“For whose benefit?”
A sign on the side of the wagon read nesmith victuals—wholesale restaurant supplies for all upper michigan.
A victualer receiving ore boxes? Even more suspicious.
The three men transferred the dozen boxes with a minimum of strain and effort.
“Fifteen-hundred-pound boxes moved so easily?” Zakov said. “Eighteen thousand pounds in a quarter-hour? This strains all credulity.”
“Shippers pay by weight, right?” Bapcat asked.
“In Russia, da. One might assume the freight men who loaded the boxes in Champion would question discrepancies in weight between the manifest and reality,” Zakov said. “Is this the sort of thing working men would ignore?”
“I wouldn’t,” Bapcat said.
The Nesmith Company was downhill, a warehouse along the canal.
“Do we go inside and ask questions?” Zakov asked.
“No. We also can’t sit here and wait forever. That’s deer hair for sure.”
“Perhaps you should call our young friend George and ask him to fetch some chums to help?”
Bapcat laughed. “Now that’s a fair idea.”
“Merely fair?”
Bapcat’s mind, since Seney, had been turned to Canady yews, and the pine boxes felt almost like an unwanted diversion. It was difficult to sort out his feelings or make any sort of reasonable evaluation of priority. It made him feel like he was grasping at straws, and the feeling bothered him. Finding yews meant finding deer feed and presumably finding deer, which meant perhaps finding mine personnel in the process of killing the animals. He was having difficulty shaking the thought as they sat on the warehouse site.
He left Zakov watching the warehouse and walked up to Shelden Avenue and over to the impressive pink sandstone Masonic Building, found the Barber’s office address on the marquee in the lobby, and walked up to the second floor to borrow his telephone.
The door was black wood with a smoky glass top half and the inscription labisoniere, md, county physician, painted in gold capital letters. Bapcat knocked, got no answer, and tried the handle. The door was open.
Expecting to find a receptionist inside, he was surprised to see only piles of wooden boxes in a small room off the entrance, with narrow openings between the piles. The Barber stood off to one side, arms crossed, chin in hand, a pained look on his small face.
“Doctor?”
Labisoniere looked at him, puzzled.
“Bapcat, sir. Use your telephone?”
“Right, yes—yes, of course,” the Barber said, waving permission.
Bapcat called Copper Lode Taxi and talked to owner Bucky Root.
“Buck, Lute Bapcat. Is George working today?”
“Ain’t here no more. Sonuvagun quit for a construction job down to Hancock. Too bad; he was a good kid.”
Damn. “Know how I can reach him?”
“Mike McGinn’s Masonry. I don’t got the number.”
Bapcat thanked Root and asked the doctor for a telephone book. He found the number for McGinn’s and called it.
“McGinn himself speaking, and who’d be callin’?”
Bapcat suppressed a laugh. Irish arrogance. “Deputy Warden Bapcat, State Game, Fish and Forestry.”
McGinn grunted. “Bloody game warden. I ain’t even been out in the bloody woods this year. No time, when I’m tryin’ to make a living during this infernal strike.”
“I’m calling about an employee of yours.”
“Who might that be?”
“George Gipp.”
“Ah, the whelp himself. Formerly employed. Seems he decided masonry’s not his cuppa. ’Course, might be McGinn himself he decided against. Wouldn’t be the first cub to lack what it takes to stand up to the boss.”
“Any idea where he is now?”
“I hire ’em and fire ’em—I’m not their bloody da, but was me, I’d try Canal Snooker Parlor over to the Houghton side.”
Bapcat tried to find a telephone number for Canal Snooker, but couldn’t.
“Labor-saving device,” the Barber said sarcastically. “American named Bell claims he invented the infernal things, but I know it was some Italian, which just makes sense, them all filled with the need for endless gab. How’ve ya been?”
“You know, this and that.”
Labisoniere grinned. “Amen. Same here.”
Boxes. “Have you heard any recent talk of accidents or disease killing a lot of people in a short period of time?”
“Nah, all solos, and I’d know if something was brewing. Why?”
“Part of a puzzle. I’m just trying to find pieces that fit.”
“Something we share professionally,” the doctor said. “I sometimes think the only reason I became a doctor is because of the puzzle-solving required.”
“Canal Snooker Parlor?” Bapcat asked.
“Bit outside my sphere of interests. It sits west two blocks, and up the hill a block.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“Anytime, my boy.”
The Canal Snooker Parlor was on a corner, and as Bapcat walked in George Gipp was on his way out, followed closely by three very unhappy-looking men.
“George,” Bapcat greeted him.
Gipp grabbed his arm and pulled him through the door to the street and pointed him downhill. “Got any tobacco?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s talk down on Shelden,” Gipp said, looking over his shoulder.
Bapcat saw that the men had terminated pursuit. “Problem with those fellas back there?”
“I took sixty bucks off them. They’re the ones with the problem. Thought they were hustling me, and they were a bit surprised at the reversal.”
“Locals?”
“Never seen ’em before.”
“Your chums still around?”
