Buckular Dystrophy

by Joseph Heywood

  “Rapunzel?”

  “’At’s ’er.”

  “So, there’s a lot of bullshit in here?”

  “There be fiffy-eh story ’bout me an Buckshow, none of ’em rye, sayin’.”

  He told T-Rex about Buckshow’s problems.

  “What id it ’bout white man got kill ’em cute li’l Bambi deers?”

  “Can’t explain it. Is what it is.”

  “I hear dat, but why you t’ink I gone spin you true?”

  “Buckshow’s defense is going to lean hard on sympathy, ‘Boo hoo, poor me.’ The prosecution needs to be ready to show the man as he really is, not as his lawyer paints his portrait.”

  “Trufe is, I ain’t much on vengeance no mo.”

  “What about justice?”

  “Ain’t same t’ings.”

  “Something obviously went down between you and Buckshow.”

  “Inside game, you know?”

  “Not like you know it.”

  “Trut’ dere. You gone try make me come tessifye?”

  “Might could get you some time reduction.”

  “Don’ wan’ ’at. Wan’ stay, do tye, ride dat sof’ row.”

  “Would you testify?”

  “I try not t’ink down no roads of ’morrow, sayin’. I try keep here-now, and like dat.”

  He couldn’t blame the man and opted for silence to see what the man might offer next.

  T-Rex scratched his forehead. “Oh why not put Massa Trut’ on the flow? Buckshow was up in mah shit all tye, but me, I be duck wid oil in fedders, let his shit frow right offen me. Coul’n’t get no rise fum me, that man coul’n’t; and one day ah’m in room, cuffed up tye, and that man do Willie Horton on me wid baton, fuck up mah back, rips, kidneys; I piss da blood fo two week when he be done. One day, monce later, I see him doin’ his mad-dog bark on man; go over, tell the con, beat it bro. Look Buckshow inna eye. I tell ’im, ‘I got contrack on your sick sorry ass. You ain’ gone know where it come fum or whin, but it gone be fo sho Judgment Day for yo, motherfucker.’” T-Rex paused. “See, I see in dat motherfucker’s eyes, all way deep down, an’ I see I got myseff in real good. Ain’t no need beat man’s body if you can get inside ’is haid. I ain’t no eddicated man, but if I can get in dere, speck you can too.”

  It was perhaps the strangest interview in his long career. And yet there was something reassuring. Of what, he was not all that certain. T-Rex, Eyquem, none of this was essential for the case, but Buckshow was a wiggler. You need to be ready to hold tight, like putting a sharp hook through a wiggling leech.

  He called Jack Tax at home. “Service here. You going to talk to Buckshow soon?”

  “Monday; no reason to hurry.”

  “You can’t hold him indefinitely without charges.”

  “Drugs in the picture change everything, and his lawyer hasn’t piped up yet.”

  “You want me to take him first? We’re about to push him into the Grand Canyon on our stuff. He might look to you as an easier road.”

  Pause. “OK.”

  “You want to sit in with me?”

  “No.”

  Special Agent Neutre called as Service and Friday were making a fresh harvest pork stew with roasted squash, carrots, and apples. “Neutre here. I’m back at the stakeout. Cair had a male visitor this afternoon. I got a photo with my long lens, uploaded it to my phone, and shot it off to you.”

  “Stand by one.” Service found his phone, took a quick look at the e-mails, and saw the photo.

  Penfold Pymn? What the hell?

  He returned her call and said, “I know this guy. He’s involved in another couple of cases of mine. Do you know him?”

  “Not yet, but I will. What’s his name again?”

  “Penfold Pymn. Any sign of the grandson yet?”

  “Negative down that path.”

  “You could be sitting out in the snow a long time.”

  “Or the opposite of that. You know, shit happens.”

  “Well, I’m thinking we should make our visit on Cair tomorrow. You want in?”

  “Be good. You got a time?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Let me know. I’ll slide down the hill by the driveway and jump in back. I’m all in white.”

  “You’ll leave a snowsnake trail.”

  She said seriously. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “I’ll explain when we get time.”

  “Tomorrow then. Stay near your phone, in case.”

