Shadow of the Wolf Tree

by Joseph Heywood

  “Your bust?”

  “No. He rolled on his distributors for a reduction in time.”

  “Still talkative?”

  “Depends if there’s a deal involved, and if his attorney approves.”

  “Let me guess: Sandy Tavolacci.”

  “Yep—the Mouthpiece for Morons.”

  Service had dealt with Tavolacci before. Meth dealers, Tikka Noli; Sandy’s record was at least consistent. “Pro bono, I bet.”

  “Sandy?” Millitor laughed so hard he went into a coughing spasm.

  “Tell Friday I’ll call her later.”

  “You heading to Crystal?”

  “This cook have a name?”

  Millitor said deadpan, “Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.”

  “Black?”

  “Blond hair, blue eyes. Was in school up to the community college in Ironwood and cooking meth for ski money and pussy. His old man’s a big shot at Toyota in Detroit. The first time I interviewed the kid, I said, ‘Good morning, Mr. Lew Alcindor,’ and the kid stared at me and said, ‘Who that, motherfucker?’ ”

  Millitor laughed at his own story, adding, “Make sure you call Sandy, or that little shit will go ballistic and complain to every judge and magistrate in the county.”

  31

  Crystal Falls, Iron County

  FRIDAY, JUNE 2, 2006

  “Tavolacci Law Offices,” the lawyer said, answering his own telephone. Sandy Tavolacci had for years been the defense attorney of choice for the U.P.’s most notorious criminals. He was a small man by all measures except ambition, and told people he answered his own phone as a symbol of frugality; the truth was, nobody could work for him for more than a week.

  “Sandy, Grady Service.”

  “Long time, no see. Heard you been hanging around town.”

  “From Tikka Noli.”

  “Be unethical to reveal my sources,” Tavolacci said.

  Service stifled a derisive laugh. “You’ve got two clients—Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Noli.”

  “What about them?”

  “We’ll get to Noli in good time, but I want to have a little chitchat with Abdul-Jabbar.”

  “Aboot what?”

  “Nothing personal. I’ve got another case and I’m interested in talking about meth cooking—the process, not his personal transgressions.”

  “Alleged transgressions. What’s in this for my guy?”

  “He’s been found guilty, and there’s nothing unless he’s also poached a deer.”

  “Not sayin’ he did, not sayin he didn’t,” Tavolacci said. “I’d have to confer with my client.”

  What a pompous idiot! Service couldn’t help laughing this time. “No deal, Sandy. I just want to talk to the kid. You want to be there, fine by me.”

  Silence. “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  Another silence. “What the hey, I’m tapped out on billables with the kid’s old man and the guy’s like a total prick. You want to talk to his asshole kid, no sweat off my balls, but I want some respect when we get to Tikka Noli.”

  “Thanks counselor.” Sandy’s young client had morphed almost instantaneously into “the asshole kid.” For Tavolacci, billable hours trumped all.

  Service was sitting in the parking lot of the Crystal Falls County Courthouse and jail when he made the call. Tavolacci would stew on the meeting all day and probably show up tomorrow looking for an angle to help his client, which he could then sell to the kid’s father in order to bill more hours. He’d be out of luck.

  Service picked up a folder with information on the kid, including a photo, and went to an interview room to wait. Yellow walls, freshly painted, no marks, no chips. The landmark courthouse had been beautifully refurbished.

  A uniformed jailer brought the prisoner in an orange jumpsuit and flip-flops. The kid had gotten a haircut since his booking photo had been taken. He was tall, the haircut conservative, the effect that of a nerdy-looking kid. “Kareem?” he greeted the prisoner.

  The boy poured himself into a chair. “Man, my name is Alan Hudson.”

  “That’s not the name in your jacket,” Service said, tapping the folder. “Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.”

  “Like, my lawyer is working to change it back, sir.”

  “I’m Detective Service, DNR. Tavolacci told me your old man has cut off his hours.” Unethical to tell him this? Who gives a shit.

