Red Jacket (27 page)

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 the 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?”

“No,” the boy said, “but I seen where he went.”

Bapcat yelled for Zakov and the other game wardens and they piled into the truck with the boy. It was nearly eight miles north to Clifton, and the sheer four-hundred-foot-high bluff that had been the site of the first profitable copper mine in the Keweenaw. It had been abandoned thirty years ago.

“How did you get down here?” Bapcat asked the boy as the truck jounced along.

“Hiked over to Mohawk and took the 'lectric to Allouez.”

“You carried the head on the trolley?”

“Conductor wanted to throw me off, but the other passengers wouldn't let him, and he let me ride in back.”

“Why come to us, boy?” Zakov asked.

“People talk.”

“Make sense, boy,” the Russian said.

“People say how you game wardens are lettin' people kill deer to eat, but you're after those who kill deer and leave 'em to rot.”

“People are saying that?” Zakov asked.

“I ain't saying who,” the boy said defensively.

Zakov and Bapcat exchanged glances.

When they reached the abandoned mining village of Clifton there were few trees left from the mining days, the slopes denuded by the ravenous hunger for timber shoring underground. The ruins of an old stamp mill still stood, some of the old log miner cabins, and the frame of an old Methodist church.

“The deer was shot down here?” Bapcat asked. There were several old farms in the area with fruit trees, mainly apples, and the fields that sometimes attracted deer. Even so, the old mining town was now inhabited mostly by ghosts. There were only a few farm families doggedly hanging on, trying to grow root vegetables. More failed than succeeded.

“Up top,” the boy said, pointing.

“Show us,” Bapcat said. “What were you doing way up there?”

“Same thing he was—looking for meat.”

The remains of the animal were a long mile north of the old mine site, the trail twisting along edges of natural canyons and drop-offs made from poor-rock piles from mining days.

Pausing at the body, Jordy Kluboshar pointed. “That way.”

Harju and Sandheim stayed with the animal to look around the area, while Zakov and Bapcat followed the boy, who moved along steep trails like a mountain goat. After two hours they advanced up the spine of the Cliff Range past the old Robbins and Phoenix mine to where the steep hills dropped abruptly down to a rough road that cut north, the Eagle River flowing in a narrow chasm beside it.

Pointing at the river, the boy said, “He went down here. I couldn't see where he crossed, but this is where he climbed down.” The boy showed them some disturbed ground and Bapcat saw that the boy was right.

“You followed him a long way,” Bapcat told the boy, “especially after he shot at you. Where did that happen?”

The boy held out two brass cartridges. “Back up in the hills, but I picked these up.”

Bapcat looked at them. “Thirty-forties; not many of these around here,” he said, sliding them into a pocket.

“
You
carry one,” the boy countered.

“Indeed I do.”
The boy seems observant and reliable
. “We want you to go home now.”

“My old man's a souse, my ma's dead, my sister's a whore, and I live on my own schedule.”

“You go to school?”

“Only when the damn truant officer can catch me, which ain't that often, or when there ain't nothing to hunt or fish.”

“You're supposed to be in school.”

“Out here is where I belong.”

“Go back to Harju and stay with him and Sandheim. Tell them to stay where they are until we get back.”

“I can keep up,” the boy said.

“I'm not saying you can't, but we need to keep our minds on what's ahead, not on your safety.”

“I can take care of myself,” the boy protested as he turned away. They watched him cross the road and reluctantly climb a path back the way they had come. Bapcat looked down at the Eagle River, which was as low as he had ever seen it. The two men descended to the riverbed, where Zakov went downstream, and Bapcat up, careful to maintain visual contact with each other.

It was Zakov who found something and waved for Bapcat. The Russian showed him faint scuffings on three rocks about six feet apart. “He's jumping from rock to rock, using the butt of his rifle for balance.”

Bapcat studied the sign, saw Zakov was right, and also recognized that the boulder trail led to lava formations miners called traps on the other side. Bapcat began nodding. “He started climbing up here. You can stay on the traps for a long, long way. I used to hunt float copper over this way in summer. You can follow this lava ledge all the way to the Central Cutover Road, and if you drift north you'll strike Cedar Creek Canyon and you can follow the rim from there. Easy going either way, little soil to leave signs, firm footing for speed, and easy dragging if you've got a deer.”

