Running Dark

by Joseph Heywood

  Service looked at the other man’s beaming, swelling face. “You’d think an old-timer would learn to duck.”

  “You’d think,” Homes said, as if nothing had happened, and handed Service five one-dollar bills. “Beginner’s luck,” he carped as he got into his patrol car and pulled away, towing his snowmobile.

  The attackers had come in from the west. With air cover and workable communications, the tactic shouldn’t have mattered, but commo had failed and the rats had gained tactical surprise. This, more than anything else he had seen, convinced Service the rat leaders knew what they were doing. He also thought about the man with the rifle out on the ice. Once again, if the rats had been intent on killing, they had both surprise and superior numbers today, and yet the only shot fired had been a small caliber into the trunk of a car up in the state park’s parking lot. The leaders not only knew what they were doing—they were also exerting powerful discipline over their people. Service was impressed, and felt a cold rage growing inside him. The rats were beginning to look like a formidable enemy.

  14

  ESCANABA, JANUARY 22, 1976

  “I mean, none of you guys want that duty, right?”

  The adrenaline and scrap of the previous day had more lingering effects than Service had expected, and he was increasingly pissed that the rats had gotten the thermos Shuck Gorley had given him. He pulled into the parking lot of the Escanaba DNR office, cursed the continuing snow, and glanced at the sign across the street, which read u.p. state fairgrounds. He shook his head. The actual state fair was held downstate, but that didn’t keep Yoopers from declaring their own state above the bridge.

  Connie Leppo was the effervescent dispatcher-secretary for the law enforcement district. She smiled when she looked up and saw him. “Heard youse guys went another round wit’ da rats yesterday.”

  “You hear anything about Moody, Kangas, and Homes?”

  “Looks like youse’re da only one didn’t get a mark out of it.”

  “Mine are hidden,” he said.

  She said, “Budge has a slight separation of da shoulder, Eddie took four stitches in his ear, and Colt you couldn’t damage if you hit ’im in da head wit’ an anvil shot out of a cannon.”

  “I lost some of my equipment. Homes said I need to fill out some forms.”

  “I heard,” she said, setting a manila folder on the counter. “Just one form, and it’s in dere.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Len broke two fingers,” she said.

  “How?”

  “On a rat jaw.”

  “He never said anything.” When had Stone been out of his truck?

  “He wouldn’t,” she said with a combination of admiration and disapproval. “He’s old-school, like your dad.”

  What had Shuck told him—that times had changed and brains counted more than clubs? His old man would have gone ballistic yesterday, and Stone may have lost it temporarily during the melee, but he had kept enough presence of mind to get the nets into the truck and get them out of there. Confiscating nets had been the whole point of the patrol.

  Service sat at the long table in the conference room and took care of his paperwork, including his handwritten report on the previous day’s action. Leppo brought him two cinnamon rolls and coffee. “Mum made da bakery fresh dis morning,” she said, “and she’s got a little side business. You like ’em and want more, let me know, eh. She needs about twenty-four hours for special orders.”

  “Thanks,” he said, peeling off a chunk of a roll.

  She continued, “I’ll ship your paperwork up to da regional office.” Marquette will take care of getting youse a replacement machine. One thing: It won’t be new.”

  He nodded, said facetiously, “I’m shocked.”

  She grinned. “I bet. The rest of da stuff you get locally. You pay for it and submit da receipts. Stone will cut a check to reimburse you.”

  “That sounds simple enough.” And inconvenient.

  “Except dat you have ta shop at an approved state facility, which means Delta Sporting Goods, or you go up ta Marquette, ta Lindstrom’s.”

  “What about the gauntlets? They’re military surplus.”

  “Da state doesn’t buy directly from da feds. All surplus stuff we get from local dealers, but we don’t have a good one up here, so za quartermeister, he leafs us za extras,” she said, switching to a rough German accent. “Unt I haff za key to za zhtorage roomp. Finish your bakery, give a zhout, and I’ll open it for you, ja?”

  He put his report on Leppo’s counter and she led him to the storage room and let him pick out a new set of gauntlets. “Da good news is, you can’t very well pull snowmobile duty in da Garden if you don’t have a machine ta ride, eh?”

  “What’s good about that?” he asked, looking at her.

  “I mean, none of youse guys want dat duty, right?”

  As he walked out to his patrol car, a green garbage truck pulled into the lot and a man got out and began carrying trash barrels to dump into the back of the behemoth.

  The sign on the truck said bay de noc trash hauling: lowest rates in the county. There was a local telephone number under the company name. The DNR office was almost in the middle of town. Why wasn’t the city picking up the state’s trash, and why wasn’t the state buying surplus equipment directly from the feds? He put both questions out of his mind and headed back to the Mosquito, squinting through his spidered windshield and making a mental note to ask Leppo about the procedure for getting it fixed.

  15

  SLIPPERY CREEK, JANUARY 29, 1976

  Only one thing was certain: He’d hit a nerve.

