“Long time back ’e got sloshed, smash truck into minivan, kill two preachers; was messytits, not ’is first drunked wreck, eh? Put ’im inside two year; he camed out, been vickam ever since. ‘Look what state done me, boohoo.’ Asshole.”
Service remembered neither the man nor the events. “You know him?”
“Yah sure.”
“Competitor or partner in your former line of work?”
“Holy Pete, no way. I wunt let no druggies or drunkies work my crew.”
“There was your son, Jerry.”
“Got no choice but put up wit blood.”
“You worked with my old man.”
“Geez, oh Pete, Sonny; crabapples and ground cherries, eh.”
“Whatever,” Service said, watching the van’s brake lights suddenly come on and the vehicle slide until it came to a stop catawampus across the road. The driver bolted out of the door with a rifle case, unzipping it and dropping it as he ran, and crossed Kate’s Grade with a sort of running, hopping gait. The man tugged on a blaze orange chook and took off into a massive cutover.
Service was beside the van when he saw ahead and to the side a huge deer in full flight between dozens of cedar trees and stumps. There was one shot and the animal went down, slid forward on its belly and was still.
The driver was running through the trees toward the downed animal and Service angled to meet him there. When he got close, he greeted the guy with uncut excitement. It was amazing what he had just witnessed, “Great shot. Running deer, with an iron sight? That really was one hell of a shot!”
“Jesus,” the startled man said, “where youse come from? I’m in trouble?” Service smiled. “No trouble; you did everything by the book except for the sudden sliding stop.”
“I take my hunting real serious.”
Grady Service looked down at the buck and gulped. The rack was massive.
The man knelt in the snow, took off his gloves, and notched his deer tag. He paused to count points and looked up at the officer. “That can’t be right. You count too?”
Service had already counted and recounted. “Sixteen.”
“You t’ink dis t’ing escape hunt ranch?”
“Don’t know,” Service said. A similar thing had flashed through his mind as he was counting antler points.
“Holy cow,” the man muttered. “Holy cow, holy cow! Why me? Why now?”
Odd response, Service thought.
The animal was thick-bodied and dark, almost black. The man huffed and puffed, rolled the deer into a furrow on its back, took out a knife, and opened the body cavity like a surgeon. That done, viscera exposed and steaming, he used a coring tool to remove the bung and a small pull saw to split the breastbone. He reached inside, sliced the animal’s windpipe, rolled the animal on its side, and tugged down the guts so that gravity took over and spilled them into the snow, turning it red.
“Got do dis fast,” the man mumbled. “I’m in big hurry.”
“I’ll help you drag it,” Service said. They each took an antler and took off through the cutover maze to the road and the van, where the man said breathlessly, “Up roof.” The man reached inside, popped the hatch in back, got out some rope. The two of them hoisted the animal on top. He let the hunter take care of all the lashing.
There were three children in the van, all rug rats, all boys. Service hadn’t noticed them before. His focus had been on the hunter and the buck. Now he looked and saw the passenger door open, a woman with her back to him on the driver’s side, and Limpy Allerdyce on his knees in front of the woman, her dress thrown back up on her lap. Allerdyce looked up past the woman at Service and cackled, “Geez, oh Pete, she ain’t got long, dis one!”
Grady Service said, “Long for what?”
“Wake up, Sonny! She’s gone spit’ out a kittle!”
A kid? “Now? Here? How long?”
“I look like bloody sawbones? Soon I t’ink. Dey got get goin’ now! No kidding. Wah!”
The hunter driver said, “Hey, kids, want to see daddy’s big buck?”
The kids piled out of the van and cheered and clapped and danced like little wild things.
Service said, “Sir, your wife’s having a baby. You’ve got to get her to the hospital now!”
Allerdyce stood up. “Hey Urbanik, shit for brains. Youse leave dat damn deer, an’ take care youse’s wifey.”
“Don’t’ get your skivvies in a big knot, old man.”
