Buckular Dystrophy

by Joseph Heywood

  “What about my nephew’s blind?” Pattinson asked.

  “I have it in Marquette as evidence. I brought you another one as a loaner. I tagged it with my name.”

  “What about the nephew’s blind?”

  “Got to hang on to it for a while longer.”

  “So, Buckshow stole it?”

  “That’s not entirely clear yet,” Service told them, “and as it turns out, it’s probably not important. How much land does Buckshow own?”

  No immediate response. It was Torky Hamore who eventually ventured a guess. “Got house, mebbe an acre ’round it, eh. Spit out what you tryin’ ta say, Service.”

  “The state is going to indict Mr. Buckshow on scores of game violations. I can’t give you the exact number yet, but when it goes public, I think you’ll understand that the wolf killing your deer is named Buckshow.”

  “Bull,” Dornboek said. “Don’t seem possible one man could have that much effect. None of us see no deer no more.”

  Service had drawn a rough map for just this moment. He unrolled it, spread it out, and waited for the men to gather around. “Buckshow owns these seven acres, which just happen to connect the two chunks of property you people own. Any animal moving east or west has to pass through Buckshow’s parcel. A lot of them never got through.”

  “He’s a crip,” somebody said and quickly corrected himself, “disabled or whatever the politically correct bullshit term is right now.”

  “One man can do that?” Pattinson asked.

  Service went to the front door and admitted Allerdyce. He could feel the crowd compress into one another as the old man walked into the great room.

  “You all know or know of Mr. Allerdyce,” Service said. “We might characterize him as an expert on taking deer by means other than legal.”

  Limpy grinned at the description and nodded.

  “I asked Mr. Allerdyce to look over the property in question. Mr. Allerdyce?”

  “Bes’ bloody spot ever see—an’ I seen plenty, youse guys.”

  “I’ll kill that motherfucking Buckshow,” Torky Hamore said, jumping up, but Service stepped over to him and pushed him back into a chair.

  “You are not killing anybody over some damn deer. And if you ever show up at my house again to whine like a baby, I will beat on you until you shit out your brains.”

  Hamore glowered and tried to stand, but Service kept him pinned in place.

  “But this Buckshow’s like a total cripple,” Pattinson observed.

  “Are you certain about that, Harry? Do you even know the man? Maybe he wants people to think that’s his condition.”

  “You sayin’ he running a scam?” Haire asked.

  “I’m not saying anything other than he’s been arrested, and the investigation is under way. I just wanted you fellas to have a head’s up on this deal. Your problem isn’t wolves.”

  Torky Hamore said, “What state gone do fix dis t’ing?”

  Grady Service said, “Nothing. Time will take care of it, that and all the food plots you guys have on your properties.”

  “They’re not illegal,” Pattinson said.

  “Nor are they natural, Harry. You plant, then everybody plants, because if they don’t, the first plot pulls the deer to it. It’s a damn stupid game and artificial. If Buckshow has been the problem, and I think he has, removing him won’t automatically fix the situation here. That will take time, and you guys ought to talk about what’s best for all the deer, not just the few big ones you want to shoot. You, me, the deer, the wolves, we’re all in this thing together.”

  Dornboek was scratching at his face and eventually said, “Our buck kills started falling off after the guy moved in.”

  “Your overall deer count and sightings are down too,” Service said.

  All the men nodded.

  “Put a lot of that on consecutive hard winters, not wolves or violators.”

  “Wolves kill some,” a voice said.

  “True,” Service said, “but they don’t kill every deer they see.”

  “Buckshow’s been killing everything?” Pattinson asked.

  “Wouldn’t be surprised,” Service said.

  Pattinson’s eldest son Henry had out a plat book. “How come the plat doesn’t show all the land he owns?”

  Torky Hamore said, “Cash.”

  “What’s that about cash?” Service asked, pretending ignorance.

  “Nickname for Shelley Jaaskelainin. She works for Balfour in the deed office, calls all da shots,” Hamore said.

  “What’s that got to do with Buckshow?”

