Dead Dogs and Englishmen (15 page)

Next chapter: Cecil and Nelson bought themselves new clothes with the money from the gold, and a fridge full of beer, and a pantry full of snacks. They were set for life, they assured each other. If they ran low on money, they'd steal something else. Life wasn't hard at all, Tommy observed at one point, as long as you have the courage to live the way you want to live. In a drunken moment, the two boys—probably both in their late teen years—talked about their dreams. Nelson wants only to go back to the land, but with money. He wasn't returning to Australia a pauper—not ever again. He'd show them all—the bastards back there. The ones who made fun of him 'cause his father was the village drunk. The “lousy bastards” who drove him from his homeland.

Tommy's dreams were even more grandiose. He would be famous. He didn't know for what yet, but he was sure of it, felt it in every bone in his body. The world would look up to him, admire him. Newspapers would write about him.

I got a little lost in Tommy's dream. As a reader, I wondered if what he was talking about was going to jail for the two bodies I assumed were tucked away in the basement of his house. I was jumping ahead at every character development and every plot twist. If I could see the end coming, Hawke had work to do. If I thought I could see the end coming—but was wrong—well, that would be a cheat. A very fine line, plotting a mystery. So far he was doing all right. But I thought the end of the novel must be buried here, in Tommy's plans. I wasn't sure Cecil Hawke knew enough about writing fiction to get that right.

Next chapter: There was a dog in the house with the two boys. A yellow dog with orange eyes that Nelson had stolen from a pet shop, breaking the glass and pulling the creature through the window, cutting it along its sides.

At least he was slowing the forward trajectory of the story. He was still in the same time period as the last chapter. Something other than murder was going on.

The dog was snuffling through the garbage. Here, in my head, he was connecting the dog to the boy in the basement in chapter one
.
And, also in my head, to that one-eyed creature Cecil Hawke kept beside him.
“Freddy,” Tommy growled and bared his teeth at the animal. “Get yer fuckin' nose outta there.”

In this chapter, there's been trouble. Nelson's in jail, caught stealing cigarettes at a tobacco shop just down High Road from the house. Because of his record, he was being held overnight. When he's released, the two boys decide it was time to move on.

“Ya could sell this place,” Nelson looks around, his cold blue eyes scanning the walls of the living room for saleable items.

“Can't,” Tommy says, smiling oddly at his friend. “Got things
…
well
…
ya see Nelson
…
it would be a lot better if we didn't try to sell.”

As if the young men inhabit one mind, Nelson leans forward, hands between his knees, conspiratorial smile on his lips. “Ya haven't! Not you. Ya mean she's down there?” He pointed toward the floor, and the basement.

Tommy nods and puts his shortened middle finger to his lips. “Got a couple of 'em. Bad luck for them. My mum, and a big-mouth girl who thought she was brighter than me.”

Here was another connection to the boy in the first chapter. Cecil's book was chilling—with his references to reality and parts of his own life, then giving details from a conscienceless murderer. That finger, the dog named Freddy. It was all so difficult to read. I kept picturing Cecil's benign, smiling face, and that mutilated finger on my knee.

I had only a few pages to finish . . .

The boys packed their things that night, split the money they'd stashed in an old teapot, and left the house. Behind them as they sprinted away, flames shot through the front windows, glass burst into the street as neighbors ran out their front doors to shout at each other and soon bring sirens to the place. They hid behind the half wall of a garden, shrouded in dark, as Mrs. O'Riley came running from her home shouting
“My God! There's a boy in that house. A poor, young boy.”
The woman fell to her knees sobbing that she'd seen Tommy Mulligan, and maybe even a friend and his dog, going in there that very evening.

“Oh, poor thing. Lost his mother and now he's gone too
…
”

Tommy and Nelson run off laughing—alone. With no dog in tow.

Lunch with Dolly and
Agent Lo was fast and busy. Two cups of tea straightened me out after a troubled night. When we asked around the restaurant for names of farmers we might talk to, Eugenia, Gloria, and the other customers in EATS, all had names of people to go see or a number for organizations that helped migrants. Jeffrey took names and telephone numbers and whatever else they had to offer. Dolly worked the phone book. Soon we were down to how we would handle all of it.

“Look, let's each take an area. Okay? I'll do Mancelona north—get the farms out there. Emily, you do these farms.” Dolly held up a map that put me west of Leetsville. “And Agent Lo, you do the migrant service places in Traverse City. That all right with everybody?”

Agent Lo frowned. “I don't feel good about you women doing any of this alone. There's already been one woman murdered and a family missing. Whatever this is about and whoever's involved, they aren't playing games.”

