Red Jacket (39 page)

107

Bumbletown Hill

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 19, 1913

On Wednesday, Zakov had caught a man with a headless deer near Hill Creek west of Ahmeek, but after a long talk, he had decided the man had only been hungry and wanted the meat—that, finding it headless, he had decided to capitalize on his luck. The Russian was elated when he came back to the hill and reported his experience to Bapcat. “The bonus-givers did not think through their strategy. Winter is preserving the meat. The hungry don't care about heads.”

“So?”

“If there is a hole in their logic in one place, there will be more. This is an axiom of military intelligence.”

Bapcat smiled.
Finally, a small break for miners and their families; more to the point, maybe one for us.

This morning Judah Capicelli reported on the movement of Reverend Philamon and brother Madog Hedyn. “Both men go to their work and come straight home when they're done,” Capicelli said. “Both have some visitors at their houses in the night, but never late.”

“What sorts of visitors?”

The man shrugged. “Without someone inside, no way to know. And in winter everyone dress pretty much the same.”

“Ask your brothers to jot down descriptions as best they can, especially if they notice anything different.”

“What does this mean, different?”

“Tell me about what you saw this week. You said lots of visitors at night.”

“Yes, every night.”

“Groups, or single visitors?”

Capicelli took off his chook and rubbed his matted hair. “Usually two or more; only one time, just one man alone.”

“That's what I mean by different. Tell me about the man who came alone.”

“He carried a rifle.”

“What kind?”

The man squinted. “Like yours.”

“You're sure?”

“No mistake. Not so many rifles like that.”

Frankus Fish.
“Good job. How long was he there?”

“Minutes.”

“He left alone?”

“With a box.”

“What kind of box?”

“Hedyn stepped onto the porch with him and gave him the box.”

“You saw this?”

“Yes, but it doesn't mean he did not arrive with it.”

Nor that he did. “See you next week.”

“You got tracks down here in the woods,” Capicelli said.

“Yours?”

“Not mine. Two men, one heavy, with big feet, and one small one.”

“Show me.”

Capicelli took him to the tracks. “They come in from the road above Allouez.”

“You followed them?”

“I stayed back in the woods, kept them in sight.”

“Why such caution?”

“Why not?”

Bapcat examined the tracks. “Last night.”

Capicelli nodded.

“We're being watched,” Bapcat told Zakov as soon as he got back to the house.

“By whom?”

“One tall man, big feet, one small person. Tracks in the woods at the bottom of the hill lead out to the road.”

“There is no tactical advantage down there other than concealment. We hold the high ground. If they are below, they are observers only.”

“Your professional opinion?”

“
Da
, of course.”

“What if they're amateurs, or stone-stupid? I'd like to know who, and why.”

“Let us endeavor to answer this most intriguing interrogatory.”

•••

At nine o'clock under a clear, starry sky with a partial moon, Bapcat watched two men slog through the woods toward him. He could see their breath clouds smudging the pristine night air. Zakov was posted low, toward the village, and his instructions were to trail any intruders heading toward his partner.

Moonlight on snow afforded remarkable visibility. Both men carried long guns, slung over their shoulders.

The pair settled beside some large popples. One took out a spyglass and extended it to look up at the house before passing it to his partner. They did not speak.

A match flared momentarily and went out. Bapcat was close enough to hear the sound.
Checking the time? Both men seem edgy. The cold maybe? Got to be hovering near zero tonight.

Shots erupted from the two men, tongues of flame leaping out of barrels toward the house on the hill, two rounds from each man, and just as quickly, not more than a second's delay after that, three shots from below the men. Bapcat heard the bullets hit and the men go down hard on their faces into the snow.
Zakov?

The last shot came from where he thought Zakov had placed himself.

A few minutes later, the Russian came over, breathing hard. “One man. He ran after I shot. I don't think I hit him, but I think I helped quicken his pace. What the hell is going on?”

Bapcat didn't answer, just beckoned for Zakov to follow him over to where the two men lay on the ground.

Bapcat felt the pulse of the smaller man, and announced, “Dead.”

The bigger man was in agony, rolling around, scissoring his legs, hands opening and closing like claws.

“Get down to Petermann's, call for medical help, and call Hepting,” Bapcat said. Zakov took off immediately.

The injured man looked up at Bapcat in the moonlight. “You the bastard game warden?”

“Probably.”

“Didn't come to kill, just to scare you,” the man said with a pained grin. “Why you shoot us?”

“Somebody shot you, but not us.”

“Cap'n,” the man mumbled.

“What's your name?” Bapcat asked.

“Mangione,” the man said, blood bubbles cascading from his mouth.

“Cornelio?”

“
Si
.” The alleged assassin.

