Chasing a Blond Moon

by Joseph Heywood

  “You let queers be game wardens?”

  “Why? You looking for work?”

  Allerdyce hissed, “I ain’t one a dose, hey!” He screamed, “Don’t youse never call me no queer!”

  Limpy’s face was red, his fists clenched, and he looked like he was going to strike out. Service kept his voice soft. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Just wonderin’,” the old man said. “You hear about Dowdy Kitella?”

  “He fell down and hurt himself?”

  Allerdyce cackled. “Got shit kicked out of him, is what.”

  Classic Allerdyce, always on top of everything that could potentially affect his business. Kitella was a longtime competitor and there was no love lost between the men, though for years they had avoided tangling directly.

  “You confessing?” Service asked.

  Allerdyce grinned. “A body wants Kitella outa da way, he just go missin’, eh?”

  Service waited for additional comment, but Allerdyce chewed away and stared at Lake Superior.

  “How’s Honeypat?” Service asked. Honeypat had been the old man’s daughter-in-law. They had been sleeping together before his son Jerry died. Limpy and Honeypat had more or less hooked up until last fall when Service informed her that Limpy had hit on his grandson’s girlfriend.

  The old man didn’t directly answer the question. “Fucked ole Honeypat right here on dis island many da time,” Limpy said. “Could hear her scream all da way to da ore docks. You heard she got her own place over to Ford River?” Limpy added.

  Honeypat had a place, meaning they were still apart.

  “How’s Aldo?” His grandson seemed a nice kid, totally unlike his grandfather.

  “Up da college.”

  “He still seeing Daysi?” Daysi was Aldo’s Ojibwa girlfriend.

  “He don’t say. Lives da college, nose in books.” Limpy made a sour face and spit. “Guess I better get on.”

  When Service got to the truck, Limpy walked past him, heading down the narrow road that looped the park. “You’re not riding?”

  “Got the time?”

  Service checked his watch. “Almost one.”

  “I’ll walk,” Allerdyce said. “Good for ticker, and good for da ticker’s good for da pecker, sonny.” The old man looked Service in the eye. “Ya know, Aldo’s queer as da five-dollar bill. Like all dem Hershey packers down to Jackson.” Limpy flashed a look of total disgust and spit a thick line of yellow phlegm.

  “Three-dollar bill,” Service corrected him.

  Allerdyce grunted and shuffled on.

  Service started the truck and followed and when he drew alongside, buzzed down his window. “You still in the bear business?”

  Allerdyce gave him a dark look. “Give dat up long time back. No money.”

  “I hear it’s major money.”

  “Not on da gettin’ end of da business. Da Chinks make all da money dese days, eh?”

  Allerdyce walked slowly, his pace barely a shuffle. Usually the old man could outwalk professional walkers. Service drove to the end of the island, found a parking place, and waited.

  What the hell had Limpy wanted? Allerdyce always had a plan. Always.

  When the old man passed by his parking place he stopped at a trashcan, took off the top and fished around in it, shoving some of the take into his bag. Then he walked slowly on, looking straight ahead.

  Back at the DNR office Fern LeBlanc turned away and Service looked down at the captain’s office and saw Aldo Allerdyce in his boss’s office, both of them at a small round conference table. The boy wore a long-sleeved dress shirt and a red tie.

  The captain waved for Service to join them.

  “Hey, Aldo,” Service said. The boy was tall and thin, his hair neatly trimmed and combed, his shoes shined.

  “I came to ask the captain about careers in law enforcement,” the young man said. “I’m majoring in criminal justice with a minor in wildlife management.” Aldo paused. “Given my grandfather’s predilections, I thought it wise to find out if his history would disqualify me.”

  The captain spoke. “Mr. Allerdyce has a four-point average and he’s taken the state civil service exams and scored in the ninety-sixth percentile.”

  “That’s great,” Service said. “Does Limpy know about your career interest?”

  “He said it’s my choice,” Aldo said grudgingly.

  Typical Limpy, playing two angles. He tells the boy one thing, and goes behind his back to poison the well. “How’s Daysi?”

  “Fine. She’s in school at Northern, too.”

  “Good to see you,” Service said, excusing himself.

  Later, Aldo came to his cubicle. “The captain says that what matters is my record, not my grandfather’s.”

  “Limpy’s trying to stab you in the back,” Service said. “He showed up here at lunchtime and told me you’re gay.”

  Aldo shook his head and smiled. “Would that matter?”

  “Only to your grandfather,” Service said.

  “The captain thinks he can get me on as summer help—with one of the biologists,” Aldo said.

  “Say hi to Daysi,” Service said. He watched Aldo walk away. The vision of Aldo with a badge confronting his rogue grandfather made him smile.

  Simon del Olmo called on the cell phone later that afternoon. Service was in the parking lot, smoking. “Kitella’s hired Sandy Tavolacci,” Simon said.