“Nah. Dolly’s beat it back to college down to South Bend. The rest are practicing for hockey season.”
“You play?”
“Great game, but I don’t much like practices. The games help keep me in shape for baseball, assuming we’ll have a spring.”
“Zakov and I need some help.”
“Does it pay?”
“Not much.”
“You fellas been good to me. What do you need?”
Bapcat gave Gipp the tobacco plug and led him down Shelden Avenue, where they cut downhill to the canal. Across from the warehouse it looked like Zakov hadn’t moved.
“Anything happening?” Bapcat asked him.
“Two men went inside. They’re still in there.”
Minutes later two laughing men came out. Both wore long, dark overcoats.
Gipp said, “Tall fella on the right is Chunk Raber, one of Cruse’s deputies. The smaller gent is a Waddie, but I don’t know his name. I gave him several rides up in Red Jacket a few weeks back.”
“What do you know about Nesmith Victuals?” Bapcat asked.
Gipp shrugged. “Wasn’t even here till this past spring, which was when I noticed them.”
The game wardens looked at each other. “Perhaps we should pay a visit to this establishment and ask what they might do for our restaurant in Dollar Bay,” Zakov said.
“What if they want to call for verification?”
“We are in the process of getting financing and will not open until next month.”
“You two have a restaurant?” asked Gipp.
“Hush, George,” Bapcat said. “We’ll wait for you,” he told the Russian, who walked down to the building and went inside.
Thirty minutes later Zakov returned. “For enough money, our new friends can supply—with no problem—all the fresh venison we need to sate the palates of paying customers.”
“Did you ask about legality?”
“Of course. The man said brazenly, ‘I presume your restaurant is designed to turn a profit, as is my business. The law is a matter of shades, not black or white, and in any event, there is so much confusion and lawlessness up north, there aren’t enough lawmen to enforce trifling laws.’ My newfound friend also informed me the word is out that the deer laws won’t be enforced by game wardens this year.”
“What prompts him to sell deer?”
“Because, dear wife, there are, according to said proprietor, no deer available. Someone has been killing them in droves to make them unavailable, and therefore pushing demand up as winter arrives.”
“Where does he get his venison?”
“A great trade secret,” the Russian said, putting his forefinger on his lips and adding Shhh. “But we might guess it is Marquette County.”
Bapcat: “What about his visitors?”
“What visitors? He claims I am the first person on said premises today.”
Bapcat looked at Gipp. “You know Raber, George?”
“Blowhard and a bully.”
“Cruse will be of no help in our endeavors,” Zakov said.
“What can I do?” Gipp asked.
“Nothing for now,” Bapcat replied. “The deputy’s involvement alters things—that, and the fact the businessman is denying anyone’s been there. I’m sorry, George, I guess there’s nothing for you here, after all.”
“You fellas headed home?”
“We are.”
“Mind if I tag along as far as Laurium?”
“We are always happy for your company,” the Russian said, clapping Gipp on his broad shoulders.
86
Eagle River
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 23, 1913
Bapcat wanted to go into the woods to search for pockets of Canady yew and deer, but the whole Nesmith affair continued to weigh heavily on his mind, especially when he took into account the possible involvement of the two lawmen, Houghton County Deputy Sheriff Raber and the still-unidentified Waddell-Mahon man. Bapcat found himself anxious to talk to John Hepting, who usually served as a reliable compass.
Hepting greeted them at his house, which looked out on Lake Superior a hundred or so feet below the hilltop. The sky was spitting sleet and snow and the water looked the color of sludge as large yellow clouds scudded across the roiling sky.
“Haven’t seen much of you boys,” Hepting greeted them.
“Training in the Soo,” Bapcat said. “Cruse has a deputy by the name of Chunk Raber. You know him?”
“One of Cruse’s top muscles. You have an encounter with him?”
“Is he in Cruse’s pocket?”
The sheriff answered with a shrug and listened attentively as the game warden related the tale of the boxes and their movement from Champion to Nesmith Victuals in Houghton.
“What’re your intentions?” the sheriff asked after Bapcat finished the telling.
Bapcat had been thinking furiously about the situation since leaving Houghton. “We can’t arrest him for shooting deer out of season. One, we didn’t witness him shoot anything, and two, if others are doing it for him, we have to catch them in the act and have them point fingers at him. Thirdly, we aren’t enforcing the law in our two counties, so we can’t very well charge him on that, but we could charge him with the illegal sale of meat and participation in commercial hunting, and conspiracy.”
“On what evidence—a few deer hairs?” Hepting asked, playing devil’s advocate.
“We got hair off the wooden boxes, and my hunch is that railroad men, including the baggage-car man, Davidov, are part of the whole thing. We can arrest everyone and throw heaviest pressure on the lowest ones to force them to turn on the others with more to gain.”
“That’s a half-baked plan at best. What evidence do you have? A few hairs on boxes in a public baggage compartment aren’t especially compelling. We need to get Hyppio Plew into this conversation. You’re talking felonies in terms of scale, which will bump all proceedings into the circuit court. Plew will give us a reasonable evaluation of your chances in that venue.”