  Pattinson said, “I am not making a charge here, but it is common community knowledge that the woman is amenable to certain pecuniary incentives.”

  “Spell it out, Harry.”

  “It seems that one might be able to pay her to have something depicted or not depicted accurately in the plat book.”

  “Are you talking about bribes, Harry?”

  “I never used that word.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Service said disgustedly. “What do you care if she’s taking a little mordida?”

  Torky Hamore asked, “A what?”

  “Mordida, Torky. It’s Spanish for a ‘little bite,’ which translates to a bribe.”

  Hamore smirked and Pattinson said, “Are you guys certain about Buckshow?”

  “We are.”

  “Why weren’t we informed earlier?” Dornboek complained.

  “You just own some land, Jud. You aren’t a bunch of European nobles. Here each of you counts no more or less than my partner or me.”

  Allerdyce smiled at this.

  Torky Hamore stood up and announced, “I think I’m gonna puke,” and pushed his way through the crowd.

  There were no more questions.

  “Dose guys din’t look too happy,” Allerdyce said in the truck.

  “Those guys like to be right. They think owning shit automatically makes them right, and makes them smarter than people who are less fortunate and don’t own as much. They just learned they were wrong about a bunch of things.”

  “Youse t’ink dose fellas been shootin’s some wolfies?”

  “What have you heard?”

  “Ain’t hear nuffin’.”

  “Then we’ll assume they haven’t.”

  Service’s work cell clicked anxiously as they rolled along. It showed Sandy Tavolacci’s name.

  “Counselor.”

  “Thought you ought to know, Jesper Buckshow’s now my client, Grady.”

  “He can’t afford a real lawyer?”

  “That isn’t funny, and we’ll see who’s laughing when we get to court.”

  “It’s not funny to you, Sandy. Is to the rest of us.”

  “I’m tired of you interfering with my clients and my practice.”

  “I’m glad you said that, Sandy. Why would anyone hire a lawyer who is just practicing? Me, I’d want one who is actually performing. Game time beats the hell out of bench time.”

  “I’m bringing charges,” the attorney said.

  “It’s a free, free world—in principle,” Service said.

  Tavolacci hung up. Service thought, He and I need to have a heart to heart.

  “Who dat?”

  “Sandy T.”

  Allerdyce said, “Asswipe.”

  “Your eloquence sometimes leaves me speechless.”

  ACT 4: “TELL ME AGAIN WHY I DO THIS JOB?”

  Step with care and great tact. And remember that life’s a great balancing act.

  —Dr. Seuss, Oh, the Places You’ll Go

  CHAPTER 41

  Harvey

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 26

  It was Thanksgiving Day, and granddaughter Maridly launched herself from six feet away, landing against his chest, squealing, “BampyBampyBampy,” which was what she insisted on calling him and he insisted she not. But she continued to do as she pleased, and deep down her little streak of stubbornness and defiance made him happier than the stupid term ma
de him unhappy. She was almost five and jumped like a monkey, six feet horizontal, four or five feet vertical. Does Guinness have categories and records for tots? he wondered.

  The little girl’s mother, Karylanne Pengally, had been his son’s girlfriend when he died. The baby was his son’s, which made Maridly his granddaughter, even if that didn’t quite plot on legal paper. Karylanne Pengally was a beautiful and sweet young woman and a terrific mother. She was now working on a PhD in some arcane field at Michigan Tech in Houghton.

  He was not quite certain what it was she was chasing so hard in the classroom, and it didn’t matter to him, though in the back of his mind he was afraid that when she finished, she might have to move elsewhere to find a job. If that happened, what would he do? He honestly had no idea, and thinking about it made his stomach knot up.

  Karylanne had brought a guest—a slumpshouldered, skinny, longhaired boy who looked like he was mourning his lost skateboard.

  Allerdyce pushed his way past Newf, marched straight to the guest, and stood in front of him, staring into his face, his own face not six inches away. “Who youse, Bucko?”

  “His name is Charles,” Karylanne said. “But he likes to be called Bebop.”

