Chasing a Blond Moon(23)
“Where do I meet him, and when?”
“Tomorrow at two o’clock at the Sons of Italy Club in Soo, Ontario. That work for you?”
“Why Canada?”
“I don’t know the details and I don’t wanta.”
“Thanks, Ralph.”
“Remember what I said, the little schemer tries to shake you down.”
“Two o’clock.”
“Let me know how it goes.”
Service wrote down the man’s name and thought about Scaffidi’s voice. He had obviously put some pressure on this Sager guy. Pretty impressive for a retired CPA.
He bounded up the stairs, shedding clothes as he went.
“Good,” Nantz said from the darkened room. “I almost started without you.”
5
The Sons of Italy Club in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, sat on a narrow street in view of a small gray stone Catholic church. The row houses on the street were well maintained, but it was clear that more effort was needed every year to keep up with decay and age. Service stood outside in the warm sun and had a cigarette, inhaling slowly. Why Scaffidi had sent him here without explanation was strange at best, but he had made arrangements to meet Griff Stinson on the way home, so the day wouldn’t be a total write-off. There were only a half-dozen vehicles in the club’s newly paved parking lot.
Service went inside. It was dark, the lights low. He walked into the bar, which was long with dark paneling. The table layout was haphazard. The bar itself was a two-fister’s standup with no stools. The bartender was a woman with peroxided hair. She wore a red, white, and green vest stretched tight over a swollen bosom, and had a matching ribbon in her hair. She was stacking highball glasses and paid no attention to him. A couple of men sat at one of the tables arguing about Soo Greyhound hockey. One man sat alone in the corner, nursing a glass of wine and smoking a thin black cigar.
Service approached the man, who looked from his watch to the detective. “Service?” the man said. “I’m Shatun.”
“Sorry, sir, wrong person.”
“Sit,” the man said. “You’re looking for Vaughn Sager, right?
Service nodded. “Take a seat,” the man said.
“You’re Canadian?” Service asked.
“I lived in Chicago until I graduated high school. You know Chicago?”
“Not really.” Service noted that the man had no fingers on his left hand.
“Hog butcher for the world, the fog comes on little cat feet,” the man said, deadpan.
Service had no idea what he was talking about.
“I bore you with Sandburg,” the man said apologetically. “People say I’m a flake. I just like to keep them off balance, know what I’m sayin’?”
Service nodded. The man had one eye that stared off to the side and made it difficult to look at him. “You in the parts business?”
“You can say I got retired early. You want to hear about the paw?” he held up the fingerless stump.
“Not if you don’t want to talk about it.”
“Hey, people like this shit, especially women. Kunashir is an island in the Kurile Islands, north of Japland. It’s a dink of an island, maybe a hundred miles long, a place full of mountains and no more’n three hundred people and even more bears. The subspecies there is Ursus arctos yesoensis, the same animal that inhabits the Japanese far north of Hokkaido. This is one kooky bear, not like others, get me? It has a long, narrow head and a reddish collar. It hunts and kills people for sport, though this is popular bullshit and not science. Are you scientifically trained?”
“No. What’s this got to do with your hand?”
The man smiled. “Some people call me Shatun, do you know this word?”
“No.”
“It’s Russkie. In some parts of Siberia bears depend on certain mast crops—ya know, nuts and shit. If it’s a lousy harvest, the animals begin killing people. They move around until they kill and eat enough to get fat and only then do they hibernate. I think this is a real life illustration of Maslow’s theories. Shatun means wanderer, and these fuckin’ bears won’t stop until they’ve gotten what they want.”
Maslow? Service thought. “You’re a shatun?”
“Fucking-eh, right. I been around, see,” the man said. “It’s not exactly a complimentary handle, but we don’t get to pick what others call us.”
Service felt a lecture coming, and wondered what the hell the man could contribute.
Shatun/Sager signaled the bartender and held up two fingers on his right hand. She soon came with two glasses and a bottle of clear liquid, a plate of Italian bread, a bowl with olive oil to dip the bread, and a bowl of black olives. Her skirt was too short and Service saw that she had a nasty bruise by her left knee. Sager pushed a glass to Service and lifted his own. “Stoli,” he said. “The primo shit.” They touched glasses and drank. The man’s hit was much more substantial than Service’s.