Allerdyce came around the van and confronted the younger man, who was considerably taller and heavier. “What hell wichyouse, stop shoot deer when wifey ready spit out baby kittle?”
“None of your business, Allerdyce. I know who the hell you are. Everybody knows. We don’t need advice from some dried up old jailbird. I pay dat woman’s way over here fum Poland. Women dere know how drop kids anywheres, anytime.”
Allerdyce moved toward the man, but Service grabbed his partner’s sleeve. “Leave it.”
The old man yelped, “Don’t talk me like no damn mutt!”
“You need to get to the hospital,” Service told the man, while he held Allerdyce back.
The man said, “Yah, yah,” dismissively, and then, “C’mon kids, jump in; I guess we’ve got to get the rest of the way into Marquette.”
“Chuck-knuck,” Allerdyce said with a hiss.
This was the second time in a half hour that the old man had used this term, a new one in the ever growing and odd Allerdyce lexicon.
“Chuck-knuck, what is that word, a combination chucklehead and knucklehead?”
“Yah, like dumbass,” Allerdyce said. “Onny worser.”
The van resumed racing, and Service went around the van, turned on his blue lights, and led Urbanik toward town, calling ahead to alert police in front of them and in the city. The man had said not one word to his wife during the entire episode.
“Dose kittles grow up be shitbirds just like dat chuck-knuck Urbanik,” Allerdyce muttered. “Poor kittles.”
“Hey,” Service told his partner. “Give the guy a break. He did some things right this morning.”
“Youse t’ink?”
“Looked okay to me.”
“Yah? When dey start let felons hunt wit’ firearm?”
“That was a long time ago. He could have petitioned to get his rights back.”
“Wit what? He don’t have pot piss in. Take lots money do dat stuff wit lawyer. Question ain’t could have, but did ’e?”
Service rubbed his head. Blinded by the unexpected events and the animal. Lost your focus. Over a damn deer, just like the fools you’re chasing. Doofus. Only Limpy kept his head on straight here. You could do a lot worse for a partner.
“You gone check dat chuck-knuck’s record?”
“Not this time. All those kids, a worn-out van falling apart, a record hanging over his head; he’s got enough to handle. Everybody’s entitled to at least one small triumph.”
“Even if it break law?”
“Sometimes there are laws and there are laws,” Service said. He thought about giving Urbanik a chewing out at the hospital, but why bother? The wife was in good medical hands now; Urbanik was what he was, and it was time to get back to real game warden work.
CHAPTER 31
South of Arnold
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 19
This time they stashed the truck in the woods outside the camp gate and the two of them hiked into Coppish’s place, going around the stakes that held the gate in place. The gate was closed, but they had business with the former firebug, and the gate was essentially meaningless in this situation.
Paroled firebug Teddy Coppish came to his door with an empty champagne flute in his left hand. “You two, again? I haven’t done nothing illegal. You can’t be on my private property. The gate is closed. You’re trespassing.”
“We found an illegal deer here yesterday, Teddy. That gives us the right to be here. You have some explaining to do.”
“I already said all I have to say.”
“I can write you for aiding and abetting the taking of an illegal deer. What do you think that would do to your parole status?”
“Wunt be good,” Allerdyce said. “Dose POs don’t like no monkeybiz.”
“Why are you pounding on me like this?” Coppish whined. “Don’t you got more important things to do in the woods this time of year?”
“Just work with me,” Service said. “I’m not after you.”
“It feels that way,” the man said.
“It’s the Ingalls woman we’re interested in.”
“Arletta ain’t one to be foolt with,” the firebug said. “She’s a serious scorekeeper, if you take my meaning—eye for an eye and all that stuff.”
“What’s your connection to her?”
“Whachu think?”
“I don’t think anything, which is why I’m asking. Enlighten me.”
“We . . . you know? Sometimes.”
“But she has a live-in boyfriend.”
“I guess he ain’t enough for her. She a little thing with the big needs.”