  The boy suddenly shifted from lethargic to agitated, holding one hand flat and chopping at it with the other, like a hatchet splitting his words for dramatic effect. “I need that name changed, man!”

  “Why’s it so important to you?”

  “I keep hearing how white guys with black names get turned into graybar bitches.”

  The convicts in each prison had their own cultures, and there was a lot of rumor and misinformation about inmates and how they lived. “I can understand your concern,” Service said. “I asked your lawyer about your DNR violations.”

  The kid’s head bobbed. “What DNR violations?”

  “Tavolacci wouldn’t confirm anything you did, or didn’t do.”

  “This is, like, totally bogus, dude! Ax that motherfucker lawyer.”

  “You can talk to me.”

  “Man, I ain’t done nuffin’ wrong. I don’t fish, I don’t hunt, I don’t even look at the fuckin’ birds in my neighbor’s feeder.”

  “I thought maybe you went Crankenstein out in the woods, got out your rifle, tweaked, and shot something.”

  “Man, I just cook shit. I don’t use.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “You can’t ride the white pony and make it too. The shit is, like, totally moody.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Where are they sending you?”

  “Ain’t it in the jacket? Bellamy Creek, Ionia County.”

  “Could be worse,” Service said

  “Niggers all over the system,” the prisoner lamented.

  “I were you, I’d worry about your white brothers looking for payback on a cook who dimed his customers.”

  “I didn’t dime nobody, man. Cops come through my door like God-fucking-zilla.”

  “How many dealers you trade?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Ten, I heard. That’s a heap of pissed-off, Kareem.”

  “I told you, my name is Alan Hudson.”

  “Sorry, Al.”

  “Al-an, not Al,” the prisoner said.

  “You really didn’t use?”

  “Man, I’m not stupid. That stuff makes spaghetti in your head. I just make the shit, ya know?”

  “Word is that you’re not just a cook, you’re a veritable chef who makes primo shit.”

  Ego fed, Hudson-Jabbar bobbed his head. “How it is, dude.”

  “Nazi?”

  “Man, I ain’t white trash. Nazi’s for amateurs. I run strictly Red P.”

  “Really?”

  The kid nodded. “Real talk.”

  “You ever cook red down to white?”

  “Dude, white shit is, like, totally crunk.”

  “You know anybody who does this?”

  “Cooks ain’t got like a crank union, man. There ain’t no annual conventions.”

  “What about Detroit?”

  “What about it? Nobody wants to make red to white, man. Even splibs too smart for that.”

  “You did all your cooking in Iron County?”

  “Yeah—more space, fewer people.”

  “Home base or a rolling lab?”

  “Neither, man.”

  “Got to be one or the other.”

  “See, you people don’t think creative. I do sequential fixed base. I just moved from one cabi
n to the next.”

  “Friends’ places?”

  “Cook can’t have friends, dude; gotta do this thang alone. Why I’m talking to you—what you gonna do for me with Bellamy, sayin’?”

  “If not your friends’ cabins, you were using cabins that didn’t belong to you?”

  “Talk to my lawyer, man. What about B.C.?”

  “You’re on your own there, Kareem.”

  “Man, you, like, promised to help me.”

  “I lied. Bitch to Tavolacci.”

  “My old man won’t pay.”

  “You’ve got a problem, chief.”

  “You played me, man.”

  “Yeah, I did. You didn’t give me shit. Here’s some advice: Don’t do drugs, Kareem. Good luck inside.”

  Service stepped to the door and made a dramatic turn. “Nobody ever came to you to buy white?”

  The kid made an X with his arms. “Cross my heart, dude.”

  “If I step out the door, I’m done with this. You’re certain?”

  “Wait, man . . . I knew this toolbox down Fuck Creek tole me one time she knew a guy made white from red and liked to blow shit up.”

  Familiar words. Like many young people, this one used a vocabulary that eluded Service. “Toolbox at Fuck Creek?”

