a step backward. “I’m not your cousin, man. No offense.”

  Thirty-year-old ignoramus. “You from here originally, Mr. Trelawney?” Service asked.

  “I moved up from Milwaukee for this franchise opportunity.”

  “How’s that working out for you?” Treebone said dryly.

  “You know, good days and bad days,” the man said.

  “Listen up,” Service said. “The way you’re playing our questions, this could end up being one of your worst days ever, Mr. Trelawney. People down in Milwaukee, do they smart-lip the Feds and try to impede official investigations?”

  “I’ve done nothing of the sort.”

  “You’ve done nothing but,” Treebone said. “Obstruction of a federal investigation ain’t no small thing, Cuz.”

  The man squirmed. “What is it you men want? I don’t know when the people across the street moved, I swear to god. If you have to get a subpoena, go right ahead.”

  “You got somethi
ng to hide back among your paint cans?” Treebone pressed.

  “No, of course not. I can’t tell you about something I know nothing about, and to answer your earlier question, I am the sole employee of this business. Just me.”

  Service grabbed Tree by the arm. “Let’s go.”

  “You Feds can’t march onto private property and push around innocent people,” Trelawney said to their backs.

  Tree said to Service, “I see a dumpster peeking out behind the Drazel building. Couldn’t see it till now. Want to go do some diving?”

  *****

  They spent an hour in the refuse bin. “Our age and doin’ this shit, what’s wrong with us, man?”

  “I’m kind of enjoying it,” Service said.

  “You always been what Canucks call crook. Allerdyce ever coming back?”

  “I told him he had two hours to remove whatever was bothering him from his system.”

  “You say it exactly?” Tree asked.

  “No, I just told him two hours. Where the hell could he have gotten off to?”

  “It’s Allerdyce.”

  “Right, sorry.”

  “The man’s got him a questionable record in the reliability column, right?”

  “He’ll be back.”

  “This calendar year I hope.”

  “He doesn’t have enough smokes and his wallet’s in my truck. He’ll be back.”

  *****

  As foretold and promised, Allerdyce shuffled back a minute before the two hours were up with an excited look on his face. A dottering old man with a game leg limped along beside him. The man had no cane, but sort of threw the stiff leg in an arc and then shifted weight onto it to step forward. The two of them combined in a sort of herky-jerky bobblehead dance.

  The violator’s aged companion was equally grizzled and toothless, mostly bald with smoke-colored patches of thin hair sticking out here and there—like islands of old rushes in a marsh.

  “Dis ’ere Weikko Teppopihlamaki,” Allerdyce said.

  Some Finnish names were unpronounceable to normal humans, which accounted in part for how easily Allerdyce ripped this one off without even taking a practice run.

  The man said, “How’re you fellows doing?” His English was flawless.

  “Dis guy,” Allerdyce said, clearly tickled, “he was best Yoiker of all da Finlands pipples.”

  “Yoiker?”

  “Yoiking is throat-singing,” the man said. “I learned it from the Sami people.”

  Service had no idea how to respond and didn’t have to. Allerdyce raced on, “Fought dose Red Russky Commies in da White Dirt War, nineteen and da t’irty nine. He just fourteen den, and kill dose Russkies, pop-pop-pop.”

  “Talvisota,” the man inserted with a grin. “Icy Hell.”

  Allerdyce pressed on. “Also means dat word, sniper-helper, hey. So now dis guy he eighty-four. Weikko, dis kid, he crawl out der wit’ ’is pukko, finish off wounded enemas, take dere ammo and stuff.” Allerdyce made a slashing gesture across his own throat, and a sound that Service thought a perfect representation of a knife cutting flesh.

  “One day Russky bombs hit close, mess up Weikko’s leg bad, and dey send ’im over Helsinki, den down London to sawbones and when he all good again, Finland war she all done, so Brits dey send him to US Army and dey ship Weikko over ’ere to da Yoop, translate kraut and Russian from Nazi POW. He live over Pelkie long time, den move down here get place close to grandkittles.”

  Service said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Cutting throats at fourteen? Jesus. Wars made for so much sick shit. “Throat singer?”

  “More of a poet,” the man said, his English pronunciation far superior to anything Allerdyce could ever organize. “I wrote pieces and the BBC broadcast them during the occupation.”

  Service knew Finland had been occupied both by the Nazis and the Soviets.

  “Dey give him da gold pukka after war,” Allerdyce said.”

  “You got a gold knife for writing poetry?” Treebone asked.

  The man smiled sheepishly. “No, for my work in Talvisota.”

  “You’ve been here since the war?” Service asked.

