Red Jacket (9 page)

23

Bumbletown Hill

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 18, 1913

“About time you decided to return to the hearth,” Zakov greeted him. “I'm famished.”

“There's plenty of food,” Bapcat said.

“I am recuperating and in extreme pain.”

“Your tongue seems to be in working order. Where's George?”

“Away, and he didn't say where.” Zakov held up a large book bound in yellowish leather. “I find this tome both instructive and fascinating,” the Russian said. “Almost one thousand pages in all, yet the stipulations that apply to your responsibilities comprise but a meager four pages under the uninspiring title, ‘Game, Protection Of.' ”

The book in the Russian's hands was
Tiffany's Criminal Law,
which Harju had given Bapcat, tutoring him through the high spots concerning arrests and warrants. The book was a sort of Bible for justices of the peace, whose jobs required as much understanding of criminal law as circuit court judges. The book covered procedures and defined crimes, and provided reporting and processing forms to be used. Bapcat could read, but had never been overly fond of the practice. “Put it down,” he told Zakov.

“In this book resides the greatness of this country,” Zakov said, brandishing
Tiffany's
. “There's no equivalent in Russia.”

“No?”

“The czar is God on Earth. His minions determine what is legal or not, who lives, who dies. What may be legal today may not be tomorrow. It is capricious at best.”

Bapcat wasn't sure what
capricious
meant. “I thought you were hungry?” He unloaded the Krag and set the carbine in a corner.

“
Da
, but I try keeping my mind busy to divert attention from my stomach. This shack has a subterranean cellar.”

Bapcat looked at the man. “Vairo said it don't.”

“Perhaps the Italian is unaware.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“Nevertheless. I placed my hat on the floor. Tap near it.”

Bapcat did as he was asked and heard the hollow ring. “Not large,” he told the Russian.

“As long as the wood isn't rotten, this should not concern us,” Zakov said.

“Aren't you curious about what's below?”

“A Russian is immersed from birth in the ambiguous, unexplained, and imponderable. I don't
care
what is down there.”

“I'm
not
Russian.” Bapcat made a mental note to ask Vairo about the anomaly, and if the former owner's response was inadequate, he would pull up the floor to see for himself.

“In my country, God anoints the czar and he controls everything, even if he is an utter fool, as our dear, dear Nicky surely is. The czar's leadership was entirely absent in the war against the Japanese. I was at Mukden. Tens of thousands of my comrades died. I swear in the name of St. Nicholas the Wonder Worker, everything our dear pathetic Nicky touches becomes disaster. The day he was crowned, horses bolted, and more than a thousand citizens died for no other reason than he wanted a spectacle, a crowd of thousands to see him crowned.
This
is my Russia. And you, my friend, you have
Tiffany's.
In this regard I think you Americans have the better of it.”

“Would you rather eat or discuss the state of the world?”

The Russian sulked.

“Peel potatoes,” Bapcat ordered.

“I am invalided.”

“Peel or starve.”

“You have the emotional insensitivity of a czar,” the Russian chirped, using a crutch to rise to his feet. “The boy should assist,” Zakov said with a nod toward Gipp, who walked in, grinning.

“I don't mind helping,” Gipp said.

Bapcat held up a hand. “You're our driver. Zakov can earn his own keep.”

The Russian scowled. “At least fetch water to boil,” he told the boy, who looked to Bapcat for a nod, which he got.

“Nicholas the First abolished serfdom in 1861, the year your own civil war commenced.”

“You're not a serf,” Bapcat said.

“Worse,” the Russian keened. “I am a wife, the most powerless creature on God's Earth.”

“You believe in God?” Gipp asked the Russian as he brought water from the well.

“Only if he believes in me, and so far there is no evidence to support such a conclusion,” Zakov said.

24

East of Bootjack

FRIDAY, JUNE 20, 1913

Late Friday morning, Gipp dropped Bapcat along the road that ran south from Lake Linden to White City, a new resort town. “You want, go on down to White City and look around,” Bapcat told the boy. “I'll meet you here around dark tomorrow night.”

“Yes, boss,” Gipp said, “but I've got a ball game in Red Jacket this afternoon.”

“Take the truck and I'll see you tomorrow night, George.”

Yesterday Bapcat had returned to the Eagle River jail to talk to Enock Hannula, who continued to deny responsibility for any deer other than the one they had caught him carrying. Hepting promised Bapcat he would be in touch if the Finn changed his story, or when the circuit court scheduled the trial.

No meandering this time. Bapcat made his way directly to the hill he'd found on his last visit, and situated himself so he could see the Indian fence below. There would be no fire tonight. He had cold potatoes and biscuits in his pack. He made a quick examination of the area and found no fresh sign other than what seemed to be abundant deer sign not in evidence last time. He made a place for himself at the edge of the woods and sat back.