“Who sent you, Cornelio?”

“Cap'n.”

“Captain who?”

“I go to
il inferno
. I see you there,” the man said, coughing. He let loose a long exhalation, shuddered, went silent, and lay still. Bapcat checked for a pulse. None. He looked through the man's pockets, found two fifty-dollar gold pieces, a paper with Bapcat's name and address, but nothing to confirm the man's identity as Cornelio Mangione,
assassino professionista
.

The pair had each thrown two rounds at the house. The angle from down here was poor at best. Would they have shot more if they had not been attacked?
Somebody cut them down, two kills in three shots, good shooting. How does one part relate to the other?

An out-of-breath Zakov came back with the doctor. “John and the medical examiner are coming.”

“The tall one is Mangione,” Bapcat told his colleague. “Check the little man for papers.”

Zakov went through his clothes. “Nothing.”

The game wardens followed the lone shooter's tracks out to the road above the village. There were fresh vehicle tracks in the snow. “Dropped off,” the Russian proclaimed.

“Mangione said he and his partner were just trying to scare us.”

“Someone else, it would appear, had a different agenda.”

“When Mangione and the other man got up to the trees, they checked for the time, I think. Why would they do that?”

“To coordinate with another party?”

“Presumably not the party who shot them.”

“Who knows.”

“Could it be they expected other shots from above? But no . . . Mangione said they just wanted to scare us, so it was probably just them alone down here.”

“Why check the time?” Zakov asked. “Odd.”

Bapcat closed his eyes. “They were expecting more shots from above. The car dropped them at the base of the hill and went up. Maybe it was supposed to drive up top and throw some rounds at the house.”

“Purely speculative.”

“Tell me the story doesn't hold together.”

“It is a fine story, I think, as much fiction as fact.”

“Fiction and fact don't vary that much. If the story is accurate, the dead men were double-crossed. They expected help from above, not an attack from below. Bapcat said. “They were out to get us when the other attacker got into position, only he came after them instead of us.”

108

Red Jacket

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1913

Bapcat argued with Jaquelle Frei about Christmas. She wanted him in Copper Harbor, and he told her he couldn't get away because of the cases they were working on—that she should bring Jordy south to the hill, where they could celebrate Christmas together. After a lot of swearing, cajoling, and huffing, she compromised; she would bring the boy today, but they would get a “civilized” room in the Calumet Hotel on Fifth Street in Red Jacket, and spend Christmas there. She refused to stay in the “damn barn on the hill.”

She had tried to convince him that Hancock would be even better, but he had stood his ground, his mind made up: Red Jacket. She talked about driving south, but he convinced her to drive her car to Mandan, park it there, and take the train south. He told her he would meet the boy and her at the Red Jacket depot at six that night.

Late morning they drove to Vairo's saloon to see Dominick and Geronissi. Capicelli was due to report again Friday morning, and Bapcat wondered what the Hedyn brothers had been up to. In fact, he found himself thinking about little else, and decided such narrowness was yet more proof of his shortcomings.

It was noon, and Dominick had a huge jar of fresh pickled eggs on the bar, along with plates and bowls of antipasto and a crock of pickles. The tavern was wall to wall with drinkers, men in dark suits, white shirts, a few with ties, always black, black bowler hats, occasionally a fedora.

“You'd think everyone would be in church or at home getting ready for the big day,” Bapcat grumbled at the crowded tavern.

“Church is for women,” Vairo said. “We heard you fellas had some trouble up your way, that you shot Cornelio Mangione.”

“We didn't shoot anyone.”

“Too bad,” Vairo said.

Bapcat saw Fig Verbankick in a black overcoat sitting at the end of the bar with a glass of whiskey, his face flushed, eyes glazed. He started to say something to Fig, but the little man was staring straight ahead, ignoring everything and everyone around him.

Eventually the crowd was fewer than twenty patrons. Vairo and Rousseau were behind the bar, holding court, Rousseau manipulating a deck of cards.

Bruno Geronissi came in and sat at a small table. Bapcat joined him.

“Where's your pet Russian?” the Italian asked.

Bapcat nodded toward the men gathered at the bar. “Games of chance,
Dottore
.”

“How things go?”

“Capicelli's good. Got his brothers working, too.”

“All good men,” Geronissi said.

“You hear about Mangione?”

Geronissi flicked a hand, like he was swatting away an invisible fly. “Hear this, hear that.”

“Dead,” Bapcat said. “He and another man fired shots at our place and a third man shot them both dead.”

Geronissi barely moved his eyes to look at the game warden. “You seen this with your own eyes?”

“Capicelli saw their tracks from the previous night and showed me. The Russian and I went down there to see what might happen, and that's when the shooting took place.”