I kind of agreed. Nobody should be taking on any of the investigation alone.

To my surprise, Dolly went along. “Don't want them killing off a reporter,” she said, gave a strained laugh, and grinned at Agent Lo. “Make me look bad.”

“Nor a Leetsville deputy,” I countered.

“What we'll do until we see how things go, is stay together,” Lo said. “One car. Three people. Numbers rule. The INS is watching this closely. We don't take well to an agent being murdered. I'll give them one call and we'll have plenty of help, if we need it. You should put that in the paper, Emily. We want these guys to know who's coming after them. And the migrants too—let them know they aren't alone.”

We agreed and we were off. First it was out to George Sandini's place, up by Petoskey, to see if that Carlos Munoz might have something for us. What we needed was a way into this mess; a path to follow. There was such a cloak of secrecy tying tongues among the migrant workers. We needed one break; one peephole into what was going on and what they were all afraid of.

_____

At Sandini's place we found George with his head stuck under the hood of a huge John Deere tractor. He came out reluctantly, wiping grease from his hands with a large red rag. His gray hair stood up at the back as if it hadn't been combed that morning. The man didn't look thrilled to see a cop and a reporter, and even less thrilled to meet Agent Lo.

“INS? That's immigration.” He gave Lo a suspicious look.

Jeffrey nodded.

“So, something really is going on. You three got any ideas?”

“The woman who was murdered was an emigration agent from Mexico, worked for the Mexican government. Yeah, I'd say something was going on here, at least intimidation and death threats; murder.”

“Whew.” George Sandini ran a hand through his thick hair. “Wish I could help …”

“We wanna see Carlos again,” Dolly said. “Maybe he remembered something.”

George shook his head. “Gone. Just up and took off. Like so many of 'em …”

“When?” Jeffrey demanded, his face darkening.

George shrugged. “Yesterday. A couple guys came to see him and he left. His family went a few days ago. I think that was to Carlos's brother in Texas.”

“You know where in Texas? Maybe we could call him …”

“Not a clue.” George toed the churned earth at his feet. “This keeps up we ain't going to have a single worker here for harvest. Don't know what we'll do. Without those guys we're up the creek. Depend on 'em …”

“Only way to help yourself is to help us. We'll put a stop to whatever it is …”

“You think it's about some Mexican gang after them? That's what some of the other farmers have been saying. You know, like they owe money or something?”

We all shrugged.

“I don't think it's about drugs. Not these workers. Family men—all of them. Been coming up here for years. I don't think …”

“We don't know anything, George,” Dolly said. “It'll take help from you or other farmers who know or hear something.”

He nodded, then nodded again. “Why don't you all come in the house? I'll make some phone calls. See what I can get for you.”

Sounded like a good idea. We followed the man into a kitchen where he waved us to seats at a scrubbed oak table, excused himself, and went into another room to make phone calls.

“Better than nothing.” Dolly leaned toward Jeffrey.

He kept his voice low. “You got any ideas, Emily?”

I shook my head. Out of ideas, but I had the feeling we were on the right path. At least some path.

George was back in a few minutes. He stood in the doorway looking from one to the other of us, making his mind up about something. He came over, pulled out a chair at the table, and sat down. We watched as George Sandini went through a few minutes of tortured soul searching. Obviously he knew something but wasn't sure he could trust us.

The man finally rubbed his rough hands. “Well, I called a couple of other farmers going through this. We didn't want to say anything to anybody … but … well, you see now, Carlos and some of the others didn't really take off.”

We looked at each other, puzzled.

“You gotta understand. These men been with us a long time. Like friends, they are. We aren't about to let anything happen to 'em and we didn't think we could protect 'em the way things were.”

We waited. This wasn't easy for the man.

“So, what we done is get 'em together. We're hiding them until whatever's going on is over. We need them and they need us. You get the picture?”

Jeffrey, voice low and encouraging, asked, “Hiding them? You mean they're still around?”

George made a face. “Not their families. They're gone where it's safe.”

“Can we talk to them?”

“Guess you'd better.”

“Where?”

“Right now they're out to Dick Crispin's orchard, the other side of Northport. We got together, we'll move 'em around if it's necessary.”

“Is this Acalan Diaz family with the others?” I asked.

George thought a minute then shook his head. “Don't think so. Nobody's heard a word about them.”

“I'd like to get out there,” Dolly put in.

“ 'Course. That's who I called: Crispin. He says for you guys not to say a word.” He looked hard at me. “Better be nothin' in the paper.”