  “I’m not surprised,” Service said. “Sandy only cares about how much cash a client has. Guilt’s not a factor.” Tavolacci often played the dunce, but it was all an act. He had put a lot of people back in the woods who didn’t belong there. But Sandy was cagey and because he had to deal frequently with woods cops, there were times when he would signal something he didn’t think was quite right according to his twisted interpretation of Hoyle.

  Service thought, maybe Limpy had delivered several messages today.

  19

  Until a year ago Grady Service had been petrified of dogs, any breed, any size, any temperament. The mere sight of one gave him the sweats. Proximity or a growl sent ice water racing down his spine. Since the arrival of Newf, a gift from his former girlfriend, the fears had begun to recede, but returned suddenly as he pulled into the driveway.

  He saw a large red and gray dog come loping from the side of the house. It had a hyena-like snout, its neck hair hackled with spikes—a bowlegged, strutting, wide-bodied beast that looked like it could chew through a fire hydrant. Service had just cracked his door when he saw the dog. He immediately slammed it and felt something he had not experienced in a year. His friends and colleagues saw irony in his being a conservation officer and being afraid of dogs, but he found no humor in it. Fear was irrational and meant the loss of control. He hated not having control, or at least the illusion of it.

  He saw Newf in the window of the house, barking and carrying on at the intruder, who showed no interest in leaving.

  The cell phone buzzed while he was contemplating his predicament.

  “Hey, it’s me,” Nantz said. “I called the house, but no answer. Where are you?”

  “Almost home,” he said.

  “How close?”

  “Not far.”

  “When you get home, open a beer and call me back.”

  “We can talk now.”

  “I don’t hear any sounds,” she said. “Are you moving?”

  “I have the windows up.”

  “I talked to Lori about the fund-raiser. I told her about Siquin Soong.”

  The red and gray beast looked up at him and glared. “You what?”

  “Don’t get yanked. Lori’s no fool. I told you that. She asked a lot of questions and I told her you want to talk to Soong. I told you I wouldn’t lie to her.”

  He wondered if Nantz would change her tune after she ha
d her badge. “What did she say?” The dog outside was still and seemed to be shaking. He wondered if it was rabid, but there was no drool, no foam.

  “She thanked me for telling her the truth and said she’s confident you’ll use discretion and impressive diplomatic skills. Siquin Soong is one of her major supporters.”

  “Maybe she should rethink that.”

  “Grady, you don’t have anything on the woman. You just want to ask about her son. What’s for dinner tonight?”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  “Get real. You always have dinner planned. What’s going on? Your voice sounds strained.”

  “Nothing,” he said. Which was true up to a point; he and the dog were at a standoff.

  “Where are you now?”

  “Almost in the house.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “Close,” he said.

  She paused before speaking. “Jesus, you’re in the driveway!”

  “There’s a goddamned dog,” he confessed meekly.

  She laughed. “And you’re afraid to get out.”

  “Basically.”

  “It’s a dog, Service.”

  “I know it’s a dog, but there are dogs and there are dogs,” he said.

  “This one might as well be a man-eating croc.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Next to my door.”

  “It probably wants to play.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Are his ears up or back?”

  “Flat,” he said.

  “Is he looking at you?”

  “No, he’s looking off at about forty-five degrees.”

  “How’s he breathing?”

  “Panting.”

  “He’s anxious.”

  “He’s anxious?”

  “You’re probably making him nervous.”

  “It’s our goddamn driveway, not his.”

  “Calm down,” she said. “You’re being irrational.”

  “Knowing that doesn’t flip the switch to rational.”

  “Just get out of the truck.”

  “That’s it?”

  “This isn’t number theory.”

  “You’re not the one who has to do this.”

  “I know that,” she said.

  Service said, “When I was a kid I never thought dog and mail carrier jokes were funny.”

  “Just get out, but don’t make eye contact. He’ll read that as a challenge.”

  “So he can attack me blind?”

  “Work with me, Service. I’m trying to help.”

  “Maybe I could shoot him.”

  “The animal hasn’t done anything.”

  “You can’t see what I see.”

  “Listen to me,” she said. “Get out the passenger door, duck into the garage, and go from there to the house.”

  “He’ll nail me before I get to the garage.”

  “No, he won’t.”

  “He’s right here, waiting.”

  “Have you got a better plan?”

  He didn’t, but maybe if he opened the door sharply, he could knock the dog away and scare him. “I could just stay in the truck until it leaves.”

  “And if it stays all night?”

  Damn dog. “Okay,” he said.

  “Okay what?”

  “Just okay. I’m thinking.” If he got to the garage it was a short leap from there to the house. If he got into the house he could let Newf out and she could take care of the intruder. But what if the dog got between him and the garage? He could run for the house and if the animal attacked, he had no choice. He could give it a squirt of pepper spray—if he had a canister with him, which he didn’t.

  “Grady Service, you can’t sit in your truck all night.”

  “I have a plan,” he said.

  “My plan, I bet,” she said.

  “Your plan, yes.” With a modification: He would shoot the animal if he had to.

  “I think you can’t do this,” she said.

