Force of Blood

by Joseph Heywood

For two weeks, Friday, Shigun, and Service had lived in some semblance of normalcy, spending one week at Tuesday’s place and one week at Slippery Creek. Karylanne and Little Maridly had driven over from Houghton one Sunday and he had grilled hot dogs and they’d had s’mores over a campfire by the cabin. Shigun would be two in November, Maridly three the following month, but already she assumed the bossy role of older sister and fussed over the little boy, lecturing, and scolding him.

  This morning Friday had snuggled in close. “Can you believe some families live like this all the time?” she had whispered. “How long will you be gone this time?”

  “Sedge wants me to meet a retired assistant AG who’s gone over to the dark side, and I need to get down to Lansing to meet the illustrious Hectorio.”

  “The one Allerdyce told you about?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Your case seems to lack focus.”

  “Most of them are this way, and so far there’s no evidence of a crime.” He’d not told her about the USF&WS involvement in the background of the case. Maybe later.

  “How do you justify working it?”

  “I don’t bother. I just stay with it. You remember the old story about the worker who keeps leaving his clock factory at quitting time with an empty wheelbarrow, and security always let him pass?”

  “He was stealing wheelbarrows,” she said.

  “Right, and somewhere, somehow, someone in this case is stealing wheelbarrows.”

  “Says your gut, not the evidence.”

  “My gut’s good enough for me at this point.”

  “Well, don’t go getting your big butt shot or anything stupid,” she whispered.

  “Not to worry.”

  “We women are wired to worry about our men, you insensitive lummox.”

  “Worry about things that need worrying about,” he countered.

  “I do.”

  • • •

  He met Sedge in the parking lot of the Soo Troop post near I-75. Sedge looked different, but he couldn’t figure what exactly had changed. If anything.

  “I will never understand how and why people will risk life and limb for damn fish,” she said disgustedly. “Four crews yesterday, all jerks—fifteen tickets and I took all their damn gear. Boy, you should have heard them bitch!”

  “There’s no logic to greed,” he said. “Your AG pal expecting us?”

  “Former AG, and no. He’s at the Kewadin, and I thought we’d just pop in on him. He moved to Ottawa, Headquarters for the First Nations Archaeological Society.”

  “He’s Canadian?”

  “Dual card. Born here, raised there, came over here for college, law school at Wayne State, prosecutor in Wayne and Oakland counties, then assistant AG with the State. Now he’s back in Canada.”

  “He got a name?”

  “Elvis Y. Shields.”

  “What do you hope to get from him?”

  “An explanation? I educated the man, and he used what I taught him to get a new job.”

  “You know that, or speculate that’s how it went?”

  “It feels that way. I just want to hear what he has to say.”

  The Kewadin hotel conference center casino was on Shunk Street, not far from the St. Mary’s River and the ferry to Sugar Island. The French, who showed up at what the Indians called Bawating in the early seventeenth century, saw that it was the strategic entrance to Lake Superior, settled in, and named the area Sault Ste. Marie. The area had retained strategic importance and the name ever since.

  “Why’s Shields here now?”

  “Personal trip to gamble. He owns a camp on Raber Bay.”

  Raber was south of the Soo, about halfway toward Drummond Island and Detour. “Who told you he was here?”

  “The handyman who looks after his camp.”

  He was impressed at her network. “What’s my role here?”

  “Ears and eyes.”

  “I can do that.”

  “He’ll be playing blackjack,” she said, leading them inside.

  “Per your handyman?”

  “A dealer I know.”

  She’s young but understands the importance of multiple irons in the fire.

  As predicted, they found Elvis Y. Shields hunched over a blackjack table. Sedge left him alone until a hand was played out and he raked in a substantial pile of chips. Service thought the man looked unhappy to be disturbed, which was understandable, but he picked up his chips and walked with her into a plush corridor.

  “Elvis Shields, meet Grady Service.”