“Are we going to pursue?” Zakov asked.

“We know the man came across here yesterday. I'll follow. You get Harju, Sandheim, and the boy, and drive the truck up to Central Location.”

Central was a largely abandoned mining community that had once been a stronghold for Cousin Jacks. There was a general store there where they all could meet up. “I'll stay on the track and meet all of you tonight at Stugo's.”

Zakov said, “The ratting grounds are north of Central.”

“Ratting grounds?”

“Old mine-shaft entrances and pits that connect underground in the area of Copper Falls Pond. In summer the area teems with rats, and wolf packs sometimes take their pups there to teach them to hunt.”

“Wolves hunt beaves in summer,” Bapcat pointed out.

“There are no beavers up there, just rats, and the wolves adapt, almost as well as humans. Bears, too. They take their cubs there for the same reason. I had some fair hunting up there. When snow comes, the area also seems to attract deer, though I have no idea why.”

Ratting grounds
.
What else don't I know about this territory I'm supposed to protect?

Zakov took off and Bapcat readjusted his pack straps. Two summers ago he had worked his way along the confines of Cedar Creek Canyon, which lay ahead and north. He had fished holes all day, camped at the headwaters spring hole, eaten until he was full of fresh trout, and fished his way out the next morning. He had discovered Cedar Creek accidentally, and it reminded him that in the Keweenaw there were always surprises waiting for you if you got off the beaten path.

The deer killer had shot twice to warn the boy.
Strange behavior
.

No time to daydream; eyes down, move uphill, and don't stop until you are on top and have covered some distance.

Approaching the crossover wagon trail, Bapcat sensed again that he wasn't alone. He'd been feeling something dogging him for going on an hour. He saw a pit ahead and noticed that it ran like a trench up into some boulders to his right, through an outcrop of brown basalt. He jumped down, scuttled right as quickly as he could, climbed out, and circled back to behind where he had come from.

Just as he stopped to rest, a shadow passed him, and he reached out and grabbed Jordy Kluboshar off his feet. The boy was startled and dropped his Winchester, which discharged, sending a bullet snapping around the stony surrounds. The boy tried to flail, but Bapcat held firm. “What the hell are you doing, boy?”

“I told you I ain't afraid.”

“You're supposed to be with the others.”

“Well, I
ain't
,” the boy said defiantly. “You made me drop my goddamn rifle.”

“You're the one dropped it, and I ought to wash your mouth out with soap. That bullet could have hit one of us.”

“Well, it didn't, did it? And I ain't afraid.”

Bapcat released the boy. “Climb down, get your rifle, unload it, and bring the bullets to me.”

“They're my bullets.”

“If I give them back. Boy can't keep hold of a loaded rifle shouldn't have it loaded.”

“It ain't much good unloaded,” Kluboshar said.

“That's the point here, boy. I don't want to get shot because you got spooked.”

“Goddammit, you're the one who spooked me!” the boy protested.

“Get the rifle, Jordy, and shut up.”

The boy shook his head.

“You follow the track all this way?”

“Didn't you?”

The boy hung his head.

“Fetch the cartridges.”

Jordy Kluboshar did as he was told and handed the rounds to Bapcat. “It ain't fair.”

“It ain't supposed to be,” Bapcat said.

“I thought lawmen had to play fair,” the boy complained.

“Not game wardens,” Bapcat said. “We play to win, whatever it takes.”

“We going to keep tracking?” the boy asked.

“Sure, if you can show me where the trail is.”

The boy hung his head again.

“We're going to meet the others,” Bapcat said.

“All the way back there?”

“They're waiting for us in Central,” the game warden said.

“I'll just go on home,” the boy said.

Bapcat pushed down a laugh. “From now on you'll be going where we take you, boy, until I can figure out what the story is with you.”

“You ain't even gonna thank me for bringing that deer head?”

“What did it lead to?”

“I don't like you,” the boy said.

Bapcat told him, “I ain't too sure about you, either.”