  “I come here in late 1943. I speak some German, Finn, some Swedish, some Russian. I helped with Nazi POWs and I stayed when the war ended. I was in Pelkie then. After that I went down to Ann Arbor, got my degrees, moved up to Northern, and taught there until I turned seventy-five. After retirement, I moved down here to the U.P. Riviera.” The man laughed. “I married my wife in the U.P. and we had our family here. This is Finland for me, this place.”

  “And you know Allerdyce?” Service asked.

  “Very much so.We liked to hunt and fish together.We did everything in the woods. For years.”

  “Everything?”

  “Things like back in the old country,” the retired professor said.

  “Tell Sonnyboy,” Allerdyce urged the man before Service could think of what to say next.

  Teppopihlamaki pointed north up M-35. “House with the widow’s walk is mine,” he announced.

  “Tell him what up dere,” Allerdyce urged enthusiastically.

  “Lord Nelson’s telescope on a tripod, a reproduction of course.”

  “Far-looker,” Allerdyce said. “Dat Nelson guy get killed over Hegick get sent home to da Englands in pickle barrel.”

  “Horatio Hornblower?” Treebone suggested.

  Allerdyce scowled and hissed. “No, Nelson guy, not jazz guy, pickle barrel, youse can Goople it.” The violator looked at his companion. “Tell ’em Weikko, tell ’em.”

  “There was a moving van here yesterday. They looked like they were emptying the building.”

  “What moving company?” Service asked.

  “Two Men and a Truck, I think the name was. Very odd name for a business.”

  “How many people did you see?”

  “Two movers in blue overalls, five blond women, and Trelawney.”

  “Trelawney?”

  The professor pointed across the street. “Trelawney.”

  “The owner?”

  Teppopihlamaki nodded solemnly. “He’s been over there a lot.”

  “Really,” Service said, pure rhetoric with no need for an answer.

  The old Finn suggested, “I believe he might be seeing one of the women. Is that how they put such things these days?”

  Treebone said, “It’s euphemism for get some leg.”

  The professor grinned. “Yes, I would think that would be the intent.”

  “Did you know any of the Drazel women?” Service asked.

  “Not personally. They are all blond, but one seems older by a bit and she is the one I saw most frequently with Trelawney. Frankly, I couldn’t guess her age. I’m better at gauging the doneness of a steak on the grill than the ages of women, who all look young.”

  Tree joked, “I hope you haven’t been using that telescope to look in bedroom windows.”

  Service cringed, but the professor laughed. “Certainly not since I was eighty-one, or was it eighty?”

  *****

  Trelawney was at the door by the time they crossed M-35. Allerdyce remained with the old Finn. He had both hands up, and a crooked grin on his rat-like face. “Okay, okay, I was just jokin’ around with you fellows. No harm, no foul, am I right?”

  “You helped the people across the street load a moving van. Yesterday, Trelowney.”

  The man said, “I’m so glad you came back. I just now remembered something and wondered if it, you know, might be relevant to your inquiry.”

  “That’s good on account your neighbors saw you with the Drazels.”

  “Ah, the neighbors; alas, we are not on a solid footing with them. It’s an anti-Wisconsin thing.”

  “They’ve also said you have been seeing a certain blond,”
Service added.

  “As I said, I am not a favorite among neighbors and you are likely to hear anything and everything about me.” The man sucked in a deep breath. “She was a fellow commercialist and colleague and a neighbor.”

  Service said, “What’s her name?”

  “It’s like this,” Trelawney said, holding up his left hand and tapping a wedding ring.

  “Ah yes,” Tree said, “it’s the old it sucks-to-be-you moment. What’s her name, your blond colleague?”

  “Then you understand,” Trelowney said with a trembling voice.

  “Nope, can’t understand no man who cheat his wife, unh-uhn,” Treebone said. “My wife find out I do that, she empty a twenty-round mag in my sorry ass and be screaming for more clips.”

  “Truly,” the man said, “you must understand my dilemma.”

  “We understand it,” Service said, “but we don’t give a shit. We want that woman’s name, and where she lives.”

  The man sighed and his shoulders slumped. “Andronica is her full name, but she goes by Andy. She lives somewhere around Traverse City, but alas I have no address or phone number and no way to make contact.”

  The man had a smug look. “Her last name?” Service asked.

  “Alas, she never said, and I never thought to ask.”

  “Alas my ass,” Treebone said. “Our next stop is to talk to your old lady, and we’ll see how you sing then.”

  The man tore a piece of paper from a small notebook and scribbled a phone number.

  Service looked at the paper. “That’s not a name.”

  “I don’t know her name, but that’s how I can get in touch with her. Please do not tell her who gave you the number.”

  “Are you afraid she’ll think badly of you?”

  “I do have principles.”

  “So did Hitler,” Service said. “We’ll say it was a little bird.”