Two hours after dark-fall he heard what he took for activity in the field, just over a slight rise north of him.
Wheels needing grease?
No voices, no motor, just a low-grade squeal and rock crunching. He was tempted to drift into the field toward the sound, but held tight. Harju had emphasized this: “When you decide to sit on a situation, stay still, and use your eyes and ears, not your legs. You're not going to make arrests until you have evidence. Patience, thought, and careful observation lead to evidence.”

“Not even if I see a crime being committed?”

“You have to ask yourself if the violation you see is as important as what led you to be there in the first place. It's like that Jesus thing, you know: Feed yourself once, or set up something longer-range and farther-reaching, to feed multitudes.”

The point had eluded him.

That was training, and now he was on his own. Hearing the sounds, he was at a loss as to what to do, and sighed. He'd been hunting almost all his life and he knew this: It was usually best to let the prey come to you.

Several torches suddenly glowed just over the field crest, but he couldn't make out any more than vague blobs of moving light. There were no shots, no sign of illegal activity, nothing to show for a night of sitting and waiting.

Early Saturday morning he made his way to where he had heard sounds and seen light, and on the other side of the hill found cart prints and boot prints, nothing conclusive. The wheel tracks were indistinct. Had they been draped with cloth to make them quieter? Waste of damn time. He followed the cart track north until it joined a larger wagon trail which led north and westward toward Lake Linden, blended with other ruts and tracks, unfollowable.

George Gipp was waiting for him as arranged that night.

“You look hot,” Gipp said as Bapcat slung his gear in the truck.

“Let's stop in Red Jacket,” Bapcat said.

“Kind of late.”

“Still,” Bapcat said.

“Okay, you're the boss.”

25

Red Jacket

SATURDAY, JUNE 21, 1913

Dominick Vairo was looking nervously at a corner table in the small tavern, which was half full, when Bapcat came in and stood at the bar and ordered a beer.

“The cabin, Dominick—you said there's no cellar.”

“
Si
, got no basement,” Vairo said.

“Which mine owned the place before you bought it?”

“Hell's Creek.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Never got past exploration, yes? They builda cabins, coupla buildings, but not mine, 'cause no good rock.”

“Miners' shacks?”

“No, for their
capitanos
. The mines they plan make for short-time bunkinghouses.” Vairo glanced at Bapcat and averted his eyes.

What the hell is he so jumpy about? Why does he keep glancing at the corner?

Bapcat knew that captains ran operations for mine superintendents and rated far better houses than the miners they supervised. “So Hell's Creek isn't actually a mine?”

“They dig some holes, but no good, bad assays, no good, shut down before lose too damn much money making dry holes.”

“Boston-owned?” Most of the area mines were built on money from East Coast, Boston-based investors.

Vairo shrugged. “I just runna tavern, that's all.”

Bapcat grabbed his friend's sleeve and pulled him closer. “Something in the corner bothering you, Dominick?” Vairo turned red.

His friend was still sneaking peeks at that table. Bapcat snuck a surreptitious glance at where his friend was looking and saw a small man with shiny black hair sitting at a table against a wall in the shadows.

“Talk to me, Dominick. I'm your friend. Remember?”

Clearly exasperated and frightened, Vairo whispered, “Bruno Geronissi; he comes around, to sell birds.”

“Like ducks?”

“No, little birds—robin, swallow, finch, like that.”

“Songbirds?”

“
Si
.”

“For what?”

“For people eat. Back home in Old Country, they like little bird breasts, see?”

“Do you buy his birds, Dominick?”

Vairo seemed to lose his voice and Bapcat leaned closer. “No more, Dominick. You buy no more. Where's Geronissi live?”

“Rose's street, Swedetown.”

“Your sister buy from him, too?”

“Everybody, dey buy from Geronissi,” the proprietor admitted, recovering his voice.

“He comes around every night?”

“No, he take orders now, come back so many day, like this, like that,
uno
,
due
,
capisce?
”

“Next day?”

“Sometimes two day, three. Depends on time of year, what you ask for.”

“Are there other suppliers?”

Vairo nodded. “Some. They hate each other.”

“How much does he charge?”

“Two bits, one bird.”

“All birds same price?”

“No; turkey, partridge, duck, pigeon, goose—they cost more, okay. All singers and woodpeckers, two bits.”

“How many do you order?”

“Two dozen,
uno
week. I cook them, serve for shift change when miners come in. I make
polenta uccelli,
very nice, everyone like.”

“Polenta?”

“Corn meal, very, very good,
si?
”

“Where's he hunt, this Geronissi?”