  Cecilia Lasurm leaned her crutch against the wall inside the door, hopped over to a chair, sat down, took off her gloves and hat, which she dropped on the floor, draped her coat and purse on the back of the chair, lifted her leg, and unzipped her boot. Service had been up to Marquette earlier in the day, after an uneventful morning patrol. He’d returned minutes before she drove up. The last time he had seen her, she had worn black trousers and a black turtleneck. Tonight she wore a knee-length pleated blue wool skirt, her face glowed with makeup, and pearl teardrop earrings dangled from her earlobes. When she lifted her leg to shed the boot, he had been shocked by its length and shape and had looked away, telling himself such feelings were not only unprofessional, but also weird.

  “I believe this snow will never stop,” she said.

  Waves of Alberta clippers had been skidding across the upper Great Lakes, leaving two to four inches a day since the New Year began, and long-range forecasts called for the assault to continue. “There won’t be any on the ground in August,” he said.

  Lasurm didn’t react to his lame joke. “We’ve got a lot more than usual,” she said, “but not as much as here.”

  “Garden, the epicenter of the Yooper Riviera,” he said, attempting another joke and wondering why.

  Lasurm smiled. “I must admit that the DNR’s presence has been reestablished, but you people are still taking a licking down there. The way to break a bully’s hold is to erode people’s fear of him. You have to expose him to his followers.”

  “I see,” Service said unenthusiastically. Two days ago another patrol, this one attempting to pull nets off Burn’t Bluff, had been fired at by a sniper. Homes had been there and called that night to vent. With Metrovich gone to Lansing, and Attalienti and Stone running the show, officers were expecting a change in approach and results. So far they were not seeing either, and he knew that potentially, a lot depended on his recon.

  “Coffee?” he asked.

  “Thank you,” she said. “That four-car stunt a few weeks back,” she said. “What was that supposed to accomplish?”

  Service filled their cups and sat down. “Our deal is that you have to convince me that you’ve got something worthwhile.”
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  Lasurm raised an eyebrow. “All business, eh?”

  “If I come down there, I’ll need to be in the area at least ten days, and maybe two full weeks.”

  She nodded resolutely. “You’ll stay with me.”

  “Too risky for both of us,” he immediately countered.

  “You let me assess my own risk,” she said. “As I tried to explain before, I’m everywhere and nowhere. People don’t really notice me. Besides, are you expecting to check into a no-tell motel, or live rough in the woods? One sighting and that will be that. You’re already on their list.”

  “What list?”

  “You people have your list and they have theirs. They make a note of each one of you they see and then try to identify you. They’ve even sent people up to other counties to check you guys out.”

  “Where do they get the names and addresses?”

  “I don’t know, but I know they have your name. You’ve been down there at least twice, and maybe you were part of the four-car run when you guys all wore masks. That whole deal got their sphincters tight. Why did the DNR come down in four cars and why were they wearing masks?” Lasurm laughed softly. “You shoulda heard them whine about that!”

  Stone had told them the masks were for psychological purposes, and apparently they had actually had some effect. This surprised him.

  “They got your Rupp, and at first they thought your name was Shuck.”

  “That was the name on one of my thermoses,” he said.

  “They were able to determine that Officer Gorley is retired up to Newberry, but eventually they got your name.”

  “How?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know everything.”

  “Do they know where I live?”

  “Don’t Yoopers always know where the game warden lives?”

  “Then why are we meeting here?” He was flabbergasted.

  “Because tonight they’re putting down nets,” she said, “and they don’t have the people or the time to be sitting around watching you and your little trailer. If they weren’t busy tonight, I would have cancelled. Next time, we’ll select another place. You should assume they know where you live, but that doesn’t mean they are watching around the clock. So,” she went on, sucking in a deep breath, “you’re to have ten days to two weeks with me on the Yooper Riviera. When?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “You need to decide and give me some warning so I can do what I have to do. Do you think you can get in undetected?”

  “I’d better,” he said.

  Lasurm sipped her coffee. “The incident at Burn’t Bluff the day before yesterday? One shooter,” she said.

  “You saw what happened?”

  “No, I heard the shots and saw someone, but I couldn’t see who. I can only attest to number.”

  “But that you’re sure of.”

  “Absolutely. Four shots were fired in close order, and then I saw him about fifteen minutes later.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Trying to carry something from my truck to the house.”

  “You live near Burn’t Bluff?”

  “Technically I live on it, though in reality I’m about three hundred yards east. The shooter came out through my west wood line to meet a vehicle. When they do these things, they usually drop off the miscreants and pick them up afterwards. And no, I did not see the pickup vehicle.”

  He had wondered about this, but he wanted more information on the list. “You claim they have a list.”

  “They have a list—it’s not a claim. And how do they manage it? I don’t know. There are sympathizers everywhere. Perhaps some of them even wear green?”

  It was unthinkable that a CO would knowingly confirm information for the rats. “You said you would provide us with names,” he said.

  Lasurm opened her purse and took out a small piece of notebook paper. “The leaders,” she said, “in order of importance.”