I agreed. Nothing.

“He'll be waiting at his house and take you to where they're hidin'.”

We got up, thanked George, got an address, and were off again. A long, long trip around Lake Michigan, through Traverse City, and out the Leelanau Peninsula to Northport and beyond.

We drove through Sutton's
Bay, a small town with a thriving arts center, with Brilliant Books and other stores strung along the main road, Lake Michigan in the background. It was a colorful place with the feel of real life underneath the touristy trappings. What I was learning about the part of Michigan I'd come to was that the arts thrived on long winters and cheaper homes off water. I'd learned that we had great writers like Doug Standon and Jim Harrison and Mardi Link among us—working easier up here than places where celebrity killed off lesser writers. I'd learned the rugged Lake Michigan coasts and lighthouses inspired painters of all kinds, and that photographers caught sunsets over vineyards as good or better than anywhere else in the world.

Once in Northport we passed my favorite used bookstore: Dog Ears Books on Waukazoo Street, where the owner, Pamela Grath, had a magic red chair you could sit in—if she liked you enough. Great places around Northern Michigan. It had taken me almost five years to find some of them, with a lot more to go.

We made the turn north at the center of town and headed out to miles of not much of anything. We turned in at the Crispin orchard. There was another long drive through rows of apple trees before we pulled up to a huge, gable-roofed red barn, and a low red-brick ranch home.

A big man, with big stomach, big chest, big head of brown hair, big suspenders, big round face, and a large German shepherd dog, stood in the middle of the driveway. Dolly parked carefully beside him since he wasn't going to move an inch, one way or the other. The dog barked, his head bouncing up and down, the hair on the back of his neck ruffled.

“I'm not getting out,” Dolly said after rolling down her window. The big man ambled over, letting his dog go on barking and growling until a gangly teenage boy came from the barn, called to the dog, and took him off toward the house.

“You Deputy Wakowski?” the man demanded, sticking his chin out to emphasize her name.

“That's me. George Sandini said he called you about us coming out. You Dick Crispin?”

He nodded, then slowly bent forward to look inside the car. He nodded to Jeffrey in the back seat. “You with the INS?” he demanded.

Jeffrey nodded.

“Need to see your badge.”

Jeffrey leaned forward, reached in his back pocket, brought out a brown leather folder and showed his badge over Dolly's shoulder.

“And you?” He lifted his chin in my direction.

I leaned across Dolly. “I'm with the
Northern Statesman.”

He stepped back and threw his hands into the air. “Un-uh. No reporters. What's going on here can't be public.”

I assured him I would only use what was happening at his orchard when he was ready and the killer was caught. He thought a long while, long enough to make Dolly get out of the car to vouch for me. Finally he nodded.

“Guess I gotta trust you. Come on,” he motioned the rest of us out of the car. “I'll take you to where the men are but don't go thinking you can take 'em in or anything. Once you talk to 'em, they're out of here. We got the next place lined up.”

We piled into his big red truck and went out the drive we'd come in on to the main road, then north, then west, until we finally turned down a dirt two-track and bounced between rows of apple trees. We pulled into a clearing in the middle of a circle of brown tents, got out, and stood by a row of cars.

At first, the clearing was deserted. We waited a few minutes. Men emerged slowly from the tents. Ten of them. Carlos Munoz, from the Sandini farm, was first. Behind him Miguel Hernandez stepped out to join Carlos. Others walked out until there was a straight line of small, dark guys staring at us. I was guessing these were all the men who supposedly had gone back to Mexico, or most of them.

“That's all of them?” Dolly looked from one to the other of the men.

“Most. Some left when the trouble first started,” he said.

“You farmers are putting your lives on the line, protecting them like this.”

He shrugged. “Men been good workers a lot of years. Not going to turn our backs now.”

“What if it's some Mexican feud thing?”

“They said it's not.”

“Then what is it?” Dolly asked.

Jeffrey and I stood quietly, letting Dolly ask the questions on our minds.

“Don't know,” Crispin said. “There's only one connection they've come up with—some guy one of them worked for. That's all I could get.”

“Can we talk to them?” Jeffrey asked.

“Sure. They been waiting. Jose, he's the one got a name out of Acalan Diaz before he took off. Joe Swayze tell you Diaz found a dead dog on his porch? Diaz told Jose about it, and that he was afraid of some guy …”

We walked closer to where the men stood waiting, were introduced, and then vouched for.

“Any of you know Acalan Diaz?” Lo asked, looking from dark face to dark face.

Dick pointed to one of the six men. “Jose Rodriguez. He was Acalan's friend. Worked for Joe Swayze too.”