“I don't ask, he don't say. You must not tell my name.”

“I won't have to if you tell me where he hunts. I'll grab him in the act.”

“He go to jail? He got family, nice kids.”

“I don't know about jail . . . probably not. The fine is five dollars a bird.”

Vairo winced at hearing the amount. “Try out Traprock River where cross Copper-Gay Road. That's a lot of money.”

“The State wants lessons taught, Dominick. Money is the best lesson for most people. Who was Hell's Creek's captain?”

“Don't think I ever heard.”

“What's Geronissi do for a living?”

“Works the mine.”

“Aboveground or below?”

“In the dark. Cornish make the money, Italians, Finns, what call B-O-B, beast of burden,
si?
Trammer-man.”

“If you hear the name of the Hell's Creek captain, be sure to let me know, Dominick.”

“
Si, si,
you hear about Georgie's balling game yesterday?”

“No.”

“He got for his team three house runs.”

“Home runs?”

“House, home—they are four baggings. Is confusing, this American game.”

Bapcat took note of Gipp's modesty, and left the saloon.

“Vairo says you had three house runs?” Bapcat remarked with a sly grin, when he got into the truck. “You never said anything.”

“Some fellas don't take the game to heart too fast. Some learn faster than others. And the pitchers, they weren't much to talk about.”

Bapcat guessed that description would fit Geronissi equally well.

“Home?” Gipp asked.

Bapcat motioned forward.

“Will Mr. Zakov be with you for long?”

“I hope not.”

“He seems real smart,” George Gipp said.

“Books are one thing, life another,” Bapcat said. “Remember that, George.”

26

Kearsarge, Houghton County

MONDAY, JUNE 23, 1913

The house was built in a copse of paper birch along the course of the sluggish Slaughterhouse Creek, which was choked with tag alder. Clothes were pinned to a line suspended between two trees, women's clothes, no kids, no grown men. A woman alone, Hannula's wife. Hepting, as promised, had gotten in touch with Mayme Hannula, and she had agreed to talk to Bapcat—not at her home, but a nearby location along the creek, a small clearing you had to battle to find through a tangled trail. Bapcat saw no sign of human traffic, but a bear had left a sizable calling card a few days back.

She arrived shortly after he'd gotten into place. She was thin, attired simply in a baggy black dress, barefoot. “Mrs. Hannula?” The woman stared down at her feet and nodded. “I'm Bapcat,” he added.

Met with silence. Bapcat said, “John Hepting said you would talk to me.”

She looked up with intense, confused eyes, palpable fear. “It's dangerous talking to the likes of you. Ask what you got to ask, and then leave me be.”

“You told the sheriff that Enock was getting an early start on venison.”

Panic flashed in her eyes. “You din't found none?”

“We found them. What I want to know is, why? He do this every year?”

“First time ever,” she said. “He goes by the Good Book, you know, but this is new. You know . . . the strike.”

“There is no strike,” he told her.

“Will be.”

“How does illegally taking deer fit into the strike?”

“People gonna be off work, need to eat, feed their kids.”

“He's going to give meat to miners?”

She rolled her eyes. “You a fool? Enock don't give nothing to nobody.”

“But he goes by the Good Book.”

“Parts he agrees with.”

“Does he have more deer elsewhere?”

“Was me, I'd ask Laurium Ice Company.”

“Ask?”

“They bring ice to him,” she said. “He finds out I talked to you, he'll break every bone in my body. I heard him say plenty times, Good Book don't hold with game wardens. God's job to care for all the creatures he done made. You need to git,” she concluded, sliding into the brush.

Two things were clear: She was scared, and there was more talk of a strike, just as Harju and the judge had said.

Laurium Ice Company.
Why didn't I think of that? I saw dry ice! God. Maybe I ain't up to this job.

Enock Hannula was scared-dog mean. The woman had reason to worry. Might be time to revisit Houghton County sheriff Big Jim Cruse, show him his badge, tell him about the Hannula woman—how she needed looking after, urge protection. This was probably not the sort of splash Harju wanted, but the woman was in danger and deserved help.

Bapcat walked out to the Mohawk Road where Gipp was parked. “You want to drive, boss?” the boy asked.

“That's your job, George.”

“I can't do this forever, boss. I think you need some practice.”

“I'm sure you're right, George, but not today. Take us to Laurium.”

“Where?”

“Laurium Ice Company.”

Gipp grinned. “Sorry, boss, that's in Centennial, near the dam. They cut ice from Calumet Lake in winter.”

“Laurium Ice Company is in Centennial?”

“Yeah, my Uncle Herman works there.”

“Herman got an opinion on game wardens?”

“Don't everybody?” the boy said, deadpan.