“Me, I had some womans like dat,” Allerdyce inserted. “Anyt’ing got propellers, wheels, or titties gone venchly give a man trouble, wah.”
Service had to force himself not to laugh. “You know, like how often?”
“I don’t keep no count,” Coppish said. “Ain’t none your business, Service. You writin’ a book? Ain’t no law against help out a friend.”
“This would be the friend whose name and ID you couldn’t remember yesterday? Maybe you knew that helping her was not exactly legal?”
“Just helping friend is all I done,” the man said.
“You think a judge will swallow that?” Service asked, making a show of flipping open his ticket book.
“What judge?”
“You’ll have no choice, Teddy. I’ll write you for aiding and abetting the taking of an illegal deer and other charges, and all that will jam up your parole status. You’ll have to plead not guilty and take it to a jury, and how sympathetic you think a jury will be to a firebug?”
“You can’t give me no ticket for nothing I ain’t done.”
“Chuck-knuck,” Allerdyce said with a low growl.
Grady Service kept hammering. “I found an unvalidated tag wrapped around the antler, and you first told us it was your deer. The fact is that you were in possession of an untagged animal, and that makes it yours. In this business, possession trumps all words, Teddy. Give me your op’s license.”
“Oh shit,” Coppish said.
“Eloquence is simplicity,” Service said, holding out his hand. “What about your lady friend?”
Coppish stared at the ground. “She was here that morning. She shot the buck, told me to take Pymn’s tag and attach it with a string, not to validate it, and keep it until she picked it up.”
“For the record, she being Arletta Ingalls.”
Teddy Coppish nodded. “Ya, Arletta.”
“Taking the license from her makes you guilty of borrowing, you understand that?”
The man nodded.
“And it means Pymn loaned his, she borrowed it from him, and in turn loaned to you.”
“Yah, but see, Pymn never bought no real license.”
“No?” This was an entirely new and unexpected wrinkle.
“Arletta she screws young fella’s a clerk at Stop-and-Rob up Gwinn. She gives him her stuff, and he gives her whatever licenses she wants. The system is set up so clerks ain’t got verify no ID. I mean they do, but nobody holds ’em accountable, see; so this guy can give her what she want when she give him what he want, okay?”
“What’s the clerk’s name?”
“He’s a Peaveyhouse is all I know. Junco, I t’ink.”
“One of Dinty’s sons?”
“Yah, I guess, probably.”
Apples falling close to trees. Some stuff about human behavior was so true it could be summed up in five words.
“I getting ticket?”
“Not yet.”
“You gone talk my PO?”
“No, not yet.”
“What’s all that not-yet shit?”
“First, you’re gonna write this all down on paper in a statement—what happened, what you did, what she did, what you said, what she said, everything. Second, if this ends up in court, you will testify for the prosecution. If you renege on anything, I’ll drop it all on you and let your parole officer take the next step.”
“Nobody ever believes a firebug,” Coppish said. “They’ll never call me before a jury.”
“Chuck-knucks of a fedder,” Allerdyce said. “Jury see dat woman wit’ likes of youse and folks vote guilty ’fore first bakery-coffee of day.”
“I don’t like any of this,” Coppish says. “It makes me feel dirty.”
“Are dirty,” Allerdyce said.
“Driver’s license,” Service repeated.
Coppish went back inside.
“He says there are ten blinds on the property. The one I saw yesterday had minimal bait, and I’m thinking he cleaned it up after the kill. There’s something more going on here. Why don’t you make a sweep; see what’s baited, and take a picture of anything you think is over five gallons.” Service handed his digital camera to his partner.
“Law’s only two gallon,” Allerdyce pointed out.
“True, but we’re not going to niggle here. Tonto effect,” Service said. Allerdyce guffawed and took off in his predator gait.
Tonto effect was one of his old man’s ditties. You do stuff close enough so that a drunk Indian on a running horse can’t see the difference between close enough and right on. He had learned in his long life that this was as much truth as ditty.