  CHAPTER 45

  North Iron County

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 29

  The camp was near Shank Lake, less than a mile south of the Iron-Baraga county line. It was a throwback—tarpaper-covered, thick, gray moss on a warped shingle roof; no doubt there were asbestos strips under the tarpaper, because back in the day this was how most camps had been constructed. This was considered top-of-the-line construction in the 1940s and 1950s.

  Service cringed whenever he came upon such primitive set-ups, and it always made him wonder if anyone had ever studied the life expectancy of the owners of such dumps. He knew dozens of places where the old toxic buildings were left to rot in place and fall back to nature, while new camps were built nearby from safer modern materials. Few camp owners wanted to spend the dollars needed to have toxic materials hauled away and legally disposed of. They’d spend initially on the camp, and not a penny on the old crap.

  Luke’s Road was as rocky as an old streambed and tended to put major hurt on vehicles that ran it regularly. Some camp owners had a special parking lot out near US 141 and drove sturdy beaters from there into the actual camps. Even with the Silverado’s heavy suspension, road vibrations and oscillations made it difficult to move quickly or carry on a normal conversation.

  An old sign proclaimed, “QUARANTA LADRONI, QUARANTA ANNI.”

  “What’s it mean?” Service asked his partner as the truck continued to be bashed and bruised by the road.

  Allerdyce was bracing himself. He shrugged and said, “Wops, dey have like hunnert year ’ere ’Merica, still wan’ spicka da spaghetti, eh.”

  White smoke was curling up from the camp chimney. “I guess dey god a new Poop,” Allerdyce said.

  “Pope.”

  “Whatever. Why hell we got come dis place, Sonny? Dese guys like dog shit on boot bottom.”

  An old man was standing at the camp door on a crude porch, smoking a pipe.

  “Da camp clown Poop,” Allerdyce said.

  Service left him in the truck and announced himself. “Conservation Officer Service, DNR.”

  The old man took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed with it. “Why’re you on my private proppity?”

  “Is Sandy Tavolacci here?”

  “Get offa my proppity ’fore I make you get off.”

  Sandy Tavolacci appeared in the door with a huge cigar in hand. His eyes bugged out when he saw Service. “Pop,” the lawyer said firmly but respectfully. “It’s okay, I’ve got this.” Another man stepped out, pulled the older man into the cabin, and closed the door.

  Tavolacci wore old-timey red plaid wool pants and knee-high blaze orange wool socks. He had a black mug in one hand, and Service guessed it contained something other than tea or coffee. “You got some nerve barging into my dad’s camp,” the defense attorney said.

  “We need to talk, Sandy.”

  Tavolacci craned at the truck and squinted. “Allerdyce? You’ve got Allerdyce in your state truck? What’s he done now? You can tell that piece of shit I ain’t available to represent his ass.”

  “Never mind Allerdyce, Sandy; and as for him needing your services, he thinks you’re a fool.”

  “That’s the thanks I get?” the lawyer said.

  “He went inside seven years.”

  “Would’ve been worse if not for me.”

  “He doesn’t see it that way.”

  “You come all the way out here to bust my balls—over ancient fuckin’ history? How about Knezevich? What you done there does not sit wel
l with me. I lost a client because of your unethical crap.”

  “Sandy, we both know Knezevich didn’t need you. You were nothing more than a cheap prop until he could recon the field.”

  “I don’t like being dumped. Word gets around.”

  “Clients who don’t need you aren’t going to swallow your big fees. Knezevich wanted to come clean. He’s an honorable man, not one of the scumbags you tend to attract and run with.”

  “Are you calling my family scum?”

  “If that was the family apple tree who greeted me, I’d say the apples don’t fall all that far from it.”

  Tavolacci said, “One of these days . . . you and me.”

  “Find another fantasy, Sandy. That turd won’t flush.”

  “Say your say and get that asshole Allerdyce off our property.”

  “Jesper Buckshow.”

  “You people went t’rough ’is place like Nazis t’rough a Jew house.”

  “Yah?”

  “Dep tole me.”

  “That dep, if there is such a person, is full of shit. No deps were there when we went in.”

  Sandy quickly moved to another proposition. “My client has special medical needs, and the things you did have harmed his health.”

  “He wasn’t there when we were there, Sandy. He was already in the can.”

  “My client served the state honorably.”

  “Your client’s a fraud, Sandy. If he’s been confined to a wheelchair all these years, how does he haul in all the animals he’s whacked? Or build cement bunkers?”