  “Do what?”

  “Get out of the truck with the pupper sitting there.”

  “It’s sure as hell not a pupper.”

  “You can’t do it. You’re gonna sit there like a boob all night.”

  “Am not. I can do this.”

  “Standard bet?” she said. Standard bet meant the winner got their choice of time and place for sex.

  “Really?”

  “Sure. I’ll win,” she said.

  “We’ll see about that,” he countered.

  “Call me if you actually get into the house,” she said, hanging up.

  “Traitor,” he said, snapping the cell phone shut.

  He tried his door and the red dog immediately tensed. He pawed under the seats and found the remnants of some crackers, opened the window slightly and threw them onto the driveway. The dog took a step toward them, but stopped. A second batch sent the dog after them and Service went quickly through the passenger door, hitting the electronic garage door remote as he got inside, and out the back door, leaping onto the porch and into the house without looking back.

  Newf was all over him, but he opened the door and yelled, “Get that red piece of shit!”

  She charged out snarling, got almost to the marauding dog, stopped, wagged her tail, and the two animals began to play and roll around on the grass.

  He opened a bottle of Bell’s Amber Ale with a shaking hand and tried to steady his nerves. It took an hour for him to call Nantz.

  “Have you been in your truck all this time?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Yes you have,” she said.

  “I’m in the house and I win the bet,” he said.

  “There was a time limit,” Nantz said.

  “You never said anything about a time limit.”

  “There’s always a time limit. You can’t make a bet after the Army-Navy game’s over.”

  “This wasn’t a football game. There’s no time limit.”

  “There’s always a time limit, hon. Sorry.”

  “It’s a mean-looking dog.”

  “Where is it now?”

  He turned his back so he couldn’t see Newf and the strange dog standing side by side on the lawn. “I can’t see it now.”

  “Go see if it’s still out there.”

  As he walked toward the door Newf and the red dog jumped up on the porch and lay down together.

  “You see it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where?”

  “On the porch.”

  “Our porch?”

  “Yes, our porch.”

  “Where’s Newf?”

  “Outside.”

  “Doing what?”

  “They’re taking a nap together.”

  “The man-eater and Newf ?” She began to laugh hysterically and when she finally regained composure, said, “God, I love you, Service. But we still win the bet.”

  “We win?”

  “Think about it, dummy.”

  He laughed. “Right.”

  “If the dog’s there in the morning, how are you going to get to work?” she asked.

  “Jesus,” he said. “Did you have to bring that up?”

  “It’ll probably leave,” she said.

  More likely, it wouldn’t.

  “I’ve got to sign off, darlin’. We roll early tomorrow: St. Joe, Niles, Flint, Mt. Pleasant.”

  “In one day?”

  “She has the constitution of a yeti. Be nice to that pup, Service.”

  “It’s the hound from hell.”

  “You,” she said, hanging up.

  He thought about letting Newf in, but she seemed content and he didn’t want to open the door. Instead,
he called Simon del Olmo at home.

  “Allerdyce came to see me today,” he told the younger officer. “He wanted to know if I’d heard about Kitella. I suggested that maybe he had something to do with it, and he said if he wanted Kitella gone, he would disappear him.”

  “You buy that?”

  “Allerdyce is into mind games.”

  “With no mind.”

  “He has a mind. It just doesn’t work like ours.”

  “He’s been violent before.”

  “It’s not his style now. Too much risk, and believe me, he does not want to go back inside.”

  “Something I can do to help?” del Olmo asked.

  “I’m not sure. Maridly got hold of a photo of Trapper Jet from high school. It doesn’t look like him. Not even close.”

  “People change when they get older.”

  “Not this much. I got some of his military records and the start on a biography. He’s from Lansing originally. When he was released by the VA, he came up to the Yoop and never went home. That makes no sense.”

  “He’s loco,” del Olmo said.

  “Maybe he’s smarter than we give him credit for,” Service said.

  “That wouldn’t take much. You think he had something to do with Kitella?”

  “He claimed Kitella burned his cabin.”

  “How’s he gonna go after Kitella? He’s blind. You think he’d hire somebody?”

  “Not his style—and maybe we’re the blind ones,” Service said.

  “You’ve lost me,” del Olmo said.

  “Okay, bye,” Service said, abruptly hanging up. Why would Oliver Toogood want to lose himself in the U.P.? Had something happened in the camps in Korea? The rift with his father? The only people who could know for sure were those who had been POWs with him. How many were still alive? More to the point: Was Trapper Jet Oliver Toogood? Service was having nagging doubts and had no idea how this could be.

  All this had started with the body at the canal. He got another beer and called Treebone. Kalina answered.

  “It’s Grady. Is he there?”

  “Parked in front of the TV—as usual. I’ll take the phone to him. Don’t want to get the man’s blood pressure up.”

  “Yo,” Tree said.

  “Do you know where Teddy Gates is?” Gates had been their commanding officer in Vietnam.

  “At this minute or over the past twenty-five years?” Luticious Treebone asked.