Coppish came out and handed him the operator’s license. Service made the man orally verify every item and fact, drawing out the time that Coppish was nervously looking around for Allerdyce. “Where go that old shithead?”
“He’s my partner. Watch your mouth.”
“Partner? He’s a felon, same as me.”
“He’s not even a little like you, and he’s learned his lessons. You might want to emulate him.”
Just like that, Allerdyce was back, not breathing hard, not flushed. “Anything?”
“Twelve blind I count. One you seen is okay. Eleven got mebbe ten to fifty gallon.”
Service put his hand up to get Coppish’s attention. “Look at me, Teddy.”
He activated his portable radio. “Station Twenty, Twenty-Five Fourteen with a file; op’s license number follows. Cross-ref RSS and priors.”
“Ready to copy, Fourteen.”
Service read Teddy Coppish’s driver’s license number. Waiting for Twenty, he looked at the firebug. “You bought a license?”
“Yah.”
“When?”
“July, August, like that?”
“Explain why you’ve got baited blinds if you’re not hunting. And how come you lied to me about the number of blinds yesterday?”
“I get mixed up,” the man said.
“And the baiting?”
The man shrugged, answered, “Habit?”
Lansing came back with a real surprise. Coppish not only had a combo license for himself but a crop damage block permit and ten individual doe permits.
“Crops?” Service said, staring down the arsonist.
“Food plots is crops.”
“Food plots are deer bait, not human food.”
“Word games, hey. Regs ain’t so clear on that, an’ if you think about it, they’re same thing. You got something valuable and deer want eat it, you can shoot ’em.”
“Deer eat lawns, shrubs, landscaping, flowers around houses, and gardens, and this doesn’t entitle homeowners to whack them or to get block grants. Is this your deal or the woman’s?” How did he get the district wildlife supervisor’s okay? The DWS has to personally inspect the properties and approve all such requests. “Ten’s the minimum you can ask for in this grant program.”
“See, I ain’t greedy; just
want my share.”
“Share of what?”
“You know,” Coppish said, turning to Allerdyce. “Tell him.”
Service looked at his partner, who looked at Coppish and said, “Gimme smoke.”
Coppish handed a pack of Marlboro Reds to Limpy, who tapped out one and lit it with his own lighter. “See, farmers paid to grow crops, and not grow crops. If dey plant dey get paid for dere losteds after dey get bad wedders, get paid for everyt’ing, and most farms is big-ass company outfits, not little guys. So lotsa pipples t’ink dis not fair to little guy and dey ought get chance suck on govmen’ tit too.”
“Crop damage is real,” Service said. “You’re talking scam.”
“Yah, sweet one too, if you get district guy buy into your claim.”
The district biologist here was Maija Spong, stationed in Marquette. She had been around as long as Service, and as far as he knew, she wasn’t one to claim a two-penny mistake on an expense report. No way it was Maija. His gut was yelling at him to go deeper.
“Who’d you work with at the district office?”
“Din’t have to. Got contacts down Lansing.”
“Bullshit; only districts can issue block permits. Who in Lansing?”
“Don’t remember no names. Those Lansing types all look alike.”
Change direction slightly. “Who came up with the license loan, you or Ingalls?”
“Who do you think?”
“Not you. I don’t think you’ve got the smarts.”
Coppish looked like a cat with a canary, a stupid grin on his face, sparkling eyes, like he couldn’t wait to spit something out.
“Maybe you are smart enough,” Service said, “but it doesn’t matter. All that matters to me is the fact of possession. The grants and all that and how you got them, that will be your problem when your parole officer digs into this.”
“Wunt my idea,” Coppish said. “Arletta she set it up, the hull damn thing.”
“And let me guess; Junco Peaveyhouse is part of the whole deal too.”
“He got hold of some forms; I don’t know how. He signs ’em, so how anybody gone know? Don’t nobody give no shit about dis junk. There’s no follow-up on nothing.’’
“What’s Peaveyhouse get—beyond the obvious reward?”
Buckular Dystrophy Page 21