  “He don’t kill nothing. His wife does. You see his name on anything?”

  How does Tavolacci know what the evidence looks like? Has he been Buckshow’s lawyer for a while? Curious.

  “Bag the attitude, Sandy. I’m actually trying to protect you on this one.”

  The lawyer grinned with incredulity. “Really.”

  “Your client has personally and singlehandedly vacuumed most of the major game off more than a couple thousand acres.”

  “Bullshit. Everybody knows it’s the wolves, and you people just don’t want to admit it.”

  “Wolves don’t bother with places that have few or no deer. They need to eat, just like ambulance chasers.”

  “You come all the way out here to my dad’s camp to lay this shit on me?”

  “Listen to me, Sandy. You need to think this through. You’ve earned a certain reputation and notoriety for representing your darkside clients. Everyone knows that. Everyone knows that under our law, every citizen has a right to legal representation. But most of your practice is plain old lawabiding clients who hunt and fish. There aren’t enough high-profile cases up here for you to make a living off them.”

  Tavolacci stared, puffing on his cigar.

  “If you represent Buckshow, I’m pretty sure that Harry Pattinson, Torky Hamore, Kermit Swetz, Jud Dornboek, and Attilio Haire will paint a target on your chest. One of them has already threatened to kill your client.”

  “This is nothing but intimidation,” Tavolacci said, “tampering with legal counsel. Who said they’d kill Buckshow?”

  “Irrelevant. My point is that these fellas have deep pockets, long memories, and you know how long such memories tend to persist and grow into get-evens. They’re like chicken salad at a picnic. If you represent Buckshow, they’re going to pull strings to cut off your professional nuts to teach you not to interfere in their affairs.”

  “Their affairs? You their messenger boy?”

  Service said, “You know better than that, Sandy.”

  “Buckshow’s being railroaded.”

  “Your client’s a loser. Not only will you lose this case, just representing him is likely to face-plant your reputation.”

  “I ain’t afraid of nobody,” Tavolacci said.

  Clearly there was other than coffee in the man’s mug.

  The old man pushed back out the front door, waving a shotgun. Sandy blocked the barrel upward with his forearm, and four other men poured out to grab the old gent. They looked like cookie-cutter Tavolaccis.

  The old man was shouting with a hoarse voice. “Dis game warden, he tells trut?’”

  Sandy said, “He’s bluffing, Pop. Take it easy.”

  The old fellow said, “Pattinson, Torky, Swetz, Jud, Haire, I know dese guys. Dese are men wit da clout. You pissin’ off men like dat make no sense. Da client, da client, who da fuck is ’e? Shit from a rat’s ass is all.”

  “Pop, go back inside. This is not your business.”

  “Got do wit my sons, is all my bidnit, capisci?”

  “Not this.”

  “Dese five dis game warden talks, dey make war on Tavolaccis? We don’t need dat shit. Old days is gone.” The family elder spit. “Ciao to d’old days. That stuff no fuckin’ good for nobody, tough guys runnin’ round with guns, waving em like cazzi giganti. Casa nostra, casa di baciarmi il culo.”

  “Dad!”

  “Listen you me. You make dat bunch mad, dey take it out on you and me, and your brothers and your sisters, and all the families, capisci? We all doin’ pret’ good, don’t need this merda on case you know you gone lose anyway.”

  “You don’t understand what’s at stake here.”

  “I unnerstan. You one don’t see! Pattinson and dose guys make you into garbage, an’ me and hull family too.”

  “My client’s innocent,” Sandy Tavolacci argued, his voice reedy.

  The elder Tavolacci shrugged theatrically. “Innosin, guilty, who gives the shit which. Family all dat matters.”

  The father and brothers were all glaring so intensely at Sandy that Service felt compelled to do something to shift their focus. The first thing he thought of was out of his mouth before he had a chance to run it through his filter. “Listen, fellas. Since I’m already here, I guess I ought to check licenses and your camp buck pole. You guys had any luck?”

  The men on the porch froze.

  Tavolacci said, “You’re not here legally. You’re trespassing.”

  “Your gate was open.”

  Tavolacci glared at one of the other men. “Joey.”

  “I was like, late. There wasn’t time to lock the chain, Sandy.”