  The man’s eyebrows shot up. “The governor’s big dog,” he said, and looked at Sedge. “What do you want?”

  “To ask some questions.”

  “Make an appointment.”

  “I tried.”

  “I’m a busy man.”

  “Not too busy for this two-bit casino. You wasted all my time,” she added sharply.

  Shields looked at Service. “Hey, Big Dog, explain to the little girl how life works,” the man said.

  Service said, “How about I smack a blunt instrument up the side of your greasy fucking head?”

  Shields recoiled. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Not at all. Apologize to Officer Sedge, or I’m going to knock your fucking head off. That’s a promise, asshole.”

  Shields said unconvincingly to Sedge, “Sorry.”

  “Why?” Sedge asked. “I want an explanation.”

  The lawyer shrugged. “An unexpected career opportunity arose. I had enough time in, I pulled the plug and moved on, end of story. Someday you’ll do the same thing.”

  Sedge said, “I was counting on you to help me move my case along. I invested in you.”

  “You have no case,” Shields said. “And Katsu’s a bloody felon. You ought to take a closer look at that.”

  “No case?”

  “The state archaeologist says your site was not one for burials, and thus NAGPRA doesn’t apply. Professor Toliver can dig. If you were to come up with human remains—something solid, anything—you might be able to develop a lukewarm case.”

  “What’s the First Nations Archaeological Society?” Service asked, intervening.

  “Just what the name implies.”

  “It implies nothing.”

  “Maybe to the uninformed.”

  Asshole. “You own property on Raber Bay?” Service asked.

  “Is there a point to this inquisition?”

  “It’s implied,” Service said. “ ’Course, I know all your taxes are paid, right, and everything is according to Hoyle?”

  “Don’t even,” Shields said. “You might be the big dog out in the cedar swamps, but in a courtroom against me, you’d be dog food.”

  Service felt Sedge pinch his hip and pull him, and let himself be led away.

  “How’d I do?” he asked.

  “I don’t think he was impressed,” she said.

  “He heard me,” Service said. “Loud and clear.”

  “Why didn’t I?”

  “You just haven’t sorted it out yet. I just let that bastard know we’re going to put him under the microscope.”

  “You said that?”

  “It was implied.”

  She shook her head. “I suppose I should call his caretaker, check out the property.”

  “That’s good. I’m heading down to Lansing for a tête-à-tête with the infamous Hectorio.”

  Sedge stared at him. “Who?”

  “Allerdyce says Hectorio trades errorheads and he’s looking for copper.”

  “Limpy Allerdyce, the old scumbag who shot your ass?”

  “The one and only. And it was my leg.”

  “Too much information,” she said. “I’m heading for Raber Bay.”

  “Later,” he said to her back.

  20

  North Lansing, Ingham County

  MONDAY, MAY 28, 2007

  Just last year he had bumped into Limpy Allerdyce’s former daughter-in-law and sworn enemy, Honeypat, once t
hought dead; instead, she seemed to be prospering as a high-end madam in the Lansing poon-trade, servicing politicians and bureaucrats in addition to regular citizens. Honeypat was one of the sexiest, craziest women he had ever met, and for years before disappearing, she had tried relentlessly to get him into bed with her. Ironically, she had been a big help on a case, and afterwards he had gotten a handwritten business card in an envelope in his mailbox. All it had was a phone number, but he was pretty sure it was from Honeypat—her way of letting let him know he could get in touch with her if he wanted to. Given her concern for personal security, it was a huge concession to allow him such access.

  He called the number from St. Johns on his way south.

  “Leave your name, number, and a short message,” a recording said. Not her voice.

  “This is Service.”

  He heard an immediate click. “Talk about unexpected,” she said. “Where youse at?”

  “Headed into Lansing.”

  She growled like a starving cat. “Where youse staying?”

  “Haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”

  “You want a room, I can help youse.”

  “I’m more interested in information.”

  “A room’s free, and so am I. But information, she costs, eh?”

