“God keeps whispering t’ings ta me, Lute.”
“You still going to meet Him?”
Moilanen tapped his Bible. “We all meet God,” he said sincerely. “It’s all in da Good Book. But I’m going to meet him sooner den you, or my ma, I t’ink.”
“I never could read that book, Louis.”
“You’re a good man, Lute, always a good man. You don’t need no book like da rest of us sinners. Hear dey make you da game warden. Dey give you dat badge, Lute. Dat says you’re a good man.”
Bapcat wondered if his friend thought this of everyone who wore a badge, because there were plenty he knew that didn’t deserve such a pedestal.
“God made da animals and you ta save dem, Lute. Game warden—dat’s a calling, same as a minister or somet’ing.” Moilanen looked past Bapcat to Frei. “Who’s da lady, Lute?”
“Louis, meet Jaquelle Frei.”
“She your girl, Lute?”
Frei whispered behind him, “Answer the man, Trapper.”
“I guess she is, Louis.”
Moilanen smiled. “Dat’s real good, Lute. A man ought ta have him a wife. God says so.” Moilanen picked up his Bible and began to read silently.
When it became apparent the big man had mentally departed their company, Bapcat said, “Get some rest, Louis; we’ll be back to see you.”
Moilanen looked up from his book. “You’re my friend, Lute. You never once stared at me.”
Out in the corridor Frei said, “You love the man.”
“I do,” he admitted.
“And I’m your girl,” she said, taking his arm and squeezing affectionately.
“I suppose.”
“You going to argue with God, Trapper?”
He said, “If God thinks everyone ought to have a wife, how come He doesn’t have one?”
She poked him in the ribs. “Blasphemer.”
“No, it’s a kink in the story. This isn’t the time to talk about us, Jaquelle.”
She pressed against him. “I suppose.”
“He’s going to die,” Bapcat said.
“You have to believe he will be in better hands, dearest.”
“At least God won’t stare at him. I feel helpless,” he confessed.
•••
While Frei dropped him off and went about her business in Houghton, Bapcat telephoned the Barber. “I just left St. Joe’s. Thanks for taking care of my friend.”
“It’s my job; I hardly give it a thought. You headed north?”
“Tonight, probably. You got time to talk?”
“My office is in the Masonic Building on Shelden. Drop by and we’ll get some lunch at Spingo’s.”
“When?”
“Make it noon,” the doctor said, and hung up.
•••
The Barber was waiting in the Masonic Building entrance, which was emblazoned with Freemason symbols. The building was four massive stories of pink sandstone. Spingo’s was a tavern also on Shelden, and filled with miners and some of the rougher denizens of the city.
Each man ordered a beer and a pickled egg, and the doctor asked for some fried hen’s eggs, over easy, “not runny like snot.” Bapcat ordered beef, well done.
“How’s your friend resting?”
“Says God is talking to him—that he’s soon going to meet Him.”
“I’m guessing he knows better than us.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“My guess? Advanced tuberculous meningitis. All his symptoms fit, but we won’t know until we do an autopsy.”
Bapcat felt a chill, talking about his friend like he was already dead. “You and Cruse don’t much care for each other.”
“I hardly give that bloated pig a second thought.”
“There some history?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but when the county board appointed me physician, Cruse went to bat for another man—said he was more sophisticated than a mere barber.”
That would do it.
“Not that I dwell on it,” the doctor said. “I gathered from Cruse he doesn’t much care for you, either, which automatically makes us friends, the enemy of my enemy being my friend, if you follow the logic. What did you do to step on the Fat Man’s foreskin?”
Bapcat told him about the altercation with Hedyn and subsequent arrest by Cruse, who was forced to release him due to the Roosevelt connection.
“Yessir, Cruse doesn’t like a man with more backroom clout than him.” Labisoniere added, “Take care. The Fat Man doesn’t do dirty work himself, but he’ll hire it out to get done what he wants.”
Bapcat nodded and they ate in silence. Eventually the doctor said, “It won’t be long for your friend, a week at the most. Nature’s in control now.”
Bapcat felt heavyhearted and listless when he met up with Frei and they began the drive back to the hill.
73
Hancock
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 1913
The call to serve as a pallbearer for Moilanen shocked Bapcat nearly as severely as his friend’s death Tuesday morning. Yesterday, Jaquelle had come down from Copper Harbor driving a Ford, and Bapcat piled in with her. The funeral would be at nine this morning. They had spent last night in the house on the hill, and he had been nervous and in no mood to work off any debt. Burial at Lakeside Cemetery, two miles west of town, would follow the services. The cemetery sat on a hill overlooking the canal, and he hoped Louis would have a good view. He quickly chastised himself for such stupid thinking. Dead was dead, an afterlife a fool’s fantasy.
The Finnish Evangelical Lutheran Church on Reservation Street was a three-year-old brick building that looked down on the canal, and Houghton on the other side. Reverend Pesonen greeted the eight pallbearers in front of the church.
