“You remember that night on the back porch steps?”
Nantz laughed lustfully. “Every minute of it, and I’m glad we can count in minutes and not seconds!”
“She was out there, watching us.”
“She told you this?”
“Wondered if you’d be interested in a threesome.”
Nantz laughed gleefully. “She’s a piece of work. What did you say?”
“I said I’d ask you.”
She laughed again. “Liar.”
“Right,” he said.
“She wanted to jump your bones.”
“Said she’d give it up.”
Nantz said, “Shuttt uppp. I would too.”
“She’s on the run from Limpy.”
“Is she safe?”
“Day to day, probably. Long term, who knows? Allerdyce usually finds a way to get what he wants.”
“Would he hurt her?”
“First, then drag her back.”
“She’s playing a dangerous game,” Nantz said. “Can you help her?”
“There’s not much I can do.”
“I’ll be home late Friday night,” she said. “I have to drop Lori in TC, and pop up to Esky.”
“That will be a good thing,” he said.
“No, baby,” she said with a laugh. “It will be a great thing.”
Service lay awake for a long time. Dealing with Allerdyce was like a chess game that sometimes resembled short-bus checkers and other times Kasparov against Big Blue. The key to dealing with Allerdyce was to understand that he orchestrated everything and to believe nothing. Limpy had only one motivation: himself. Aldo wants in the DNR so Limpy tells the DNR his grandson is gay. Then Honeypat shows up and says Limpy is lying and trying to undercut the kid. Was it this simple? Somehow, he doubted it. Maybe Honeypat was on the level, maybe not. One night soon, he’d do a little recon, see for himself.
22
The phone rang at 4 a.m. and Service fumbled to find the receiver.
“Service, Ficorelli. How’s it goin’?”
“I’m in bed.”
“Not alone, I hope. I’ve been up all night. Your boy Charley Fahrenheit has never been busted by Fish and Game, but he hangs with a crowd my guys know well. Les Reynolds is the warden up that way. Bituva Boy Scout–tightass for me, but he gets the job done, and he’s gotta hot old lady. How come the hot ones always hook up with the duds? I’ll never figure that out.”
“Fahrenheit,” Service said, sitting up in bed and trying to get Wayno to refocus.
“A guy named Colliver’s the leader of the crowd old Charley-boy hangs with. Colliver’s been busted more than I’ve been laid. Les hasn’t been able to get Fahrenheit, but he says Charley is part of the show.”
“What kind of busts on Colliver?”
“Deer out of season, several trapping violations, felony theft of public timber, failure to register vehicles, trafficking bear parts.”
“Did you say bear parts?”
“Les got him last fall on a deer case, three does out of season. He got a warrant and found bear parts at Colliver’s camp—in a freezer. Les believes Colliver brings a bunch of Croatians from Chicago up to Iron County in the U.P. every year. They come up for three days each time and head home as soon as they have thirty carcasses in their freezer truck. They sell the meat around Chicago. The Illinois people are looking at it from their end. Colliver calls these weekends 3–30s and the Croats pay him big for putting them on animals. The Croatians always bring some hookers along for entertainment.”
“Bear parts,” Service said again.
“I’m gettin’ there. Just trying to paint you a picture. Colliver’s bear was tagged. He had a skin on the wall, minus paws. And there were paws in the freezer. Les wanted a DNA comparison done on the rug versus the paws, but our management didn’t want to spend the money. He had the three deer and that was enough. I talked to Les last night and he wants Colliver bad for his 3–30s. Said if you come over, the three of us can shake the trees.”
“I’m not necessarily interested in Colliver. Just Fahrenheit.” Although the information about bear parts might alter that.
“Les don’t give shit-one about Charley-boy. You want, you and I can pay Fahrenheit a visit.”
“When?”
“If not now, when? Am I right?”
Service thought for a moment.
Ficorelli said, “I can head up there this afternoon, poke around, check shit out. We can meet at the Hoar House in Marinette tomorrow—7 a.m. okay?”
“You want to meet at a whore house?”
“Chill, man. This is H-O-A-R: Hamburger, Oprah, Asshole, Rambo. It’s a bar and restaurant owned by Frosty Gimble, one of our retired wardens. He’s not a tightass like Les and he keeps his ear tuned.”