  “How much?” he asked.

  “You know.”

  “Never gonna happen, Honeypat.”

  “You say,” she said. “What is it you want?”

  “Hectorio.”

  A long pause ensued. “What about that one?”

  That one? “You know him?”

  “Self-declared jefe of the North Lansing barrio. Me and him, we got this understanding. You don’t got, he runs you out. Or worse.”

  “I heard he collects arrowheads and Indian relics.”

  “Can’t say I heard that, but wun’t surprise me none. Some say he’s part Indi’n, Chocktaw or Comanch, or something, and real proud of it. What’s your interest?”

  “Mainly I’d like to talk to him. Where’s he hang?”

  “Mictlantecuhtli, a café on ML King and Shiawassee. You can’t miss it. Got colored skeletons all over the front of the building.”

  “Sounds appetizing.”

  “Food’s good and cheap, but Mictlantecuhtli is the god of the dead, and that fits Hectorio.”

  “Bad dude?”

  “The baddest of the bad, hands down.”

  “Worse than Limpy?”

  “Don’t go there.”

  “You know Hectorio well?”

  “Enough.”

  “I’d like to meet him.”

  “That will cost you,” she said.

  “How much?” he asked, guessing the answer.

  “Yo, like youse already know. The cost is me.”

  “Too high,” he said.

  “Your loss,” she said.

  “So how do I find Hectorio?” he asked, persisting.

  “Let me get you a room; I can set it up. He don’t like movin’ around in public, and he don’t much like gringos.”

  “It was Limpy who told me to talk to the man.”

  “Shit,” she said. “And you called me?”

  “Hey, I’m not too proud to ask for help.”

  “There’s a motel in Holt called Carolo’s. Right off I-96, can’t miss it. Go there. A room will be waitin’ in your name.”

  “This going to happen tonight?” he asked.

  “Somepin’ will,” she said, “but my crystal ball’s kinda hard to see into.”

  “Thanks, Honeypat.”

  “I ain’t done nuttin’ yet.”

  “Thanks for nothing then.”

  She laughed out loud. “Youse always make me laugh, Service. And, I get hot when I laugh.”

  “Well,” he said, “let’s dial it over to sad.”

  She laughed even harder. “It don’t work that way.”

  “Carolo’s in Holt, off I-96.”

  “Youse in uniform?”

  “No.”

  “Keep it that way.”

  • • •

  Carolo’s in a former life was called the Albert Pick. It was two stories, and clean. The night manager was a Latino woman who avoided eye contact. Service gave his name. The woman glanced up and handed him a key to Room 214 without saying a word. Not a plastic, electronic, programmable key, but a metal one, like the old days. And bent and scratched, showing its age.

  The room had faded from once-bright colors. The furniture was cheap, the carpet a fibrous scab over a tile floor. A small TV sat on a high stand on the wall. He sat down in a chair and faced it toward the door to await whatever would happen next. He hoped Honeypat would not show up. He had been fending her off for years and it was tiring, because the truth was that he had sometimes been tempted. Even thinking this, he felt guilty because of Friday. Honeypat’s like Typhoid Mary!

  There was a noise in the hall, but a door to the adjoining room opened suddenly and a tall, handsome Hispanic man stepped in and stared at him. “Que onda. You him?”

  “I’m Service.” He thought he could see the man’s Indian blood.

  “What you want?”

  “You Hectorio?”

  “I look like Hectorio?”

  “I’ve never met the man, so I’ve got no idea what he looks like.”

  “Bueno. Think of me as Hectorio if that make it easier for you, hombre. Me, I like ambigoolity. What it is you want? I don’t have all night.”

  “Native American artifacts.”

  “What about them?”

  “You buy and sell.”

  “You buyin’ or sellin’?”

  “Inquiring, looking for help.”

  “Who told you this thing?”

  “A mutual acquaintance.”

  “Why a fish placa interested in that stuff?”

