Strike Dog (30 page)

39

CURRAN, MICHIGAN
JULY 26, 2004

Newf had paced all night and gotten into a scrap with Cat. Service had not slept well and called McCants in the morning. She agreed to watch the animals until he got back, and said she would pick them up around noon.

“You made good time,” Denninger said. She was about five-eight or -nine and slender, with long brown hair knotted in a thick French braid, long legs. “Heard a lot about you,” she said, extending her hand.

He left his truck and rode with Denninger.

“Booger Baits,” he said quickly, trying to get them focused on the job.

“It was started by the old man, Charley Main Jr. He moved up here fifty years ago. Now his son Charley Main the third runs the show. Locally he's known as Charley the Turd.”

“You get along with him?”

“I've made a lot of people unhappy since I got here,” the young officer confessed. “My FTO told me the locals were going to piss and moan, complain and hate me no matter what I did, so I might as well bring the hammer down early and let them know how it was going to be.

“The Mains don't like anybody. People in parts of this county think they make their own laws. It's either rich dicks in their fancy clubs, or mullet-heads who can't read cereal boxes.”

Service thought the woman sounded pretty negative for so early in her career.

“Charley the Turd?”

“Treats everyone like shit. Their house looks like a garbage dump, but don't be fooled. They've made a bunch of dough off their business. How, I have no idea. What's this about?” she asked, looking over at Service.

“Got a case where we've found booger flies and we're thinking they might connect to something important. We need to get them to let us look at their mailing lists.”

Denninger laughed out loud. “Never happen.”

Service said, “If I have to, I can bring in the Feebs with subpoenas.”

“Must be something big,” Denninger said.

“Important,” Service said. “Any suggestions how to play this?”

“Get in his face. The man's a bully and he's got clout in the county, and in Lansing. You've got to get him back on his heels.”

Booger Baits was a few miles south of Curran. There was no sign identifying a commercial operation of any kind. The grass was overgrown and there were boats and trailers all over the yard, sawhorses with small motors, several dogs on chains, and a six-by-six elk rack over an open garage, which was packed with so much junk it looked like there was no opening inside. The whole area reeked of refuse and dog shit.

Denninger walked up to the house with him. Service tried ringing the bell, but it didn't work. Several dogs in the yard began to bark. He knocked on the door several times, but there was no answer. “No car in the driveway,” he said. “Maybe they're not here.”

“They park behind the house,” Denninger said. “They're here.”

The young officer stood in front of the door, boots spread apart, and pounded the doorjamb loud enough to get all the dogs going.

The door swung open to reveal a man who towered over Service and the other officer, and had to weigh close to four hundred pounds. He was wearing a sleeveless mesh Detroit Lions jersey and shorts.

“Open the door, Main.”

“You,” he said to Denninger.

“I'm not going to ask again,” she said.

“Dad's taking a nap.” The man looked at Service, ignoring Denninger.

She said, “You've got no licenses for all those dogs, Main, and you're running a business on property zoned residential. You want trouble, I can arrange
beaucoup.
”

The man exhaled and shook his head. “Don't let your mouth make threats your body can't back up, little girl,” he said, looking amused.

Service felt Denninger tense, but her voice remained calm. “Open the door
now,
Charley.”

The man opened the door. “See how sugar gets you more than vinegar,” he said.

“We want to talk to you about your business,” Service said.

The man's face turned red. “The county zoning commission give us an exception. Dickless Tracy there
knows
that.”

“Call her that again and I'll put your head through the drywall,” Service said with a menacing growl. “It's not about zoning,” he added. “It's about your mail-order business.”

“That's between me, the postal service, and the IRS.”

Service was beginning to understand why Main was known as Charley the Turd. Service said, “We need help, and like it or not, you're it.”

“You want flies, we got 'em. But we ain't no help desk for fish dicks.”

Service made sure he got direct eye contact. “We're here to ask politely. You cop an attitude, I'll pass this to the FBI, and let them handle it their way.”

This got the man's attention, causing him to step back. “I guess we can work something out,” he said, moving aside.

The living room was stacked with old newspapers and candy wrappers. Clots of dog hair were everywhere, there were layers of dust on the furniture, and the carpet was soiled and smelled of dog urine. The man stopped them in the living room and crossed his arms. “So what's this about?”

“Your customers. We need to look at your catalog mailing lists.”

“There ain't no catalog,” the man said. “Dad used to send one, but it cost too much. We do all our business by word of mouth.”

“Your customer list, not your catalog list,” Service said.

“No fucking chance,” the man snapped. “You don't got no legal right to our books.”

“I'm not interested in your accounting practices,” Service said. “We just want names going back as far as you have them.”

“IRS says we only gotta keep records seven years.”

“We're not trying to jack you around, Mr. Main. We need help with an important case and we're hoping you can provide us with information to let us take the case forward.”

“You want me to narc?”

“No,” Service said. “You're not under suspicion of anything.” Before the man could answer, Service added, “Is there something here we
should
be suspicious of?”

“No,” the man said. “We run a clean business.”

“That's what we've been told. And as a legitimate businessman, we're hoping you can help us.”

“What do I get out of it?”

Denninger said, “The satisfaction of helping law enforcement.”

“Like I give a whoop-shit,” he said.