  “Watersmeet, Duck Creek Bar. Wins-day night, it be like all-wall-pussy-night—toolbox time, ya know?”

  “A meat factory.”

  “What I just said, dude.”

  “This particular toolbox have a name?”

  “Annie Bonner . . . Anyboner—ev’body know Anyboner. Now what you do for me about B.C.?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You lied to me again, man?”

  “Which, oddly enough, isn’t against the law. But selling drugs is, asshole. And by the way, don’t let people box you in, or you’ll get the Four Corners.”

  “Say what, dude?”

  “A black dick in each hand, one up your ass, and one in your mouth. Have a nice life, dude.”

  • • •

  Service called Millitor from the parking lot behind the jail. “Mike, are you familiar with a joint near Watersmeet called Duck Creek Bar?”

  Millitor laughed. “Wednesday night is ladies’ night, and they call it Fuck Creek with the Gogebic County trifecta: sex, drugs, and rock and roll. The Go-Deps are always there. You talk to Kareem?”

  Go-Deps—Gogebic County deputy sheriffs. “It’s Alan Hudson now.”

  “I bet,” Millitor said with a laugh. “The jailers have been feeding him a rash of shit about what black guys do to white guys using black names.”

  “He told me about a woman called Annie Bonner, aka Anyboner. I’d like to talk to her.”

  “I’ll call up there, see if we can get an ID on her. I’ll be back at you.”

  “Thanks, Mike. Friday call it a day?”

  “Nope. She’s still there, working the phones and computer. Said she’ll walk to the motel when she’s done. She’s a workhorse, that one.”

  He called Tuesday Friday but got her voice mail, and left a message. “It’s Grady; I’m knocking off. You should too.”

  32

  Kenton, Houghton County

  FRIDAY, JUNE 2, 2006

  The plan for the night was simple: talk to Karylanne and the baby, call Kira Lehto and check on his animals, sleep. Grinda and del Olmo were still on duty in the woods, and he was trying to decide on food when his cell phone sang to him.

  “Grady Service, Hike Funke.”

  “Hike?”

  “I played some head-buttin’ ball at the Point, center. Leukonovich said she talked to you. You hit the mess hall yet?”

  “Just starting to think about it.”

  “I’m headed to Kenton, Hoppy’s Bar—you know it?”

  “No.”

  “Can’t miss it, right on M-28. You’re about an hour away. Meet me and we’ll let our beloved Uncle Sam pick up the tab.”

  They arranged to meet in an hour or so, give or take. Service took a quick shower, changed clothes, and headed west. Halfway to Iron River he called Friday’s cell phone.

  “What?” she answered.

  “You had dinner yet?”

  “Your call got me out of the shower!”

  “Get dressed, there in fifteen minutes. We’ll get food.”

  “More of Mother Nature’s natural fare?”

  “Bar food.”

  “Works for me. Is this place dressy?”

  “Is anywhere up here?” Did she think this was a date?

  She was in the lobby when he pulled up. Shorts and sandals, a tank top, and a sweater wrapped around her waist. Fragrant perfume and soap fumes filled the truck as she pulled down the sun visor and began fiddling with her makeup.

  Hoppy’s Bar didn’t look like much from the outside, and there were only a few cars around the building, but it was still early, and most fishermen would be on the streams until dark or later. Every Yooper bar had some sort of angle: This one’s was a ceiling plastered with old hunting camp signs. Two old-timers were at the bar right inside the door drinking draft beer, and there was one man at a table to the left. He was built like a fireplug and reading something. Even from across the room Service could see the man’s face was disfigured and covered with waves of shiny scar tissue.

  “Hike Funke?” Service asked.

  The man snapped his book shut and looked up. His hard brown eyes were nearly closed by massive scars.

  “This is my partner, Detective Friday; I’m Service.”

  No hand offered. “Park your butts,” the man said. “I ordered jalapeno poppers. You want booze, feel free. I never acquired the taste. Wouldn’t want to ruin my perfect complexion.”