“The shooter?”

“Skedaddled. Zakov shot at him.”

“Hit?”

“No blood trail.”

“Unh,” Geronissi said.

“We think Mangione and his partner just wanted to scare us.”

“Unh,” Geronissi said ambivalently. “You
sure
that Mangione, he is
morto?
”

“The two bodies are in Eagle River. The sheriff's keeping them there until his investigation's complete.”

“When this happen?”

“Friday last.”

“Long time keep bodies.”

“John Hepting does things
his
way.”

“I hear this. What you do for Christmas?”

“Got people coming,
Dottore
.”

“Good; a man should not be alone at Christmas.”

Geronissi had one drink, excused himself, and swept out of the tavern.

All sorts of noise was coming from the stairwell that led up to the Italian Hall on the floor above. It was packed with women and children. Some looked into the bar as they passed by the door, and Rousseau went over and closed the door.

“What's all the commotion?” Bapcat asked.

“The union's throwing a party for the strikers' families. They got candy, little gifts for the kiddies,” Vairo said.

“Good,” Bapcat said, thinking that he had no positive images or memories of Christmas as a kid, no memories at all. Christmas had been just another day.

Anna Clemenc came into the bar and waved at Vairo and Rousseau, who held up a card. “Hey, Annie, quick game? Maybe you win a little bail money for the new year.”

The towering woman belly-laughed. “I got enough to handle upstairs.”

“How many you got?”

“We've lost count,” she said happily. “Five hundred at least, not more than a thousand—take your pick in between. Kids—so loud!” she added.

“They just excited,” Vairo told her. “
Natale!
”

Clemenc went into the stairwell and closed the door to the saloon.
Handsome woman,
Bapcat noted.
Intense eyes.

Vairo pushed a mug of beer toward Bapcat, who watched Verbankick drink down a jigger of whiskey.

“Fig's hitting it pretty hard,” Vairo pointed out.

Rousseau said, “One of his moods; won't hardly talk to nobody. Usually we can't shut him up. You got plans tomorrow?”

“Yep.”

“What about the Russian?”

“Don't know. Ask him.”

Vairo said, “He ain't got no place to go, me and Maria bring him to dinner at our place here. What you do today?”

“Sit right here, smoke, relax, think.”

“Drinks on me,” Vairo said. “Okay?”

“I'm not much of a drinker.”

“We got food—olives, eggs, pickles, meat, cheese, good stuff.
Mangia, mangia
.”

“I will.”

Zakov came over. “What time do the widow and boy arrive?”

“I meet them at the station at six. What're you doing tomorrow?”

“I have an appointment with a lady,” the Russian said.

“She have a name?”

“Yes—Four o'Clock, at Nelly Gold's House of Sport.”

The men laughed. Zakov asked, “What
is
that damned cacophony in the stairwell?”

“Christmas party for the strikers' kids. You have Christmas in Russia?”

“Only in odd-number years,” the Russian said, deadpan.

Bapcat tried to process the words.

“Joke,” Zakov said. “I keep thinking about last week.”

“Me, too. Everything we saw tells me the dead men were set up.”

“Do you think we'll ever get this Gordian knot undone?”

“Gordian knot?”

“Gordius, King of Phrygia, tied this fastidiously complex knot and declared that he who could undo it would become the next ruler of Asia.”

“Phrygia?”

“It was an ancient kingdom somewhere inside what is now Turkey, and was in those days the gateway to Asia.”

“Like China and Japan?”

“All of Asia. Alexander the Great, upon hearing this, withdrew his sword and chopped the knot and it fell apart.”

“Did this Alexander then become King of Asia?”

“Alas, no. He got close, but nobody can become king of Asia.”

I am ignorant
. “Did you learn all this in school?”

“Yes, and much, much more.”

“But the story doesn't make sense,” Bapcat said. “The king said he who could undo the knot would become king. Alexander didn't undo it, he
cut
it. That's cheating.”

Zakov stared at the other game warden. “I am loath to admit this, but not once have I ever considered this unique logic you present. To me,
undo
meant getting the knot apart in any way possible, but if technically it had to be untied in order to qualify, you're no doubt right. Alexander cheated, which if one buys into the legend, would explain why he perished short of achieving his objective. Were we dons in academe, we might author a paper or a scholarly screed, make a career of the knot that undid Alexander.”

Sometimes I understand nothing this man say
s. “So we don't have an
actual
knot here?” Bapcat asked.

“Metaphorically it's a knot.”

“Then we should cut it, metaphorically.”

“And how might one organize
that?
” the Russian queried.

