“Head shot?” Taylor asked.
“So much blood where this starts. Head wounds bleed, even lethal ones.”
“What next?” Hepting asked.
“I need time to think.” Bapcat looked at the sheriff. “We don’t tell Mayme anything yet, right?”
“Nothing to tell,” Hepting said, agreeing. “All this is speculation.”
•••
Instead of Bumbletown Hill, Bapcat had Zakov drive them to the icehouse in Centennial. Taylor and Hepting headed for Eagle River.
“Look at any wagons here,” Bapcat told the Russian before going inside.
“For what?”
“Dried blood, anything not right.”
Bapcat asked a clerk inside if he could talk to Herman Gipp, but the clerk fled, and in his place, sales manager Celt Ogden appeared.
“Mr. Gipp is no longer employed by this establishment,” the man said gruffly.
“Since when?”
“That’s not your business, young man.”
“There’s no call for your tone of voice, Mr. Ogden.”
“I simply convey information. If you disapprove, that is, of course, your right. Now please leave this place of business; you’re interfering with legal commerce.”
Zakov was beside the Ford with one crutch.
“Anything?” Bapcat asked.
“Not exactly. A young man out back said a wagon got demolished late last week. They’ll use the wood to rebuild other conveyances.”
“Why break up that one?”
“The youth simultaneously proclaimed ignorance and his own suspicions. He insists the wagon wasn’t old or broken—in fact, it was fairly new and in good repair, to his knowledge.”
“Who broke it up?”
“Ogden and another man, with black hair and a silver streak in back.”
“What day?”
“Wednesday or Thursday, he isn’t entirely certain.”
“Did he show you the woodpile?”
“Says it’s not on these premises. He says Ogden and the other man took the pile to the business’s repair shop.”
“Which is elsewhere?”
“The boy told me Ogden’s brothers also have an interest in this business, but they don’t get along with people, so this Ogden runs things. The brothers build wagons at their place on the Heights, up Bumbletown Road, which, fortuitously, is on our way home.”
“Let’s find a telephone,” Bapcat said.
He called Sheriff Hepting’s house from the Centennial post office, but his wife said he was still out.
Ogden’s brothers’ place consisted of a pedestrian house, several outbuildings, and a large barn. Chickens wandered the grounds, as did two large brown hogs. Two black-and-white cows were tethered near the unpainted barn. Two large wagons were parked between the house and barn, and near the latter was a large pile of shattered wood fragments. No point searching without a warrant, so Bapcat got back into the Ford.
“Where to now, master?”
“Home.”
“You seem somewhat disquieted.”
“How I seem is none of your damn business.”
“I rest my case,” Zakov said with a cackle. “What every husband says to the spouse when he is frustrated.”
Bapcat slammed his door after turning the crank and setting the Krag in his lap. “Shut up and drive.”
42
Laurium
WEDNESDAY, JULY 16, 1913
Herman Gipp’s house was immaculately kept, and his wife was as rotund as her husband. When asked where her spouse was, she told Bapcat sarcastically that if he wasn’t out in the “bloody woods,” like he was every day, then he was at work at the icehouse in Centennial. The game warden saw no reason to change her view of the facts and left her staring at him as he let himself out of the house.
Bapcat telephoned Copper Lode Taxis from Vairo’s. Buddy Root said George was out on a run and due back anytime. Bapcat asked the cab company impresario to have the boy meet him at Vairo’s.
Gipp soon arrived. Zakov welcomed him, saying, “It is time for the midday repast.” Gipp was immediately surrounded by older men, all singing his praises as a ball player. No sign of Dominick.
Bapcat pulled the boy aside. “Everything okay?”
“Swell.”
“Do you know that your uncle Herman got fired from the icehouse?”
“When?”
“Sometime after we were there.”
“Not the first time he’s lost a job. Herm isn’t so good at taking orders, and he doesn’t care much for indoor work.”
“The timing doesn’t bother you?”
“Should it?”
“His wife thinks he’s still working at the icehouse.”
Gipp frowned. “That part’s not normal. Herman usually tells the old bat everything.”
“Still not bothered by the timing?”
“You want me to help you find Unc?”
“Think you can?”
Gipp laughed. “Fig Verbankick. Everybody calls him that, but his real name is Jimmy. He and Unc grew up together, but Jimmy never married. You can bet Fig knows where Herman is.”
“How do we find this Verbankick?”
“He’s got what he calls a camp near Spider Pond.”
“Bodie Creek,” Zakov interjected, eavesdropping. “Are we eating or not?”
“Good hunting?” Bapcat asked.
“Nah,” George Gipp said. “Its biggest selling point is that it ain’t in town.”
“Show us the way?”
“Not for free. I’m a hack now. That’s what they call cab drivers in Chicago.”
“We’ll take the Ford. The Borzoi will drive.”
“Him?” Gipp said, turning up his nose.