  He read the names: Peletier, Groleau, Renard, St. Cyr, Troscair, Gagnon.

  “All French,” he said, tapping the list, “but Gascoyne and Metcalf aren’t here.” Gascoyne owned the commercial fish house in Fairport, Metcalf the Garden establishment.

  “Gascoyne and Metcalf hired Odd Hegstrom,” she said. “Some of the rats, as you and your comrades so colorfully characterize them, work for Gascoyne and Metcalf and have their own fishing interests on the side. The big fellows would like to see the so-called rat operations out of business because they cut into fish stocks, which means their profits, but the same people who compete with them illegally also work for them at times and, in some cases, sell fish to them, which puts the fish houses between a rock and a hard place.”

  “The fish houses buy from the rats?”

  “Sometimes it’s cheaper than sending out your own boats and crews, especially those times of year when it’s illegal to lay your hands on the fish you need for business. Better to let others risk their boats, nets, and so forth, yes? You people need to understand how interconnected everything is in the Garden, blended by business interests, intermarriage, and money. The word down there is that Hegstrom convinced Gascoyne and Metcalf he could get them ten more years of fishing before the ax falls.”

  “Based on what—and why ten years?” Service wondered if the state had tried to subpoena the fish houses’ financial records, and if not, why not?

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  Stone and Attalienti had made similar observations about the Garden, and it was becoming clearer to Service that his two supervisors had more than a rudimentary idea of what was really happening. Still, why had Hegstrom promised ten years, and why had that been a selling point for the fish house operators?

  “Peletier is the lead rat,” he said, looking at the list and refocusing the conversation.

  “When Pete talks, the rest of them listen.”

  “What does he do for a living?” Service asked.

  Lasurm said, “Like most people down there he can do a lot of things, legally and illegally. Officially he’s a carpenter.”

  “Does he lead from the front or the rear?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but you can assume if he’s not involved on a particular day, he knows about it and has given it his blessing. Most of his people know to keep their mouths shut. As evidence, have you had a single informant other than me?”

  “Mouths shut, or else?”

  “Your words, not mine,” she said. “All of them on the list can trace ancestors back to the original settlers of the peninsula. Most of them came up from Beaver and St. Martin islands. A few came down from Quebec.” Lasurm paused for a second and continued. “Pete is married to Ranse Renard’s sister. Renard is married to St. Cyr’s eldest daughter, and so forth. Interconnected: They’re all part of one thing and of a single mind about the DNR and its rules.” She made direct eye contact and said quietly, “They really don’t care for you fellows, and with good reason if you look at it from their perspective.”

  Lasurm studied him for a moment before continuing. “I wonder if you know your own department’s history? In the 1880s fish harvests were down and the state banned fishing with nets for certain species in some locations around Beaver Island. The fishermen objected, and said the state could not tell them what to do,” she said. “In 1897 the state sent a game warden out to the island and he ended up shooting at a boat and confiscating a fisherman’s gear. The locals hyperbolized this as the Beaver Island War. The result was that some of the fishermen migrated north to the U.P. where they expected they could pretty much do as they pleased,” she said, drawing in another breath. “And here we are nearly eighty years later, and the state and the fishermen are doing precisely the same damn thing: Fighting over fish. How’s that for irony?”

  Could she be right about this? He
also wondered why no one had ever written an in-depth history of the department. A marine wore the Corps’ history as a second skin. “What about the differences between farmers and fishermen?” She had mentioned this during their first meeting.

  “The fruit growers are a separate branch of the farming community. They raise about fifty varieties of apples and do okay. The other farmers—even those claiming to live hand to mouth—as well as some of the rats have started cultivating dope as a side business. They’re calling it Garden Green.”

  “Dope?”

  “Marijuana. It’s not what you’d call a developed crop yet, but it’s under way, and those who use it swear it’s among the most potent around. The real legit farmers resent the rats and dope growers because they scare away customers.”

  Dope? He’d seen some drug use in Vietnam, especially among rear echelon motherfuckers, and it was obviously a problem throughout much of the United States, but here in the U.P.? After a second he decided it made sense. If the rest of the country was rife with drugs, why not here? He reached for the envelope he’d picked up in Marquette, put it on the table in front of Lasurm, and slid out the photograph. He wasn’t sure why he was showing it to her, except that if Lasurm was as knowledgeable and connected as she claimed, and the woman in jail was from the Garden, she might provide an ID and help move the case along.

  Lasurm stared for a long time and he noticed that she spread out her fingers and placed them on the surface of the photograph—to cover it or draw it closer, he couldn’t tell.

  When she finally looked up at him she said, “Is this what you people call a mug shot?”

  “Yes.”

  She drew in a deep breath, lifted her hand as if it had suddenly quintupled in weight, bent down, picked up her boot, and slid her foot into it. “I have to leave now,” she said with a flat voice.

  “Do you recognize the person in the photo?” he asked.

  “I have to go now,” she repeated, hopping to the door and attaching her crutch to her wrist. “It’s a long drive.”