“You fellas were each picked by Louis. The casket and Louis together, six hundred, maybe seven hundred pounds, so you fellas hang on tight and we’ll give Louis a nice send-off to meet his maker.”
A man next to Bapcat whispered, “Does that mean he’s not already there?”
The coffin was plain wood, unadorned, nine feet long and three feet wide, the lid nailed down. People crowded around the street in front of the church and more milled around outside than came in.
“Gawkers,” his fellow pallbearer said. “Ghouls.”
A pipe organ was blasting away inside the church, ripping at emotions, and Bapcat wished someone would haul the organist away. Buck up, he told himself. Your friend picked you.
Reverend Pesonen stood at the church entrance as the organ reached yet another crescendo and then stopped. The air seemed to collapse under the silence. The air was hot and sticky, not normal for September. Bapcat could smell the bodies in the pews as he and the other pallbearers struggled with the enormous coffin. Pesonen followed the casket, clutching his Bible like a kitten.
The coffin was heavy and unwieldy, and Bapcat found his hands slipping. The cords in the necks of the seven other men showed similar strain and discomfort. Eventually they got to the allotted place and set the coffin on sawhorses painted white. The unpainted, plain pine box looked out of place. The pallbearers slid into pews, four to each side, and sat, sweating.
Most of the service was conducted in Finnish, and while Reverend Pesonen talked, the stone-faced congregation made not a sound, nor displayed signs of any emotion whatsoever.
“To the eight strong men who carry Lauri today, I say thank you from Lauri and his mother Annie. He was a large man in all respects, and he was lonely beyond words,” said the reverend. Bapcat kept sneaking glances at the congregation. Still no reaction. He finally managed to locate Jaquelle and make eye contact. She responded by subtly raising one eyebrow.
Service done, Louis’s tiny mother was escorted by Pesonen in front of t
he coffin, and the eight pallbearers hoisted their burden and reversed course, repeated the struggle, loading the casket onto a horse-drawn hearse. Bapcat went to find Jaquelle. They got in her Ford and drove to the cemetery with the other pallbearers to await the funeral procession.
“You think he got many women into bed?” Jaquelle asked.
Bapcat shook his head and began to laugh. “The things you think about,” he said.
“Funerals are always stressful,” she said.
“The reverend kept calling him Lauri. Louis hated that name. I hate funerals,” he added.
Eventually the mourners arrived at Lakeside, their ranks swelled by the curious, who crowded into the cemetery and watched as Bapcat and the other men lowered the coffin on thick ropes into the deep hole.
Reverend Pesonen concluded the service with “Dust to dust,” and the mourners turned and departed, leaving Bapcat and Widow Frei and two or three dozen people who all came up to the hole. Bapcat growled sharply, “Get the hell away,” and the people scattered. The game warden grabbed a shovel from the dirt pile and began throwing the dark soil and sand into the hole, and when it was mostly filled, he threw the shovel away and stared down at the grave and said, “No more people staring at you now, Louis.”
A man came down from a slight rise. He wore a black suit and dark fedora pulled low on his forehead. “Our friend, il dottore, he says you look for other man at the house with the star, Helltown, by the river.” The man paused and took a breath. “Our friend, il dottore, says to tell you that this one is on the house; the next one will cost. Ciao.”
Jaquelle asked, “What was all that about?”
“You ever hear of a Star House in Helltown?”
She acted huffy, as if insulted, and sucked in her breath before smiling. “Ulrick Moriarty.”
“You know this person?”
“Irishman, Trapper. I know everyone in every aspect of a certain business in the Keweenaw, and most in the business in surrounding areas.”
“Moriarty?”
“Typical Irish, hard as nails on anybody not of his tribe. Why?”
He told her about the events with Captain Shunk and his two special deputies. “I just got word to look for Pinnochi there.”
Widow Frei said, “Let me check first, through my channels. They’ll probably work better than a lawman coming through the front door in that town.”
He held out his hands. “I’m at your mercy,” he said.
She smiled. “And always will be, dearest.”
Why didn’t you tell her you know Moriarty?
74
Bumbletown Hill
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 1913
Judge O’Brien leaned against the side of the house on the hill, clearly suffering from an overindulgence in spirits.
“Come inside, Your Honor—drink some coffee?” Bapcat asked.
“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to have my coffee out here in the lovely air under this beautiful night sky.”
Bapcat went inside and brought out a cup. “It’s fresh.”
The judge raised his cup in salute. “Sláinte. May the devil . . . and all that Irish shit,” he said, sniggering. “Dumb, greedy, stubborn bastards have lost it all.”
“Who?”
“WFM, who else?”
“The strike’s over?”
“Good as. Two days ago I signed an injunction for the mine operators. No more parades or pickets, and no harassment of men who want to go back to work. I’m for the miners, Bapcat—I’m of their kind—but this thing has to be done through negotiation and compromise, not brute force.”
Bapcat was also wearying of the strike and all its twists and turns and violent outbreaks. “You ever hear of a Moriarty?”