“Jose.” Jeffrey Lo held his hand out to the man. They shook.

Jose licked at his lips and looked around at the others. They were alone, these ten men, out here in this deep woods clearing. And for a good reason. A woman was already dead. I didn't sense fear around us so much as something different buried in every pair of watching eyes.

“He gave you a name. Is that true? Somebody threatening him. Maybe threatening others,” Lo asked.

“‘Toomey,'” the man said. “That's what he said the man's name was. And he was going to tell me other things—a kind of warning, but somebody came in then and told him to stop talking about the farm and what was going on there and that was the last time I saw Acalan.”

“Anything to do with a dead dog?”

He nodded. “Before that day he told me he found a dog on his porch one morning. Later, I heard there was a man with binoculars watching Acalan when he was out in the fields.”

“He know any reason he was singled out for threats?”

Jose shrugged. “From what I heard, it was because he talked too much about that place he worked. Maybe this Toomey man heard. I don't know. And I don't know what was going on. All I know is that Acalan was very … eh … scared.”

“The family went back to Mexico?”

Jose thought a moment, his dark and angry face scowling with the effort. He shrugged hard.

“Doesn't matter. I'll call the agency in Mexico City,” Lo said. “They'll get a hold of the family in Oaxaca, find out if they're there.”

“Another man; another friend of Acalan's—he told me Acalan came to the United States. He worked on a farm where he wasn't happy. Something terrible going on there. Acalan was afraid he could be arrested, deported. Acalan talked too much.”

“Is that other man here?” Jeffrey looked around the circle of blank faces with unwavering eyes.

“No,” Jose said. “He's gone.” He dropped his head and looked at his feet.

“Anything else you remember?” Dolly asked as she scribbled notes in her tiny notebook. “Something about this farm he worked on, or this guy ‘Toomey'?”

“He just told me never to go work for this person. Acalan whispered, like he was … you know … afraid of the walls around us. He said the man was crazy and he saw things there …”

“You sure none of this has anything to do with drugs, right?” Lo put in.

All the men frowned, then shook their head.

“And you're all legals?” Lo looked down the line of men. “No coyote who brought you here and wants to be paid—nothing like that?”

They nodded.

“So, that's all you've got?” Dolly got to the end of one of her slowly written sentences, looked up, and demanded.

“ ‘Toomey.' I don't know …” Jose shrugged and spread his hands. “I don't know—first name or last name. Americanos, sometimes your names are … eh … you know … funny. But—you won't say
to
anybody what I told you.” The man moved close to Dolly as she
kept writing.

“Not a word.”

Miguel Hernandez stepped forward, cleared his throat, and said toward all of us, “Maybe dog fighting. That's what we think. Because of the dead dogs, you know. Or …” he shrugged “… something different. But if the police came to a farm … you know … and it was found out something so bad was going on, Acalan, well, he would have reason to be afraid.”

“Anyone else hear anything like that?” Dolly called to all of them.

One by one the men shook their head. Some made faces. Others stared stoically straight ahead.

A few of the men began talking rapidly at Dick Crispin. Dick patted the air with his big hands, reassuring the frightened men. “We gotta trust somebody. This guy, and these ladies, they promised to help. Nobody's going to go around putting anything in the paper until this is all over. Right, Emily?”

He turned to me and I nodded.

“You'll be safe staying out here 'til we figure a better place to move you. Don't want you in one place too long.”

Without more questions to ask, we thanked the wary men, got back in Crispin's truck, and headed out toward Dolly's car and home.

_____

We were on the main road back to Northport in no time, agreeing we didn't get much from the hiding men.

“Think maybe dog fighting could be it?” Dolly said. “You'd think, if it was going on, somebody woulda been in to the station by now. People up here love their dogs.”

She turned around to look at me and Lo. “That's the worst kind of cruelty you know? You ever see what happens at one of those things? Geez—enough to make you puke.”

“Like that football player—had a fighting pit on his land,” Lo said. “What I hear, they use other dogs and cats to train 'em. Use them as bait animals. Can't imagine grown men … oh, well … there's a lot about human beings I don't understand.”

“And the name ‘Toomey'—first or last, I wonder?” I asked.

“Could explain the dead dogs.” Dolly worked at the idea.

“And maybe why Agent Santos was murdered,” Lo added. “There's big money in dog fighting. Have these things where men come from all over the world. A million dollars bet on one fight.”

“So what are we looking for?” Dolly asked. “A man? A farm?”

“Toomey,” Lo said. “It's a place to start.”