Service was annoyed. “Okay, here's the deal. We want to see your customer list. We've asked politely, but here's the bottom line: If we need to get subpoenas, we'll get them, and sit right here until the FBI shows up with the paper. Might be a few hours, might be all night, so it's your call. We're not leaving without that list.”

“Lists are confidential,” the man said, stammering. “It's like the federal government monitoring books people check out of the public library.”

“Are you sending out something you shouldn't, Mr. Main?”

“No.”

The answer suggested to Service the man was telling the truth, and his resistance was not a matter of hiding something, but being a jerk in the face of authority. It was a familiar attitude in the Upper Peninsula.

Denninger said, “If the FBI comes into this thing they're also gonna bring the IRS. They'll rip the house apart and take
everything
they think could possibly help the case. We're just asking for a list. The FBI will get subpoenas that will let them cast a much wider net, and you won't get your stuff back for a long, long time. Once the FBI comes in, all your local contacts will back off because they won't want the entanglement with the feds. You're on your own, Charley.”

“They can't jack around a businessman like that,” the man protested.

“They can,” Service said. “And they will. I guarantee it.”

“You got any idea how many customers we have?”

“No,” Service said.

“Over seven years, gotta be close to twenty thousand people—all over the world.”

“Just burn the list onto a disk,” Denninger offered.

“We aren't into computers,” the man said. “We do everything by hand. We like doing business the old way.”

“So what
do
you have?”

“Files,” he said. “Fifty boxes, maybe sixty; hell, I ain't never counted them.”

“Then we'll take the boxes, make copies, and bring them back.”

The man's eyes darkened and his cheeks puffed out. “Them files ain't leaving this house,” he said. “What happens if you have an accident or something?”

“Okay,” Service said, “how about we try this: You show us your files and we'll sit down and make a list from them—the old way.”

“My dad won't like it,” the man said.

“I thought you were running the business now,” Denninger challenged him.

“I do, but I got feelings for my dad, you know.”

“Main, we can take those boxes if we call in the FBI. We understand your concern about losing them, but we've offered a compromise. So how do you want to play this? The options are on the table. Pick one.”

The man covered his mouth with his hand and mumbled, “You can make your list, but you gotta be done by tonight.”

Grady Service was tired and beyond annoyed. “Main, we'll take as long as we need. Now show us to the damn boxes—all of them.”

The number of boxes was more than a hundred, and they were dusty, falling apart, and stacked all over a musty basement with no overhead light.

“You going to tell me what this is about?” Denninger asked as they settled in.

“Have you been briefed on the game warden murders?”

Her eyes widened and she nodded. “This is about that?”

“Let's hope,” he said.

Charley the Turd brought a couple of battery-powered lanterns and left without comment.

Service looked at his watch. It was going on 11 p.m. when he sensed there was someone standing in the doorway. “You folks get something to eat?”

The man was ancient, with white hair and a wrinkled face. There were veins showing in his nose and cheeks and he looked like the mere act of standing exhausted him. “You Charley Junior?” Service asked.

“I am.”

“Your booger flies work great,” Service said.

“You've used 'em?”

“Friends have.”

“The secret is, you gotta let the snot dry,” the man said.

Denninger looked up with her mouth agape.

“Don't give me that look,” the old man said. “You wanted to know the secret, right?”

“Not really,” Service said. “But how'd you get the idea?”

“Come to me one day when I was fishing—came to me like a gift from God. Finally got around to making a fly. Showed it to my daddy and he beat my butt red, called it disgusting. But it caught fish, right from the start.”

“Dad,” Charley the Turd said from behind the old man. “You're not supposed to be up.”

“Man's gotta have bowel movements,” the old man said, turning and wobbling past his son.

“He tell you how he come up with the booger fly,” Charley the Turd asked. “The ‘gift from God' crap?”

“Said he was out fishing.”

“He's told that lie so long he believes it. He didn't invent anything. Was his uncle give him the idea, back in Pigeon River.”

Service perked up. “The town of Pigeon River?”

“Name's Mongo now, but it used to be Pigeon River. The old man started making and selling the flies. His uncle wanted credit and royalties, but the old man, he don't know the meaning of share, so he moved up here and has been here ever since.”

Service knew Mongo. He had a case a couple of years back involving a fishing camp on the river, near an Indiana state fish hatchery. “You ever hear of a man named Ney?”

“Can't say I have,” Charley the Turd said.

“What about your old man?”

“Have to ask him yourself.”

Just as Service walked into the other room, the old man entered the bathroom and closed the door behind him. “Mr. Main?”

“I'd say I'd be out in a minute, but at my age the bowels move at their own speed, which ain't much to speak of. Best talk at me right through the door.”

“You grew up in Pigeon River?”

“Changed the name since then,” the old man answered. Service heard him wheezing and grunting.

“Did you ever hear of a man or a family named Ney?”

“Nope,” the old man said.

Service went back to the boxes and returned to work.

It was nearly 3 a.m. before the list was complete.

Charley the Turd was snoring in an easy chair in the living room.

They were at the front door when they heard the old man shuffling behind them. “Weren't no Neys in town,” he said. “Was a whole mob of Peys, though. My uncle married one of 'em who later run off with an Army Air Corps flight engineer during the big war. Them Peys bred like rabbits, maybe 'cause they was Frogs.”