“What bedeviled twist of fate could possibly lead you to be interested in that lowest form of so-called human life?”
“The Moriarty in Helltown?”
“Only one I know, which is one more than plenty.”
“What’s his business?”
“Whatever he can milk for money. Why are you asking?”
“Off the record?”
O’Brien laughed. “I am the record, Deputy. Talk to me, man.”
Bapcat outlined the search for Pinnochi.
O’Brien sucked in a deep breath. “The Moriarty I know detests Wops and makes no bones about his druthers. Got a stink on it, that tip does, or so me stomach hints. Know why I’m here?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“I like to ride trolleys. I like to get to places where stars shine and damn streetlights don’t block my view of Heaven. I love the stars, Bapcat, white specks in God’s great void, little marks of reality in all that unknown nothingness. The night sky reminds me that I took this job to find truth in reality, and to make sure people get equal treatment under the law. But when you act stupid, you can’t expect even treatment, can you?”
“Whatever you say, Judge.”
“You’re no damn salve to my conscience, Bapcat. That’s what I say.”
Zakov joined them, lit a cigarette, and talked to the judge. “Are you intending to sleep here on our mountain tonight, or would His Excellency prefer a ride home to his own bed?”
“Some pair,” O’Brien said. “A Russian and a bastard.”
“We’ll take that as a compliment, Your Excellency,” Zakov said.
“Precisely as intended.”
When they pulled up in front of the judge’s house in Laurium, he got out and stood beside the Ford. “I can find my way from here, intrepid explorers of the night sky.” He looked over at Bapcat. “Moriarty and your missing Italian, those two facts don’t add up. Steer clear of Moriarty, but if you must go, take your guns, boys.”
•••
The next morning, early, Zakov went around the hill to go into the cave below the house. He was working on some sort of door in the field, something that could be securely locked.
Bapcat heard an automobile pull up outside and looked out to see Bruno Geronissi strutting toward the house. He invited the man inside and Geronissi asked, “Are we alone?”
Bapcat told the man they were, and the birdman said, “This thing you heard about the house with the star—it’s no good, bad source. Pinnochi, who knows where?”
“Are you telling me to stay out of Helltown?”
Geronissi shrugged. “You want trouble bigger than Pinnochi, go.”
“Talk to me, Dottore.”
“I got a position, family, business, obligations—you capisce?”
“Not really,” Bapcat said, trying to draw the man out.
“You remember a day when we talk, you and me . . . about some business with deer?”
“I remember.”
“That man, you know his name, one of his people made it known that Pinnochi is maybe in Helltown. This person hear somewhere how Bruno Geronissi looking for information on Pinnochi for dottore game warden.”
“Not what it was billed to be?”
“The information? Who knows? But it feels like agita . . . you know agita?” The man patted his stomach and made a circular motion.”
“Pain.”
“You know what deer man is, si?”
Professional assassin. “I’ve heard.”
“Okay, bene. I keep after information, do better to check source, okay?”
“You’re sure Pinnochi’s not in Helltown?”
Geronissi leaned close to him and whispered, “Listen to me: The best way to kill your enemy is from blindside.”
Bapcat processed the information as best he could. “As in, sometimes you go looking for one thing and find something entirely different?”
Geronissi touched a finger to the tip of his nose. “Va bene, ti capisco.”
“Is there more you’re not telling me?”
“Ah, there’s always more, Dottore. Ciao,” the man said. He stood up, tipped his hat, and walked out to the waiting automobile.
Bapcat opened the trapdoor and Zakov climbed up. “You hear any of that?”
“Enough.”
“Opinions?”
“Geronissi’s right about blindsiding your enemy.”
“In other words, we need to learn more.”
“Yes, of course, but the biggest pitfall sometimes is to want too much information, to want all information. One must learn to recognize when enough information is enough.”
This made sense. Jaquelle was also doing some sort of investigation. “We’ll wait,” Bapcat said.
“Good. We were awake all night and I am tired. I intend to sleep. Where are our colleagues?”
“No idea,” Bapcat said. “Both of them work like phantoms.”
“Good-night, wife,” Zakov said, yawning.
“Good-night, wife,” Bapcat said. Uninterrupted sleep would be most welcome.
75
Clifton, Keweenaw County
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1913
The boy at the front door this morning had been holding the severed head of a seven-point buck in one hand and a Winchester .30-30 in the other. The deer’s eyes were not completely glazed over with the gray film that started with death and typically ended twenty-four hours later. This deer was fresh. “Remember me?” the boy had asked.
“Jordy Kluboshar, right? Your deer?”
“Found it.”
“Where?”
“Above the Cliff.”
“When?” Bapcat asked the boy.
“I heard the shot yesterday afternoon and went to look and I seen this fella run away and I followed him for a while. He shot at me twice, but I think he just wanted to scare me off, not hit me, or nothing like that.”
“Why didn’t you stop?”
“Saw him cuttin’ off the head.”
Bapcat felt his heart racing. “Do you know who he is?”
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