Red Jacket (31 page)

84

Champion, Marquette County

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 22, 1913

The DSS&A train made the long, slow climb past Negaunee and Ishpeming, culminating in the long Superior Grade to Champion, where Bapcat saw two loggers get off the train and no passengers get on.

Zakov stepped outside and came back to report a wagonload of wooden boxes being loaded into the baggage car. “Caskets, it would appear,” the Russian said, sitting down.

“How many?”

“I didn't make a precise count. Ten or twelve. What does it matter?”

“I don't know, but the Champion mine closed three years ago, and there aren't many people living around here anymore, so it seems odd to think of that many people dying suddenly.”

Typhoid sometimes devastated mining communities, and TB was always lurking, as Big Louie's untimely death had proven. Even something called “fall influenza” sometimes swept through a town. But he had heard nothing of any outbreaks, and there had been no mention in the Soo papers. Such an outbreak was always covered by the news, because it could spread fast by ship or rail.

“Could be disease,” the Russian suggested. “An epidemic.”

Bapcat shrugged. “We would have heard.” He put his head back and tried to sleep.

Zakov woke him, caught him in a groggy state.

“Where are we?”

“Chassell, taking on passengers. There are twelve boxes.”

“You went back there?”

“The baggage man is Davidov, alleged son of aristocratic Russians. The boxes are labeled ‘Ore Samples.' ”

Bapcat rubbed his eyes and saw they were stopped again. “Ore ain't our business.”

“Perhaps. But why not humor me? Let us visit
Gospodin
Davidov.”

The train lurched out of Chassell moving north as they made their way through swaying passenger carriages, having difficulty maintaining their balance until they went into the fifth car in line, the one just ahead of the caboose. It was decorated outside with white ribbons. Zakov had pointed this out in Marquette, explaining that railroad men always marked the deaths of other railroaders with white ribbons on cabooses, a practice he had no explanation for.

Mines blow horns, trains decorate their cabooses, soldiers lower flags to half-mast. Why is it the start of life gets so little public celebration, only death
?
Perhaps finishing school would help me to understand
.
Do the decorations relate to the coffins? And if so, why do the boxes indicate they have ore in them?

Bapcat saw that the boxes were made of Norway pine, a poor choice for weight-bearing storage containers. They were stacked in four rows of three. Zakov introduced Davidov, who claimed Russian descent, but had been born and raised in America, spoke with no accent, and evinced little interest in Zakov's proclaimed genuine Russianness.

Zakov held out a plug of Spear Head and Davidov pinched off a jot and put it between his front lip and lower gum. “
Spasibo
.”

Zakov and Davidov made small talk, and Bapcat thought about going back to his seat, but his partner clearly wanted him to see something, so he began to look around, careful to move his eyes more than his head so as not to be too obvious. Along the seam of a wooden box he saw hair, grayish-red, tinged with white, and he made eye contact with Zakov, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Mr. Davidov, do you know the people who shipped these boxes?” Bapcat asked.
Each box tag says the weight is one thousand, five hundred pounds
.
It took eight of us to carry Louis Moilanen's coffin, which weighed seven hundred pounds at most, and we had a helluva time with it
.

“Not personally. They belong to a company called Nesmith in Houghton.”

“Regular shipments?”

“First one I seen.”

“Ore, right?”

“That's what the bills of lading declare.”

“Does the railroad unload them?”

“No, Nesmith's people meet the train in Houghton.”

“Are there Nesmith people in Champion, too?”

“I suppose so, but it was our depot men who put this load on board.”

“So the traffic is one way, Champion to Houghton?”

“How many men does it take to load these?” Zakov interrupted.

“Three,” the trainman said. “Now, why are you fellows asking all these questions?”

Three men to move fifteen hundred pounds? No chance.

“Occupational curiosity,” Zakov said.

The conductor said, “I've heard it said such a thing causes poor health in cats.”

“Not to worry,” Zakov said brightly. “We are people, not feline misanthropes.”

The game wardens went into the nearest passenger car. It was practically empty. “Deer hair?” Bapcat asked.

Zakov reached into a pocket and pulled out tufts of hair. “In the box seams, just as you saw. Further, the boxes are extremely cold. I felt them. Iced, I'm guessing.”

“Ore doesn't need cooling,” Bapcat said.

“You Americans have peculiar habits and customs. Do you wish to challenge the shipment and Mr. Davidov now, or when it is picked up in Houghton?”

“I doubt we can get a search warrant that fast. Let's follow the boxes, see where they take us.”