  “Call it a sideline.” Honeypat must have told the man he was DNR law enforcement.

  “Maybe I do it as service to my people.”

  “What kind of service?”

  “You know, man. Buy tings, return them where they belong.”

  “Like Robin Hood of the antiquities business.”

  “You might not be too far off, hombre.”

  “I’m trying to determine if there’s been a theft.”

  “Of what, from where?”

  “Can’t share that. You understand.”

  Hectorio smiled. “I’m cool. What you do if there’s theft?”

  “Catch the bad guy, and return the items to their rightful owners after the courts are done with them.”

  “Word’s around you straight-up dude, no bullshit.”

  “Makes things easier,” Service said.

  “Where this stuff is, you want?”

  “Above the bridge.”

  “Port Huron?”

  “Mackinac.”

  “Shinob turf.”

  “Some of it,” Service said.

  “All of it till you whites stole it.”

  “Paid for it.”

  “Paid little dirt for a lot of dirt.”

  “I’m not interested in renegotiating history,” Service said. Or reinterpreting it.

  “Ain’t neither. You talkin’ jes Shinob shit?”

  “Probably.”

  “Low-ticket, man.”

  “I believe there are exceptions.”

  “Could be,” Hectorio allowed. “Like what?”

  “Copper points, carved-bone breakheads.”

  Hectorio looked interested, sort of leaned in. “Shinob war clubs?”

  “Maybe Iroquois.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “Somebody break into a cache?”

  “Could be.”

  “Mucho feria, hombre.”

  A lot of money? “How much is a lot?”

  “Carved-bone Iroquois war club, up to a hundred K, maybe.”

  “That sounds way high.”

  “Supply and demand, dude.”

  “You buy direct?”

  The man cocked his head. “You a fucking fed
or what, man?”

  “State, and we’re not interested in you.”

  Hectorio grinned. “You lie, you die.”

  “Understood. You buy direct?”

  “I walk the middle, esse, hand between buy and sell, comprende?”

  “You seen anything like I described?”

  “Could be somebody heard about some shit, but a lot of bullshit gets buried in the ground, sayin’?”

  “You know of anybody who’s put out a call for such things?”

  Hectorio shrugged nonchalantly. “I might.”

  “Care to share?”

  “I look stupid? What in this for Hectorio?”

  “Don’t know yet. You thinking stipend?”

  “Fuck is stripend, man?”

  Service rubbed his thumb against his forefinger.

  “Si, bueno. I think stripend. How much that stripend is?”

  “Depends.”

  “Like on what?”

  “Where a name takes me, who it is, like that.”

  “I lose a good buy, I need big stripend. Businessman, he, like, got espenses to take care of.”

  “Could be it would make you a hero.”

  Hectorio snarled and leered. “Dude, Hectorio already a hero. You can’t spend no fucking hero.”

  “Big-time public hero.”

  The man seemed to consider this. “No man, big stripend enough. How I get to you, I get a name? You skank puta?”

  Service handed him a business card.

  The man grinned, showing a flashy gold tooth in front. “Mr. Dicktecative.”

  “Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

  “We’ll see, man. You call me, say how much this stripend, okay?”

  “No need to call. How’s twenty-five K strike you?”

  “I get four times that.”

  “You got nothing to sell.

  “What if you dirty, want make deal, cut me out?”

  “I lie, I die, right?”

  Hectorio nodded, tapped the business card against his gold Rolex. “Maybe I call you, esse. Twenty-five large, si? Old bills, no new cash, no check shit.”

  “Old bills, however you want it.”

  “Adios, fish cop. You call me, ax for Aitch,” the man said, and was gone.

  Honeypat stood in the doorway where Hectorio had been.

  “You want it rough and dirty, or sweet and soft?”

  “Neither,” he said. “As in none.”

  “Thank God,” she said.

  He stared at her. “What?”

  “I’m not Honeypat, you cretin. I’m Honeypet, her twin sister.”