Neckers was the county’s senior, longtime magistrate. Service had done business with the man for what sometimes seemed like forever. Tom “Ekey” Neckers had great rapport with conservation officers and knew fish and game law as keenly as the officers themselves. Service had less experience with the county’s other magistrate, Kennard Dentso.
“I’ve just started,” the woman said. She was fortyish, thin, wearing a simple skirt and black boots with low heels. She struck him as a one-broccolifloret-for-breakfast kind of person.
“Where’s Lindsay?” Service asked. Lindsay Gillys was the magistrate’s longtime clerk and assistant.
“She died a month ago, car wreck near Green Bay.”
How did I miss that? He wondered but he had no time for sympathy or self-criticism. You miss shit when you work all the time. “Sorry, I have a meeting.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Harry is all worked up over deer and those dang wolves,” the woman said. At second glance, she was a lot more attractive than his first impression, and her boyfriend was much older.
“He’s not alone,” Service told her.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “He’s saying he’s going to do something about it.”
“What kind of something?”
“I don’t know specifics, but it won’t be good for the wolves. And that breaks my heart. They were here before us, weren’t they?”
“They were,” Service said. “If Harry’s something starts to become real, call me, and not afterwards, before.” He locked eyes with hers to make sure she got the message and waited until she nodded acknowledgement.
She mumbled, “I really care about Harry, and I don’t want this to come between us.” Relationships could be like minefields, every step important.
“Sounds like it already has.”
“He’s a good, moral man,” she said.
“Good to know. Maybe his moral compass will keep him on the right path.”
“Could he get into trouble if he like, does something?”
“Big, expensive trouble.”
“There’s no deer out to camp,” the woman said. “Understand?”
Service nodded. “I’ve heard that same song before—from Torky Hamore.”
“Judson Dornboek is saying the same thing,” the woman said. “They had a meeting last night.”
“Harry, Torky, and Jud?”
“Attilio Haire and Kermit Swetz were there too.”
This smacked of big trouble, a landowner cabal. Pattinson, Hamore, Dornboek, Haire, and Swetz owned thousands of acres in the same remote part of Delta County, touching the Marquette County border. They were all self-made, had money and political clout, and weren’t reticent about using it for their own ends. Swetz even had one of his U.P. hunting camps reserved only for judges and another for priests, covering all bets.
“Thanks, Myra. I’m sorry, but I have a prisoner waiting for me. Please call if you hear more.” He gave her a business card.
“Will my telling you help keep Harry out of trouble?”
“It might,” he told her as he moved on, knowing that for the next two weeks the sole subject of conversation in the U.P. would in some way involve deer. It was always a pain in the ass. And fun.
Twenty feet from the interview room, Marquette County Lt. Rusty Ranka tried to stop him. “Boy, do I have a story for you!”
Ranka was a good cop with diarrhea of the mouth and a tendency to exaggerate his fishing and hunting exploits. Service said, “No time for another deer story,” and brushed past the man.
Ranka said thinly. “It was about some pats, eh?”
• • •
Service entered the room. “Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen.”
Sandy Tavolacci said, “Officer Service meet Mr. Davorin Horvat, our distinguished translator.”
“You don’t need a translator, Sandy. I can understand your bullshit just fine.”
Tavolacci flashed surprise but said nothing. The translator whispered something to his client, who showed no reaction.
“How much are you being paid?” Service asked the translator as he looked only at the prisoner.
“This is no concern of yours,” the man said, clearly taken aback by the question.
“OK then,” Service said. “Who actually pays you? Tavolacci or Mr. Knezevich? Or does the client pay through his attorney, who slaps a 20 percent handling fee on the transaction?”
Horvat said, sputtering. “I must object most vehemently. This is most unprofessional.”
Service said, “I’m sure Mr. Knezevich doesn’t want to waste his money on a translator when he obviously speaks English at least well enough to communicate what he wants with Mr. Tavolacci.”
Knezevich eyed Service, who thought he detected a glint of something in the man’s eyes. “Am I right, sir?”
“This is not acceptable,” the translator said with a chirp.
“Go home to Chicago,” Service said. “You’re just a tit on a bull here.”
“Sir?” the man demanded.
“Superfluous, useless, worthless—a hulking Queen Mary doing a rowboat’s job.”
Knezevich laughed out loud, looked at Tavolacci, and jerked his head at the door. “Out, da bot’ a youse.”
Tavolacci and Horvat exchanged glances. “I’m sorry?
Bot’ a youse,” Knezevich said again. “Beat it.”
“But I’m your attorney,” Tavolacci argued.
“Yes, my mout’piece on my dime. Me and da officer here can do dis t’ing alone.”
“I strongly advise against this,” the lawyer said, with desperation in his voice.
“Gedout,” Knezevich said. “You can bring coffee for me an da officer,” Knezevich looked at Service, “Whiteurblag?”
“Black.”
Knezevich nodded. “Two blag.”
Tavolacci and Horvat hurried out of the room.
“I seen you yesterday and I think dis big woods cop, he’s got the gravitas. I think dis guy he don’t think like udders. Dis guy is his own man. Then you walk in and bomb that pompous translator, and I know I’m right about you. Gravitas, you understand?”