“It would be a small tragedy if a full box fell from the train and spilled its contents.”

“I don't mind pushing rules,” Bapcat admitted, “but it's a federal crime to disturb US Mail, and I don't know if a railroad shipment qualifies as US Mail.”
Yet another example of my own ignorance—another reason to go back to school
.
Why are we even bothering with this?

“All of this insistence on following the law seems to me to sometimes get
in the way
of enforcing the law. In Russia we open mail if that is what is needed. The czar's orders support such direct intervention. Power is what makes the police effective, not fair play and frivolous legal requirements.”

85

Houghton

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 22, 1913

Three men wearing gray overalls came to the station with a tall wagon and four hulking mules.

“That should bear the load,” Zakov said with grudging admiration. “But it now seems far too much wagon for too little weight.”

Three men to load, three to unload
. “You don't use Norway pine on heavily loaded boxes,” Bapcat said, thinking the same thing. “This is for show.” It was the contradiction between wood type and weight that made him look more closely at the boxes in the baggage car. They had gotten off the train, taken their gear, and set up to watch the baggage operation.

“For whose benefit?”

A sign on the side of the wagon read
nesmith victuals—wholesale restaurant supplies for all upper michigan
.

A victualer receiving ore boxes? Even more suspicious.

The three men transferred the dozen boxes with a minimum of strain and effort.

“Fifteen-hundred-pound boxes moved so easily?” Zakov said. “Eighteen thousand pounds in a quarter-hour? This strains all credulity.”

“Shippers pay by weight, right?” Bapcat asked.

“In Russia,
da
. One might assume the freight men who loaded the boxes in Champion would question discrepancies in weight between the manifest and reality,” Zakov said. “Is this the sort of thing working men would ignore?”

“I wouldn't,” Bapcat said.

The Nesmith Company was downhill, a warehouse along the canal.

“Do we go inside and ask questions?” Zakov asked.

“No. We also can't sit here and wait forever. That's deer hair for sure.”

“Perhaps you should call our young friend George and ask him to fetch some chums to help?”

Bapcat laughed. “Now
that's
a fair idea.”

“Merely
fair?
”

Bapcat's mind, since Seney, had been turned to Canady yews, and the pine boxes felt almost like an unwanted diversion. It was difficult to sort out his feelings or make any sort of reasonable evaluation of priority. It made him feel like he was grasping at straws, and the feeling bothered him. Finding yews meant finding deer feed and presumably finding deer, which meant perhaps finding mine personnel in the process of killing the animals. He was having difficulty shaking the thought as they sat on the warehouse site.

He left Zakov watching the warehouse and walked up to Shelden Avenue and over to the impressive pink sandstone Masonic Building, found the Barber's office address on the marquee in the lobby, and walked up to the second floor to borrow his telephone.

The door was black wood with a smoky glass top half and the inscription
labisoniere, md, county physician,
painted in gold capital letters. Bapcat knocked, got no answer, and tried the handle. The door was open.

Expecting to find a receptionist inside, he was surprised to see only piles of wooden boxes in a small room off the entrance, with narrow openings between the piles. The Barber stood off to one side, arms crossed, chin in hand, a pained look on his small face.

“Doctor?”

Labisoniere looked at him, puzzled.

“Bapcat, sir. Use your telephone?”

“Right, yes—yes, of course,” the Barber said, waving permission.

Bapcat called Copper Lode Taxi and talked to owner Bucky Root.

“Buck, Lute Bapcat. Is George working today?”

“Ain't here no more. Sonuvagun quit for a construction job down to Hancock. Too bad; he was a good kid.”

Damn.
“Know how I can reach him?”

“Mike McGinn's Masonry. I don't got the number.”

Bapcat thanked Root and asked the doctor for a telephone book. He found the number for McGinn's and called it.

“McGinn himself speaking, and who'd be callin'?”

Bapcat suppressed a laugh. Irish arrogance. “Deputy Warden Bapcat, State Game, Fish and Forestry.”

McGinn grunted. “Bloody game warden. I ain't even been out in the bloody woods this year. No time, when I'm tryin' to make a living during this infernal strike.”

“I'm calling about an employee of yours.”

“Who might that be?”

“George Gipp.”

“Ah, the whelp himself.
Former
ly
employed. Seems he decided masonry's not his cuppa. 'Course, might be McGinn himself he decided against. Wouldn't be the first cub to lack what it takes to stand up to the boss.”

“Any idea where he is now?”

“I hire 'em and fire 'em—I'm not their bloody da, but was me, I'd try Canal Snooker Parlor over to the Houghton side.”