“Don't ask me,” Bapcat confessed with a nervous laugh. “I don't even know what a metaphor
is
.” The Russian laughed with him, and Bapcat felt lighthearted. It felt good. He was looking forward to seeing Jaquelle.

It was getting late, darkening outside, spitting snow. The din above the bar was beyond description: shrill voices, stomping feet making the floor above resound like drums. Bapcat looked up at the ceiling and Rousseau said, “They have a play or something for the children. They stomp the floor with their feet to applaud.”

Bapcat took a sip of wine and chewed an olive, spitting the pit onto a plate on the bar. The noise above suddenly grabbed his attention. Dominick Vairo raised an eyebrow at the same moment, and just then, the stairwell was suddenly inundated with sound—pounding and crashes. Vairo ran to the door and pulled it open only to reveal a mass of intertwined bodies, writhing, screaming, clawing at each other, many of them babbling incoherently about a fire. Vairo began grabbing at people and trying to pull them free of the pile, but they were wedged too tight, and a continuous wail filled the bar and crushed all other sounds. Bapcat and Zakov were there with him, trying to help, but it was futile.

Vairo said, “Ladder to fire escape is outside.”

My God, it was the Chicago theater all over again.
But where was the smoke? Chicago had smoke. You could smell it before you saw it.

The game wardens ran outside and quickly scrambled up the side of the building to a door that opened onto the landing by the meeting hall's ticket office. Inside they found adults and children screaming, some of them running around and waving their arms, while others were at the top of the stairs above the jam, trying to pull people upward and away from the writhing pile.

The two men worked their way down, accepting injured and dead from below and passing them back until they were at the front line of bodies, working frantically but as gently as possible to extract people. All the while, the elongated, shrill scream continued.

Zakov worked a boy loose and looked at Bapcat and shook his head, and handed the dead child up to hands behind them, saying
Gentle
to those above.

“Where's the actual fire?” Bapcat asked. “I don't smell smoke.”

“What fire?” someone behind him said.

Bapcat peeled a woman away from the mass. She had a broken arm and bloody mouth. He got her to her feet and helped her move back next to those behind them. He looked down and saw a child on her back, eyes open and staring up, unmoving.

“
Pinkhus, help me!
” Bapcat got a hand under the girl and Zakov a hand under her other side, and they pulled her up to them. When helping hands reached for her, Bapcat said no, and he and the Russian climbed up the stairs and carried her into the auditorium where bodies were being laid out in rows. They lay her down with them.

“You're weeping,” Zakov said.

“We know her.”

He heard the air go out of Zakov, followed by a choking sound. “Draganu Skander,” he said, stifling a sob. “Beloved quiet one,” he said.

Bapcat pulled his friend back to the stairs. “We can't help her,
gospodin
. The others need us now.”

Eventually the wall of twisted, crushed, broken, bleeding suffocated corpses and wounded began to clear as rescuers from below began to make headway toward those trapped at the bottom of the stairs. Someone passed a ladle of water to Bapcat, who drank and held it for Zakov, who handed it to Dominick Vairo, who looked hot and shaky. Tears and sweat everywhere, vomit, blood, shit . . . it was like a battlefield.

“Keep working,” Bapcat said.

It was well after dark, light snow still falling, breath clouds shrouding the street where hundreds of people had gathered in silence, staring at the scene as bodies were carried out: relatives, neighbors, the curious, police, firemen, deputies, a conglomerate of sorrow. And agony.

Bapcat and Zakov went down the outside fire escape and back into the bar. Vairo looked disconsolate, pointing at his empty cash register drawer and empty shelves where bottles had been only hours before. “Cleaned out,” he said.

“What is the time?” Zakov asked.

Vairo looked at his watch. “Seven.”

“Widow Frei,” the Russian said to Bapcat.

Photographer Nara poked his head into the saloon from the hallway and waggled a finger at Bapcat “We're going to shoot in here, make a record. We didn't expect to see you here.”

Bapcat wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand, and as they went into the street and started to move through the crowd, he saw Jaquelle and Jordy at the edge of the jam. There was no talking, no sound other than muffled coughs. Bapcat, Zakov, Frei, and the boy all embraced, and Jaquelle said to the Russian, “You are going to get a room and eat with us tonight.”

“I can still help,” Zakov said.

“You can't,” Bapcat said. “Let others take it from here.”

It was a two-block walk to the Calumet Hotel, and the whole way they were moving against crowds of curious and panicked people surging toward the Italian Hall.

“How?” Jaquelle asked as they walked through the fresh snow.

“It just happened,” Bapcat said.

“So many children,” she said. “Innocents.”

That word stuck in Bapcat's mind, and no matter how hard he tried to banish it, the word remained, blinking like a candle the wind was trying to extinguish.