Service said, “I’m not looking for your approval.”
Knezevich smiled and nodded, “We all seek approval and acceptance.”
Tavolacci brought the coffee and departed without a word.
Coffee in hand, the Croatian said, “You surprise me in the swamp. I never meant to threaten you.”
“Motivation is irrelevant,” Service said, “but the fact remains. Think of it as currency.”
“I killed those deer,” the man said. “I do it every year to pay back my most trusted employees and their families.”
“In what business?”
“That ain’t part of this parley,” the man said.
“I was in that damn swamp late,” Service said, gathering his thoughts.
Knezevich appeared to want to talk. “You were busy fella out dere.”
The man sipped his coffee. “It ain’t espresso. Oh for a splash of rakija.”
Service didn’t understand.
The man read him. “Fruit brandy, we drink it every morning, like Americans and your orange juice.”
Service said nothing, wanted to see how the man would handle the lack of sound.
“Kratka sprava je bolsi kakor dolga pravda, understand? My people think a bad compromise is better than a good lawsuit.”
“You’re in the wrong songbook,” Service said. “There’s no lawsuit here. We found thirty-five illegal butchered deer, three wolf skins, six buck heads. All evidence.”
“No diff,” Knezevich said with a shrug. “We negotiate. You want to schtupp your old lady, even then you must negotiate. That’s life, am I right?”
This guy’s got balls and he’s used to getting his way, and he was a presence in a way Service couldn’t quite peg. “Restitution for the deer here is a thousand a head. The wolves are fifteen hundred per; if the feds want the wolf case, then the c
ourt costs and fines can easily hit fifty grand.”
“You want to play the hardball?” Knezevich asked in a flat, unintimidated voice.
“By the book is what I want, no more, no less. You tell me what you did, and we’ll see where we can go from there.”
“The why is not important?”
“It can be. But first I need the who, what, when, where, and how, all of that. The why comes later.”
“Is difficult to be the king, yes?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
The man grinned. “We are, you and me, each king of something, or someplace. This is the beauty of life.”
Service thought Knezevich had a long, sad face. His skin was abraded and leathery, maybe from too much sun and wind, the look of an outside guy. “I suppose there’s some truth in that,” Service admitted, thinking, A violator spouting philosophy. This strains credulity.
“You were a soldier,” the Croat said. “Is in your eyes.” The man touched his eyes with forked fingers. “I too,” he added. “Our war against the Serbs, you know it?”
“Very little,” Service admitted. The Balkans had been a shit stew, everything obscured, mostly hidden, odd, stinky, and mostly irrelevant.
“Our leaders they decide okay now we gonna make our own country, we will no longer be part of Tito’s old Yugoslavia, but the Serbs in Belgrade they disagree, okay; I talk here JNA, Yugoslav People’s Army. These peoples come to take our country, make it part of their territory. I am policeman at the time—in Vukovar. When invasion begins, we have no army and we policemen are told to fight. We have no idea what we are doing. I was in uniform four years and afterwards I come to Chicago to join my brother’s business as partner. This was 1996. Five years later my brother dies, rest his soul, and I took over business.”
The man stopped, and Service knew he was gauging his attentiveness.
“Every year, from the beginning, I bring to my top people a deer for their families to eat. In Croatia the poor hunt to eat, while the old nobility hunt for sport. My people do not need this meat. I pay them well, but this is a sign of my gratitude, a gesture, you understand?”
“Kings once owned all the fish and wildlife,” Service said. “Maybe this is your way to remind them who is their king. How many top people are you talking about?”
“You have a policeman’s mind. Thirty and six for gifts to others.”
“The heads are gifts?”
“I give them, and what the gift-getter do I got no idea and don’t care. A little profit, maybe. Who cares, my obligation is done.”
“Profit how?”
“Don’t be stupid. You know there are some guys want to buy such things down to Chicago. Okay?”
Service leaned forward. “Listen to me. If we push this over to the feds, I can do nothing for you. Nothing, you understand?”
“What must be done to keep this in your hands?”
“Your word,” Service said. “Negotiate.”
“My people say if you ask too much at once, you will come home with an empty bag.”
“Americans say take it or leave it. To promise too much is to promise nothing.”
“Where are your people from?” the man asked.
“Here.”
“I mean before that?”
“Who cares?” Service countered.
“You have the power to make things happen?”
“I do,” Grady Service said.
“There will be bail?”
“There can be,” Service said.
“And charges?” Knezevich wanted to know.
“Taking with no licenses, taking with a firearm in a non-firearm season.”
“Counts?”
“Thirty and the state takes the six heads and the three wolves.”
“Ten and you keep the heads and pelts.”
“Fifteen and,” Service said.
Knezevich said, “Done. Okay, fifteen and . . .”
“You will give us the names of potential buyers of heads and pelts.”
“I never said there was a market for the wolves. They would be too hot, and the Federals involved, yes?”
“You wouldn’t keep them if they had no value.”
“Some value is only personal, yes, as in mementos.” Knezevich said.