Bapcat tried to find a telephone number for Canal Snooker, but couldn't.

“Labor-saving device,” the Barber said sarcastically. “American named Bell claims he invented the infernal things, but I know it was some Italian, which just makes sense, them all filled with the need for endless gab. How've ya been?”

“You know, this and that.”

Labisoniere grinned. “Amen. Same here.”

Boxes
. “Have you heard any recent talk of accidents or disease killing a lot of people in a short period of time?”

“Nah, all solos, and I'd know if something was brewing. Why?”

“Part of a puzzle. I'm just trying to find pieces that fit.”

“Something we share professionally,” the doctor said. “I sometimes think the only reason I became a doctor is because of the puzzle-solving required.”

“Canal Snooker Parlor?” Bapcat asked.

“Bit outside my sphere of interests. It sits west two blocks, and up the hill a block.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Anytime, my boy.”

The Canal Snooker Parlor was on a corner, and as Bapcat walked in George Gipp was on his way out, followed closely by three very unhappy-looking men.

“George,” Bapcat greeted him.

Gipp grabbed his arm and pulled him through the door to the street and pointed him downhill. “Got any tobacco?”

“Sure.”

“Let's talk down on Shelden,” Gipp said, looking over his shoulder.

Bapcat saw that the men had terminated pursuit. “Problem with those fellas back there?”

“I took sixty bucks off them. They're the ones with the problem. Thought
they
were hustling
me,
and they were a bit surprised at the reversal.”

“Locals?”

“Never seen 'em before.”

“Your chums still around?”

“Nah. Dolly's beat it back to college down to South Bend. The rest are practicing for hockey season.”

“You play?”

“Great game, but I don't much like practices. The games help keep me in shape for baseball, assuming we'll have a spring.”

“Zakov and I need some help.”

“Does it pay?”

“Not much.”

“You fellas been good to me. What do you need?”

Bapcat gave Gipp the tobacco plug and led him down Shelden Avenue, where they cut downhill to the canal. Across from the warehouse it looked like Zakov hadn't moved.

“Anything happening?” Bapcat asked him.

“Two men went inside. They're still in there.”

Minutes later two laughing men came out. Both wore long, dark overcoats.

Gipp said, “Tall fella on the right is Chunk Raber, one of Cruse's deputies. The smaller gent is a Waddie, but I don't know his name. I gave him several rides up in Red Jacket a few weeks back.”

“What do you know about Nesmith Victuals?” Bapcat asked.

Gipp shrugged. “Wasn't even here till this past spring, which was when I noticed them.”

The game wardens looked at each other. “Perhaps we should pay a visit to this establishment and ask what they might do for our restaurant in Dollar Bay,” Zakov said.

“What if they want to call for verification?”

“We are in the process of getting financing and will not open until next month.”

“You two have a restaurant?” asked Gipp.

“Hush, George,” Bapcat said. “We'll wait for you,” he told the Russian, who walked down to the building and went inside.

Thirty minutes later Zakov returned. “For enough money, our new friends can supply—with no problem—all the fresh venison we need to sate the palates of paying customers.”

“Did you ask about legality?”

“Of course. The man said brazenly, ‘I presume your restaurant is designed to turn a profit, as is my business. The law is a matter of shades, not black or white, and in any event, there is so much confusion and lawlessness up north, there aren't enough lawmen to enforce trifling laws.' My newfound friend also informed me the word is out that the deer laws won't be enforced by game wardens this year.”

“What prompts him to sell deer?”

“Because, dear wife, there are, according to said proprietor, no deer available. Someone has been killing them in droves to make them unavailable, and therefore pushing demand up as winter arrives.”

“Where does he get his venison?”

“A great trade secret,” the Russian said, putting his forefinger on his lips and adding
Shhh.
“But we might guess it is Marquette County.”

Bapcat: “What about his visitors?”

“What visitors? He claims I am the first person on said premises today.”

Bapcat looked at Gipp. “You know Raber, George?”

“Blowhard and a bully.”

“Cruse will be of no help in our endeavors,” Zakov said.

“What can I do?” Gipp asked.

“Nothing for now,” Bapcat replied. “The deputy's involvement alters things—that, and the fact the businessman is denying anyone's been there. I'm sorry, George, I guess there's nothing for you here, after all.”

“You fellas headed home?”

“We are.”

“Mind if I tag along as far as Laurium?”

“We are always happy for your company,” the Russian said, clapping Gipp on his broad shoulders.