  Comedian, Service thought.

  They sat down, ordered Old Milwaukees and burgers when the waitperson (it said so on her nametag) brought the poppers. Funke slathered hot sauce on one and shoved it all in his mouth. “Z says you’re the real deal, and if she says it, I buy it.”

  “You work with her?”

  “Collaborate; we trade back and forth. She tells me you’re interested in the Van Dalen Foundation.”

  “You’re not IRS?” Service asked.

  “Nope. What about you and Van Dalen?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “One of my strong points is listening to long stories. Wind ’er up and let ’er roll.”

  Service talked the man through everything: the skulls, booby traps, Peachtree Enterprises, the dead man, Box, Provo, Elmwood in the twenties, Helmi Koski and Rillamae Thigpen, the Willie Pete, Art Lake, Denninger and the wolf tree. Slight eye flutter, only at the mention of Art Lake. Otherwise, passive—career flatliner. When he saw the reaction to Art Lake he withheld information about Tikka Noli, the suspected device in his camp, and his connection to Taide Jarvi. Even though Zhenya had sent this guy, something about him didn’t smell quite right.

  Funke said, “Okay, my turn. Parts of the Van Dalen Foundation do a lot of very good stuff: education, health care, all positive, all socially important. Because of their size, they wield a shitload of clout. They’re also the most complex outfit the IRS has ever looked at. They’ve got more not-for-profit offshoots than Carter’s got little pills—I mean, out the wazoo—most of them legit with alleged well-intentioned social purposes.”

  “Most?”

  “You ever see a scan of a human brain after strokes?”

  “No.”

  “Little black spots all over the place. Docs aren’t sure what causes them. Ostensibly, the black spots are dead tissue, but in some instances, with certain treatments, and sometimes spontaneously, they regenerate. Van Dalen Foundation is like that brain: The little black spots are various boxes on a big ole org chart, and
like that brain, some are defunct and no longer working, but others go dormant and later quietly reconstitute, all done legally, all done too fast for the government to keep up with the big picture in any real-time way. Warrants would help us open up their guts, but the IRS can’t make a good-enough case to create the magnitude we’d need to get Justice off the starting line. Van Dalen pioneered the use of social-issue political action committees, and their people are the best around at picking winners. There’s nothing illegal in this.”

  “You’re Justice?”

  “No.”

  “What’s your interest?”

  “Some aspects of their environmental dealings and interests.”

  “You’re EPA?”

  “No. You said you read Van Dalen’s obituary.”

  “We both did,” Service said.

  Funke said, “Made his dough in real estate, but where his first big nut came from is unknown. You can’t make a fortune without some sort of a financial nut to launch your ass.”

  “Were you aware of his deal in Iron County?”

  “Broad strokes only. You’ve added some new details. Iron County wasn’t his only ride down that road. Montana, Idaho—he tried a lot of wacky schemes that never panned out before he settled down to build his wad in Chicago.”

  “Did he masquerade as a priest elsewhere?”

  “Not that I know of, but Van Dalen was the original micromanager, a hands-on guy with every project he ever got into. That Willie Pete deal you had, I can identify with that shit. Desert Storm, Medina Ridge—we had the Republican Guard hauling ass for the safety of Saddam’s skirt. Second Brigade, First A.D. We found the rags with their tanks dug in. We stuck our noses into them and started whacking them at close range. A round hit my tank in the ass, lit us up inside, killed my driver, and made me the marshmallow man. Mind you, not the enemy—it was friendly fire! Medics hauled my ass out, and I ordered my boys to keep rolling and killing. A year later I’m at Walter Reed for more surgery and one of my tank commanders stops to see me to apologize. He’s the one who lit me up. I told him he was a total fuckup, that I trained all my boys to kill what they shoot at, and there I was in Crispy Critter Land, still alive!” Funke said, laughing. “Poor bastard. You don’t really understand Willie Pete until you’ve got it melting off your nuts in the desert.”