“Not for you,” Service said. “You’re strictly a businessman. This deal will require a full written statement of what you did, and this is your opportunity to explain why to the court, to make your own case.”
The Croat thought for a moment and smiled. “Let us call this thing what it is, a confession, yes? A turd may look like a black truffle, but remains a turd.”
Service pushed a pen and printed form to the man, along with a tablet of yellow paper.
“You are expecting an opus?” Knezevich asked.
“I expect the truth,” Service said, “However much that requires.”
“In the war we called Domovinski rat, I led an independent brigade. I told my men I will ask you to do nothing I will not do. Do you think I was telling them the truth?”
“I wasn’t there, and it doesn’t matter. Your men had to judge for themselves, just as I will evaluate the truth of what you write.”
“I think we must become friends,” the man said.
“After you serve your time?”
“There will be jail?”
“That depends on what you write,” Service said. He got up and stepped to the door, where he stopped. “The red Silverado?”
The man shrugged.
“I tracked you from it,” Service said.
Another shrug.
“The red truck.”
“I know no red truck. I think you are mistaking this for something it is not.”
“I know differently,” Service said. “And it had better be in your statement.”
Service stepped outside to find Tavolacci pacing and looking conflicted.
“He’s writing a statement, Sandy.”
“You mean a confession?”
Service said, “You big-time lawyers always know the right word. No wonder you haul in the big bucks.”
• • •
His parting words to Tuesday Friday this morning as they headed to work: “Econofoods, sixish. I’ll start a basket.” Then, a peremptory kiss before they went down their separate cop roads. Tonight he called out of service to central dispatch and to Station Twenty in Lansing, parked his truck in the Econofoods lot, and got out. It was beginning to snow.
He grabbed a basket in the slushy entryway, went inside, stopped, and sucked in a deep breath. His old man had been a drunk and largely inattentive father. Service had learned to cook out of desperation and self-preservation and eventually discovered he enjoyed both the process and the product. Nowadays there were foods and ingredients in stores seemingly from every remote part of the world, not just in big metro areas, but right here in Marquette. With combat in Afghanistan winding down, a lot of political cement-heads were making noises about America first, isolation, and other such malarkey. All they had to do was stand in a grocery store aisle to see how small and interconnected the world had become.
Friday sailed by him with her son, Shigun. Service hooked her waist and pulled her to him and placed Shigun in the cart. The little boy’s face beamed and Service whispered, “How many widgets did you build today?”
The little boy giggled. “Midgets is people.”
“Got me there,” Service said. “Can’t sneak anything past you anymore. Shigun’s a smart boy.”
Service turned to Friday. “Your day?”
“The usual crab-scuttle in the endless search for justice. You?”
“Deer hunters,” he growled.
“I hate deer hunting season,” she said.
“But you love venison,” he reminded her.
She said, “Enough talking. Let’s shop till we drop.”
Service pulled out his list. “Cassava, parsnips, sweet potatoes, carrots, butternut squash, onions, jalapeños, frozen corn, fresh ginger, and l
amb. You grab the veggies, and I’ll meet you in meat.”
Friday lowered her eyes and voice. “I hope that’s prophetic. How long has it been?”
“Justinian or Gregorian calendars?” he asked.
“Glacial time.”
“At least one full epoch,” he quipped. “Go. The big boy will ride with me.”
“I’m big boy?” Shigun asked.
“Damn straight, partner.”
Grady Service had just selected a package of lamb chops when Shigun said, “Midget.” And pointed enthusiastically.
Veraldyne Tice and her hubby, Hinch, were examining hamburger packages. Veraldyne painted her face white with thick cosmetics, and her stringy bootblack-and-gray hair drooped down all over her head. There was a large doll in a safety seat in her grocery cart. The woman wore an ankle-length fake leopard coat. Service said, “Looks like James has him a new snowsuit.”
“Oh, yes,” Veraldyne said. “We were just down to the Saint Vinny’s. Thank you for noticing, Grady. You were always the most polite and helpful boy. I don’t mean to brag, but my James is top of his class.”
“Not surprised,” Grady said, looking at the three-foot doll dressed in the snowsuit. “Chip off the old block. Your son’s always been precocious.”
“Midget,” Shigun repeated in a more militant voice, pointing at the doll.
“Shush, honey,” Service heard Friday whisper.
Veraldyne Tice crooked her forefinger and waggled it for Service to approach her. He had to lean way over to get close to her face. “Grady, I hate to tattle-rattle, but Klimik is up to dose ol’ tricks again.”
“Night shots?”
The woman nodded and whispered, “And donchuknow dere’s a giant bait pile outten back and a light over it and a loaded .22 mag by ’iss window. Dey usual like shoot around four. Dat’s when I’m up with James to check and make sure he ain’t rolled onto his face and got hisseff smothered.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Tice. We’ll take care of it.”
“Midget,” Shigun said again as the odd pair whistled away with the doll in the bow of their grocery cart. Old man Tice had grinned the whole while and never said a word. It occurred to Service that he had never heard Hinch’s voice.
Friday said, “What in the world?”
Service explained. “Tices. Their son, James, died in 1950. He was not quite two. They were twenty and just married. They never got over it.”
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