“There is no need for this boy to join us,” Zakov said. “I know this place, I am going without food, and am in no mood for your sarcasm, Mr. Gipp.”
Gipp was clearly amused. “How do you get to it?”
“From the Tobacco River Trail,” the Russian said.
“You could go that way.”
“Stop it, you two,” Bapcat admonished. “How would you get there, George?”
“Me, I’d drive up to Phoenix. The West Branch of the Eagle and Bodie come together with the East Branch of the Eagle. It’s about a mile and a half south, and relatively easy walking from there.”
Bapcat said, “Call Bucky, ask for the afternoon off.”
“No need. I’m done for today. Got practice this afternoon, but I wasn’t planning on going.”
“Think you could guide us?”
“Is Herman in some kind of trouble?” Gipp asked.
“I honestly don’t know, George.”
43
Spider Pond, Keweenaw County
WEDNESDAY, JULY 16, 1913
The camp looked like it was inhabited by savages, filth and refuse everywhere, fish bones, discarded bottles and rusted cans, toppled firewood piles, two crude chairs.
Fig Verbankick was a slight little man with an enormous head, shriveled skin and walleyes—one of the most physically disturbing people Bapcat had ever met. He had thick legs and drooled while maintaining a blank stare and a mostly toothless grin.
When they walked into camp Herman was urinating by a tree. “Georgie!” he yelled. “Sophie send you?”
“No, Unc. Deputy Bapcat wants to talk to you.”
Herman Gipp looked at the deputy. “What about?”
“Your wife thinks you’re still working at the icehouse.”
Herman grinned. “Never liked dat damn job. Me and Fig are vacationating, right, Fig?”
Verbankick nodded enthusiastically and shouted, “Hooray!”
/> “You having fun, Fig?” George Gipp asked the strange man.
“Hooray! Ask Herman!”
“You feeling shy today?” George asked.
“Ask Herman.”
Bapcat realized Fig Verbankick was “not right” in the head. “You going home nights?” the deputy asked Herman Gipp.
“Nah, we stay right here in camp, don’t we, Fig?”
“Hooray—camp!” the little man said.
“She acts like you come home every night and that everything’s normal,” Bapcat said.
“Sophie? She don’t like Fig. She knows I took vacationation.” Fig seems touched, and this man’s language alone is unique: vacationating?
“You weren’t fired?”
“Was mutual. Ogden din’t want me, and I din’t want him or da damn icehouse.”
“But you didn’t tell Aunt Sophie,” George reminded his uncle.
Herman shrugged. “I’ll have a new job by da time she knows.”
“Tramming?” George asked his uncle.
Herman turned serious. “I been underground and I ain’t never going back. Fig will get us somet’ing.”
Bapcat wasn’t sure what to make of this. “What did Ogden say when he fired you?”
“I quit,” Herman countered.
“Okay, when you quit.”
“Hooray!” Fig shrieked.
“Ogden said dere’s a strike coming, and dey din’t need my services no more.”
“Other people let go at the same time?” Bapcat asked.
“Just me dat I know of.”
“Had you heard talk about this possibility beforehand?”
“Ogden don’t talk ta working people except ta hire or fire.”
“You know his brothers?”
“Carpenters. Dey make wagons.”
“Are they like him?”
“Pretty much, I guess.”
“You have anything to do with wagons in your job?”
“Every day.”
“You hear any talk about junking one of the newer wagons?”
“Not likely. Ogden’s cheap, and da wagons are in pretty good condition.”
Fig nodded agreement, said, “Frugal!”
“Frugal,” Herman agreed, “not cheap. Right word, Fig.”
The little man grinned.
Bapcat turned to Fig. “Where do you work, Mr. Verbankick?”
“Ask Herman,” Fig answered.
“Herman?”
“Fig does small jobs in Red Jacket—cleans floors, washes windows, cuts wood.”
“Scrub-scrub-scrub, chop-chop-chop,” the man said happily.
Fig didn’t look strong enough to lift a mop or an ax, much less wield either. “You know Dominick Vairo, Fig?”
“Ask Herman,” Verbankick said.
“Sure he knows Dominick, and his partner Frankie, too.”
Bapcat switched directions suddenly. “Is it normal for Ogden to discard wagons in pretty good working condition?”
“Only old rotten ones,” Herman said. “Dem Ogdens always reuse as much wood from da old ones as dey can.”
“If Ogden personally pulled apart a newer wagon, what would you think about that?”
“Ogden don’t do no real work. I’d say something was pretty fishy, right, Fig?”
“Hooray.”
“How friendly are Ogden’s brothers?”
“Less den him,” Herman said, “which is why dey do all da wagon work.”
“Thanks, Herman. Sorry to bother you and Fig.”
“Hooray!” Fig shouted.
“Fig’s sort of simple,” George explained as they hiked north. “But he ain’t as stupid as he likes to make out.”
“Your uncle takes care of him?”