•••
Plew’s ornate beard was neatly trimmed, and he wore a pressed silvery-striped vest over a white shirt.
Hepting poured whiskey all around and Bapcat retold his story, omitting nothing.
“If O’Brien’s sitting, you might have a fighting chance,” Plew said. “Any other jurist, your chances are remote at best. They have bigger fish to fry than deer, if you’ll pardon my mixing of metaphors. The trick here is evidence. Houghton County has an assistant prosecutor named Echo. Ever heard of or worked with him?”
“No,” Bapcat said.
“Exactly,” Plew told them. “Roland Echo’s a real backroom, keep-his-puss-out-of-the-papers man. He and prosecutor Tony Lucas were boyhood friends, went to the same law school, been together forever. Echo does the heavy lifting and thinking, and Tony works out front in the spotlight and takes the public heat. Echo has no design on Tony’s job. When Tony leaves office, Echo will go with him to whatever is next, but Tony listens to everything Rollie Echo whispers in his ear, and if Echo thinks Tony can get something up on Fat Man Cruse or one of his thugs, he’ll do it. Tony’s the public face: Echo’s the engine and brain.
“After the Seeberville killings, Lucas arrested two of Cruse’s deps, but they made bail, and Cruse still has them on duty, and on the payroll. The Waddies involved disappeared. Tony Lucas was outraged at Cruse’s utter disregard for the law, but you’ll never hear him say so publicly. Mark my word: When all’s said and done, justice will be served, and when that happens, you can bet your bottom dollar that Rollie Echo will have been the legal architect.”
“Echo might listen favorably to a request for warrants?” Bapcat asked.
“Persuade him that it puts Cruse in a bad light, and he’ll convince Lucas and you’ll get your search writs. If your search uncovers good evidence, they’ll authorize arrest warrants and look for a way to take the case forward. Neither Lucas nor Echo can tolerate the incompetent Cruse, and if they can nab one of his key cronies, they’ll do it.”
“Cruse sprang his deputies on the Seeberville murder charges,” Hepting pointed out.
“He did indeed,” Plew said, “and he may well do that in this case as well, but once you’ve got the county prosecutors in your corner, you can be sure that charges, and the case, will eventually go forward, no matter the resistance and shenanigans from Cruse. Meanwhile, what advantage does newspaper coverage offer?”
Bapcat had never considered such a thing, and Harju had never mentioned it. He had no immediate answer, but John Hepting did. “You file charges on Raber and the unidentified Waddie, if evidence warrants. But you leave the railroad men and the operator of Nesmith Victuals alone. At the same time you make sure the newspaper knows that the case is a lot bigger than it appears, and that you expect the ongoing investigation will identify additional conspirators and bring forth multiple arrests.”
“This lets the free ones cook in the fetid juices of their own imaginations,” Zakov said. “It encourages them to come forward with information in order to minimize their own roles and culpability. This is truly brilliant, Justice Plew.”
The JP grinned and downed his whiskey. “Making the laws work is a hell of a lot more complicated than printing them on paper. You boys recognize, of course, that if you get the warrants and fail to uncover evidence, your case dies right there?”
Zakov said, “We are not enforcing the deer laws in these counties, but surely this is not so in Marquette County. The boxes were loaded there.”
“All things are possible—with evidence,” Justice of the Peace Hyppio Plew said. “I would advise you to move as quickly as possible for search warrants. Any delay enables the guilty to rid themselves of evidence. Ti
me is the key to your success, lads.”
Should have followed my hunch. Bapcat told Zakov, “We need to sit on Nesmith from now until we serve warrants.”
“By we, you mean me, I presume,” the Russian said.
“Get Georgie to help you, and tell him we’ll pay him for his time and help.”
“You?”
“I need to make another black-of-the-night visit. You and George can drop me and head for Houghton. I’ll catch the electric when I’m done.”
87
Laurium
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 24, 1913
Night had come, and Judge O’Brien was in a contentious, argumentative state and looked like he had been pulling hard on a bottle. He shook his head at the sight of Bapcat on his porch and said angrily, “Git your arse into me fookin’ office.”
O’Brien sat in silence, sullen, face dark, hair sticking out at angles. He was wound up like Bapcat had never seen before.
“Fookin’ blind, greedy fookin’ fools,” he finally mumbled, taking a swig from a glass. “The operators demand an injunction, and I’ve no choice but to grant the bloody thing. The whole bloody lots are driving me to an early grave, they are, the whole damn buncha them, both fookin’ sides.
“I’ve told them all, on numerous occasions, that I won’t stand for no more bloody head-cracking, fookin’ gunplay and such shite. They want this settled, they have to do it like civilized humans, not a bunch of two-legged hyenas. I want this settled with words, not guns.
“When the strikers began roughing up men, trying to go to work, the operators came to me. I had to give them the injunction against the strikers to stop the bloody harassment. What happens? As soon as the operators have the upper hand, they turn up the heat and start pounding on the strike parades. Result: I lift the injunction and the whining bastards appeal to the state supreme court, which takes it out of my hands.
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