  The elder Tavolacci declared, “You’da stay like I tole you and your brudders, we got none dis crap we got now. Goin’ home for pussy!” He spat again.

  The man called Joey defended himself. “I’m still a young man, Pop. My bride’s young, not like you old farts.”

  “Young ain’t ’nother word for stupido in Italiano.”

  “That’s not fair, Pop!”

  “What’sa fair, questo grande stronzo con il distintivo d’oro? Dis is my family, and all you I maka decides for.” The old man turned back to Sandy. “You tell you client go find somebody else wipa ’is ass.”

  “You don’t know what this is about, Dad.”

  “You deaf, boy? I don’t care none what. Pattinson and others, dese’re serious men with serious money. You don’t get rich with pussy feet.”

  “There are ethical concerns, Dad. Even in your day, there were. You know that.”

  The man glared. “Only et’ical concern ’ere is how dis hurt my family, all of you. All da rest is rain dat never toucha da groun.”

  Sandy Tavolacci looked over at Service. “Is this what you wanted?”

  Service fought back a smile. “Nope; this is pure bonus, Sandy. You might want to think hard on what your father’s advising you to do.”

  “Buckshow’s promising big bones for this.”

  “On what? He’s on a medical pension from the state, and his wife works for the county. You think they’ve got magic trust funds stashed in the Caymans?”

  Tavolacci said, “The big payday was his offer, not my demand.”

  “Big bones from what? The man’s a liar, a cheat, a thief, a wife-beater, a doper, a killer, maybe a pervert. You have absolutely no idea what the hell you are biting off, but I can tell you it’s gonna bite back.”

  “We should not be ta
lking about this,” the lawyer said. “This is not according to Doyle.”

  “It’s Hoyle, not Doyle, and those are rules for games. We’re talking hard reality, Sandy. Now show me your buck pole.”

  The group moved en masse. Service glanced at the truck. Limpy was no longer in the passenger seat, and as they got to the corner of the main camp building, the familiar voice said, “Dey gots some dandy horns back dere, Sonny. I coun’ eight on buck pole, t’ree more spikes hangin’ in black spruces farder back. Fee, five, fo, flum; I smell the real big stink all over dis one.”

  Allerdyce had somehow gotten out of the truck during the verbal fireworks and reconnoitered behind and beyond the camp.

  “Six hunters in camp,” Sandy Tavolacci said. “That number eleven is not an automatic wrong.”

  “Ain’t no tags on nuttin’,” Allerdyce whispered.

  “Ah,” Service said. “Life gets more interesting by the moment. Okay, counselor, let’s go see what you’ve got back there, and what kind of story you’ve got for me.”

  “We got tags, just ain’t put on da deers yet,” the patriarch announced from behind.

  Service looked back. “This isn’t a new requirement, sir. You have to tag it when you bag it. And if not, well, it’s either a tagging violation or an illegal deer.”

  “Who maka da decision, tag or illegal?” Tavolacci Senior asked.

  “That would be me, sir.”

  “Unfair,” one of the brothers said.

  “I hear that a lot, but only from those who never expected to see me.” Service looked over at Limpy. “Let’s see what all is here.”

  “Like spotlight over da camp window, blood on bait pile, dat kind stuff?”

  “Yessir, partner. Exactly like that.”

  “Got bait pile mebbe hundred yards; got shooter lanes, bait pile mebbe t’ree feets high, ten foot long. Seen th’ee blinds too; dey all got way over two gallon, eh.”

  Tavolacci washed his face with the heels of his hands and keened, “Jesus Christ. This won’t go away, will it? You know this is nothing but harassment.”

  “There’s always a backstory and a bigger picture, Sandy. Sometimes it’s hard for us to see it when we’re inside it.”

  Three hours later, the patrol truck left camp with all eleven deer, including a thick-necked ten-point. There were no tags, except for Sandy and his father, and both of them claimed they hadn’t shot anything. The other brothers hadn’t yet bothered to make purchases and planned to process the meat right in camp, so there was, to their way of thinking, no need to buy licenses. A quick RSS search showed the brothers had not bought licenses in five years. Yet there were skull mounts in the camp with the brother’s names and dates on them, all within the past five years. Service pointed out he could take all the mounts as well, but wouldn’t. Yet.