Chasing a Blond Moon(96)
Hoar House was on a block filled with several taverns, most of them sprouting Green Bay Packer memorabilia. The bar faced a channel in the Menominee River, barely qualifying it for a view, despite a red-letter claim in the window.
Service walked inside slowly, feeling cool autumn air cut through the slice in his pants. He was met by an old man in a pressed white apron and starched white jeans. “Do you just look like shit?” the man asked.
Service followed the man to a table near an electronic dartboard. The old man brought a pitcher of coffee and filled Service’s cup. “You’re the one Wayno’s meeting.”
Service nodded. “How did you know?”
“You got the look. I hope you got in a few good licks,” he added with a sly grin. “You want to order now?”
He shook his head, checked the wall clock. He was ten minutes early. “Have you got a needle and thread?”
“Coming right up.”
Service sewed clumsily, mending the hole in his pants while he waited. His run of luck had to change soon. It always had before.
Wayno Ficorelli arrived on time, marching into the bar with his hair combed, uniform neat and pressed, boots shined. “You meet Frosty?” the Wisconsin warden asked.
The man in the apron saluted with two fingers. “Frosty would be me,” he said.
“Grady.”
Ficorelli asked the proprietor to join them, and told Service, “I had a great night.”
“Good for you,” Service grumbled.
“Fahrenheit’s old lady is named Mary Ellen and she’s filed for a divorce. She hates Colliver, says Charley-boy will do anything for the man and she’s sick of it. Told me she hasn’t done the deed with Charley-boy in over a year. Can you believe that?”
Service looked at Ficorelli. “I suppose you helped rectify the deficiency.”
“You could say we stroked each other’s—”
“Spare us the details,” Frosty said.
“Hey, sex is natural, like takin’ a shit.”
“We don’t want those details either,” Service said.
“You sure?”
Service rolled his eyes.
“We’re sure,” Frosty said.
“Okay, Charley-boy shot the bear on Colliver’s camp wall. In fact, Charley-boy’s shot six bears in the past two years. Mary Ellen says he and Colliver take the gallbladders and the paws and sell the carcasses down to Milwaukee. They hunt the U.P. in Iron and Gogebic Counties. They bring the bears back in coffins to Wisconsin, in a hearse, put a magnetic funeral flag on the fender to make it look legit, the whole deal. Never been stopped. They burn the carcasses. Colliver handles the transportation, Charley does the shooting. Colliver calls him Bear Boy. Last June they went up to Iron County to scout, and ran up against another hunter named Kitella. He beat the hell out of both of them, took their hearse, took them over the state line, and dropped them naked as jaybirds. Colliver got pissed, wanted to fight back. Charley didn’t, but he does what Colliver wants, so they went back up to Michigan intending to mess up this guy Kitella’s place. They never made it. Some old fucker stopped them in the woods, pointed a shotgun at Colliver. Turns out he doesn’t like Kitella either, so he offers to help. Mary Ellen says Charley stole cable from a factory for this old man.”
Service was suddenly interested. All sorts of intersections seemed possible.
“This old guy got a name?”
“Charley never told Mary Ellen.”
“What about a description?”
“Vague. An old man, tough as moosehide.”
Which could describe thousands of U.P. residents, including Limpy and Trapper Jet.
“Mary Ellen blames Colliver for Charley losing his job. She confronted Colliver on this and he got Charley a lawyer. Now the lawyer says the case looks like a loser and Charley’s pissed and Mary Ellen says if Charley will turn in Colliver, she’ll drop the divorce.”
“She make that declaration while you were porking her?” Frosty asked.
Ficorelli blinked a couple of times. “Sure. What’s the name of that Frenchman, wrote if you’d talk to a woman till 4 a.m. you’d get into her pants every time?”
“Marcel Marceau,” Service said.
Ficorelli frowned. “I’m serious. People get in bed, they run off at the mouth.”
“They teach this as an interview technique in Michigan?” Frosty asked.
“No,” Service said.
“Wisconsin, neither. We just got us a horny little wop.”
Ficorelli took umbrage. “Right, put me down, but it works. I’m being serious here.”
“Where’s Mrs. Fahrenheit now?”
“I left her at the Muskie Motel on US Forty-One. She’s gonna head over to her house in Harmony. She talked to Charley last night, told him she wants a meet. That’s at noon. I figured we’d get there an hour before, stash the vehicle, and greet Charley-boy when he arrives.”