  “I’m talkin’ dis boy,” Allerdyce growled menacingly. “You got own voice dere, Bucko, or we got use sign linkage?”

  Service wanted to smile, but didn’t dare. Limpy was a better guard dog than Newf, but the kid needed the break. “Hey, we’ve got grocks in the truck,” Service said and pulled the man back from the visitor.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked when they got outside.

  “Dunno, Sonny. I seen dat twerp and start see some mind pitchers in head don’t like.”

  “He’s a guest. Be nice. If Karylanne likes him, we’ll like him.”

  “Wah,” Allerdyce said. “We see ’bout dat.”

  Their second entry was quieter. Shigun came over, and Service picked him up, hugged him and gave him a loud smooch, and set him down; he and Maridly each grabbed Bampy’s trousers and followed along like goslings. Newf was crawling all over Allerdyce, and Service didn’t even try to tell her to get down. Where the old man was concerned, she did her own thing and called her own shots. Allerdyce was snuggled with the giant dog, making sounds of affection that had no known connection to English, much less any other language Service had ever heard.

  Friday wore slacks and a sweater and looked happy as he patted her butt and began removing groceries from paper bags, which he chose over plastic because both youngsters liked to draw and paint; paper bags were great painting surfaces, and already paid for.

  He and Friday had put the turkey in the oven this morning, before he and Allerdyce had gone to the store. Karylanne, Maridly, and Bebop had arrived while they had been strip-mining Econofoods.

  Allerdyce set down his groceries, pulled a chair over to the guest, and sat right in front of him. “How old youse?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Look twelve.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You hunt?”

  “No.”

  “You fish?”

  “No.”

  “You like boys?”

  The visitor made a face. “As a matter of fact, I do. Are you trolling?” The man looked at Karylanne, who was laughing. “Who is this person?” the guest asked.

  “Family,” she said, then paused and amended this to “ah, er . . . like family?”

  She looked at Service, who said, “He’s family. I guess. Sort of. Right.”

  Allerdyce looked at Karylanne. “Dis guy no hunt, no fish, an’ he fairy boy. What you see in dis guy?”

  Karylanne smiled and said, “He’s my boss, and my friend.”

  “What you boss her of?” Allerdyce asked, turning back to the man.

  “We teach and do research.”

  “What kind church?”

  “Not church, research.”

  “Teach what, dancing for longhair fairies?”

  “Are you asking me to dance?” the guest asked.

  Allerdyce pulled back. “Wah! No way! I don’t dance wit no mens.”

  Karylanne intervened. “This is Professor Rosslind Fynes Pechta.”

  “What kind name dat for boy?” Allerdyce challenged.

  “Earthling,” Pechta said, and all but Allerdyce laughed out loud.

  “Porfessor? How come you not better one dey give you name like goodfessor?”

  Allerdyce. “We’ve got to make cornbread dressing,” Service called from the kitchen, from where he had been watching.

  Allerdyce was immediately in the kitchen. “Like cornbread stuffing, eh.”

  “Dressing; it’s only stuffing if it goes into the turkey.”

  “Dis gone go inta us, so what difference dis makes? Why youse knickpick words all time?”

  “It’s not nitpicking.”

  “Okay; dis feel me like youse stick pins in old doll look like me.”

  “You’re being overly sensitive.”

  “Man can’t have too much sense,” Allerdyce said.

  Service could see what he took for relief on the professor’s face.

  It was the kind of day he both coveted and loathed. The house was warm, the smell grand. Aaron Rodgers and the Packers were kicking the stuffing out of the Detroit Lions, the animals had glommed onto Limpy like he was pure pet dope. Karylanne, her boss, and Tuesday were deep in conversation, and the kids were playing nicely with some sort of goofy electronic game. But he knew that this was a false security blanket, a mirage, that outside the confines of the house there were bad guys doing bad things, with nobody out there to stop them.

  While the others enjoyed the moment, he began thinking about Parmenter Cair, who owned the apartment “hideout” in the 8-1 case.