“Much as he can. Mostly Fig’s pretty easy to lead around. Whole town takes care of him.”
“Fig ever been in trouble?”
“Nothing like that. But people sometimes use him, see, treat him like a joke or something, because he don’t seem to understand everything that’s going on.”
“Born so?” the sweating Zakov asked.
“No. His old man beat him with his fists every day till he died underground.”
“Does Fig have a woman?” the Russian asked.
“No, Fig’s real shy around girls. Spooked by them.”
“You see,” Zakov said. “Darwin, natural selection. He will not breed and thus, his line will end with him.”
“He can’t help how he is,” George said in the man’s defense, chastising the Russian.
“I assure you, Gipp, this was not meant as criticism. It is no more than an astute scientific observation, nothing more.”
“Could be you won’t be no breeder, either,” George Gipp said angrily.
Bapcat laughed. The Russian sulked.
44
Bumbletown Hill
FRIDAY, JULY 18, 1913
Horri Harju came knocking as the sun was setting, a long hour before midnight. Bapcat met him at the door and showed him in. “Did I miss a telegram?” Bapcat asked. Harju had previously indicated that all visits would be announced by telegrams.
“I was in Ontonagon hiring a new deputy, and decided to swing up and see how you’re doing.”
“Hungry? We’ve got some eggs and spuds.”
“Always.”
Bapcat made breakfast and Zakov suddenly drifted in, sniffing like a dog.
“How much time have you spent south of Houghton?” Harju asked.
“None.”
“My old chum Yary Nordson is undersheriff over in Ontonagon County. His sister Elena Ongin is writing him letters, reporting that she and her husband have been finding dead deer in their fields.”
“Where?”
“Their farm is two or three miles southwest of Chassell.”
Bapcat told Harju about his experience with the mine operators’ possible scheme to deny strikers food, noting carefully that this was unproven. Harju listened without interrupting and concluded, “Seems like the whole thing is more than localized, and that might carry some implications.”
“All the mine operators working together?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time for collusion among big shots.”
“My main witness has disappeared,” Bapcat admitted. “I arranged to have charges dropped and for him to be released from jail. But now he’s gone.” Bapcat continued relating the whole story, including the disassembly of the ice wagon.
“No evidence, and if you got the charges dropped and he walked, that could show poor judgment on your part.”
“Is that your only response?”
“I’m just explaining how things can get viewed at the state level, which is why we have to be real careful which cases we choose to intervene in. The ice wagon could be strictly coincidental,” Harju concluded.
“Or a red herring,” Zakov added, uninvited.
“Explain,” Bapcat told the Russian.
“As a matter of survival in Russia, all must learn the art of avoidance, misdirection, we say maskirovka—disguising, if you will.”
“And?”
Zakov made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Your wagon man had to assume Hannula’s absence eventually would be noticed by someone. Thus, perhaps he disassembles the conveyance to make it seem as if it carried the body.”
“The blood trail ended at the road,” Bapcat reminded him.
Zakov said, “It’s possible the wagon went only a short distance, or they stanched the blood flow when they noticed it.”
“And dumped the body there, assuming the law would take the bait?” Harju asked.
“Maskirovka seems provident,” Zakov said.
“The simplest explanation is usually the best one,” Harju said.
Zakov said: “The mine operators and local businessmen have woven a very tight web to control local peoples. They pay millions of dollars to shareholders each year. Such high stakes make it essential that all threats be taken seriously and dealt with severely and quickly.”
Bapcat asked, “On what basis do you make this conclusion?”
“The Rodina, my motherland.”
“This ain’t Russia,” Bapcat pointed out.
“I have seen both countries,” Zakov said. “There are too many parallels to list.”
“Hannula was my link to Mangione,” Bapcat pointed out.
“What about the man called Painchaud?” Harju asked.
“The name I got from him was Jerko Skander, a Croat.”
“But the setup described was similar?” Harju asked.
Bapcat nodded. “Different people.”
“Two schemes, similar, almost identical,” Zakov said. “This suggests conspiracy or collusion at another level, which is typical behavior of ruling classes in all countries.”
“We don’t have classes in America,” Harju said.
“Really?” the Russian shot back. “Who holds the best-paid jobs belowground, and who serve as the beasts of burden?”
Harju looked at Bapcat. “Find Skander, see what he has to say.”
“What about Painchaud? I told him I’d protect him.”
“Which you now must make every effort to do. Go at this Skander at an angle. Tell him something like, ‘I know you’re not the kind of man to be involved, but I’m also told you’re a man who knows what goes on.’ Stroke his ego. Praise him for supporting the law, and make sure you tell him how the law takes care of citizens who cooperate.”
“You see,” Zakov said brightly, “this is identical thinking and tactics of the czar’s secret police.”
“Eat,” Bapcat said. He could almost admire the Russian’s mind, but had no plan to admit it. The man was difficult enough to live with as it was.
“The strike is a certainty,” Bapcat told Harju.
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