  He was in the kitchen, hovering over the turkey and fixings, when Lions rookie quarterback Matthew Stafford threw his fourth pick of the game and put another nail in Detroit’s game coffin. The sad sack Lions were the perfect symbol for the long-dying city, most of the roster consisting of guys making big salaries and living outside the city in GP—a term his friend Luticious Treebone had made up to represent greener pastures. Most people took it to mean Grosse Pointe.

  His best friend would get in the face of white guys who called themselves Detroiters. “You live inside 8 Mile?” he’d challenge.

  “No, I live in Royal Oak.”

  “That ain’t Detroit, motherfucker. That be GP.”

  “Not Grosse Pointe, Royal Oak.”

  “Shit for brains, GP mean white-boy-green-pasture-land, and donchu be tellin’ peeps y’all Detroit boy when yo ain’t.”

  Allerdyce disturbed his reverie. “Ain’t nuffin’ cooking faster jes’ cause youse puttin’ eyeballs on it,” the old man said. “I need smoke.”

  They stepped outside together. What was the name of the ATF agent from Springfield, Neutre? The chief said she’d call soon, but what did soon mean to a Fed? It also dawned on him that he couldn’t recall how many days had gone by since that conversation. The answer was in his notebook, in a coat or shirt pocket, or in a bag, or somewhere in the disarray of the truck, this being the time of year for most officers when in-truck organization went from random clutter to all-encompassing chaos.

  “We hit road aft’noon?” Allerdyce asked.

  “Nope. This is a holiday for us.”

  “Where dat word come fum, holiday?”

  “Originally meant holy day, I think.”

  “Wah. Santy Claus day, dat holy day when Jesus guy borned. Easter, dat holy day when Jesus guy buy big farm in sky. Turkey day ain’t no holy day.”

  “I’m passing information, not defending the history of words.”

  “Youse is all antsinpanties bein’ ’ere. Look scared as two-head buck.”

  Service smiled and took a pull on his smoke. “You know, we might just take us a little drive after dinner.”

  “Do what?”

  “Same reason the bear went over the mountain.”


  Allerdyce grinned. “Wah! I know dat one. Ta pee in da Saltine Sea.”

  Grady Service laughed out loud. Allerdyce.

  CHAPTER 42

  Marquette Über Dem See, Marquette County

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 26

  Fighting through the paralysis of postprandial food coma, the partners took Service’s personal truck to find the house and property of Parmenter Cair. The address was in his notebook, which Service fished out of his work truck. He knew Marquette fairly well, as did his partner, but neither of them had heard of something called Marquette über Dem See. He used his cell phone to call central dispatch and get directions. The place was in a new development of estates slightly north and west of the Marquette Mountain ski complex, and it was set onto a hump of rock that was higher than most other local elevations south of town.

  Service had no idea developers had penetrated this area so deeply, but he wasn’t surprised. Developers were calling Marquette the next Traverse City—like this would be a wonderful thing. He knew some developers would, for the right return on investment, bury the entire Upper Peninsula in concrete.

  They eventually found the street, which appeared to be newly paved. It was unplowed, and there were no vehicle tracks; the road meandered like a river around the bottom of a series of steep ridges and deep, narrow valleys. Cair’s house was one of only three in the development, the farthest east and the one with the best view, catching the end of Intimidation Lake to the north and Lake Superior to the east.

  “Geez, oh Pete,” Allerdyce said. “Dis jamoke must be loaded, have place and view like dis.”

  Service wondered what the price was for lots. He was aware of one developer over by Munising who tried to lure Japanese and Californian investors with unique lots starting at $250K. The development remained nearly empty, much to the happiness of most locals.

  There was a dead-end turnaround not a hundred yards past Cair’s driveway, and Service stopped there, turned off the engine, and put down windows.

  Snow was falling, adding to the rolling white vista, grayed-out in the darkness. It was almost idyllic.

  The engine was off, the windows were down, and there was total silence except for small snow pellets pecking at the truck. A spotlight from the house clicked on and flashed down into one of the narrow defiles close to the house, momentarily illuminating a half dozen shadowy deer; just as suddenly it went dark again. Off.