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  “Boston-owned?” Most of the area mines were built on money from East Coast, Boston-based investors.

  Vairo shrugged. “I just runna tavern, that’s all.”

  Bapcat grabbed his friend’s sleeve and pulled him closer. “Something in the corner bothering you, Dominick?” Vairo turned red.

  His friend was still sneaking peeks at that table. Bapcat snuck a surreptitious glance at where his friend was looking and saw a small man with shiny black hair sitting at a table against a wall in the shadows.

  “Talk to me, Dominick. I’m your friend. Remember?”

  Clearly exasperated and frightened, Vairo whispered, “Bruno Geronissi; he comes around, to sell birds.”

  “Like ducks?”

  “No, little birds—robin, swallow, finch, like that.”

  “Songbirds?”

  “Si.”

  “For what?”

  “For people eat. Back home in Old Country, they like little bird breasts, see?”

  “Do you buy his birds, Dominick?”

  Vairo seemed to lose his voice and Bapcat leaned closer. “No more, Dominick. You buy no more. Where’s Geronissi live?”

  “Rose’s street, Swedetown.”

  “Your sister buy from him, too?”

  “Everybody, dey buy from Geronissi,” the proprietor admitted, recovering his voice.

  “He comes around every night?”

  “No, he take orders now, come back so many day, like this, like that, uno, due, capisce?”

  “Next day?”

  “Sometimes two day, three. Depends on time of year, what you ask for.”

  “Are there other suppliers?”

  Vairo nodded. “Some. They hate each other.”

  “How much does he charge?”

  “Two bits, one bird.”

  “All birds same price?”

  “No; turkey, partridge, duck, pigeon, goose—they cost more, okay. All singers and woodpeckers, two bits.”

  “How many do you order?”

  “Two dozen, uno week. I cook them, serve for shift change when miners come in. I make polenta uccelli, very nice, everyone like.”

  “Polenta?”

  “Corn meal, very, very good, si?”

  “Where’s he hunt, this Geronissi?”

  “I don’t ask, he don’t say. You must not tell my name.”

  “I won’t have to if you tell me where he hunts. I’ll grab him in the act.”

  “He go to jail? He got family, nice kids.”

  “I don’t know about jail . . . probably not. The fine is five dollars a bird.”

  Vairo winced at hearing the amount. “Try out Traprock River where cross Copper-Gay Road. That’s a lot of money.”

  “The State wants lessons taught, Dominick. Money is the best lesson for most people. Who was Hell’s Creek’s captain?”

  “Don’t think I ever heard.”

  “What’s Geronissi do for a living?”

  “Works the mine.”

  “Aboveground or below?”

  “In the dark. Cornish make the money, Italians, Finns, what call B-O-B, beast of burden, si? Trammer-man.”

  “If you hear the name of the Hell’s Creek captain, be sure to let me know, Dominick.”

  “Si, si, you hear about Georgie’s balling game yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “He got for his team three house runs.”

  “Home runs?”

  “House, home—they are four baggings. Is confusing, this American game.”

  Bapcat took note of Gipp’s modesty, and left the saloon.

  “Vairo says you had three house runs?” Bapcat remarked with a sly grin, when he got into the truck. “You never said anything.”

  “Some fellas don’t take the game to heart too fast. Some learn faster than others. And the pitchers, they weren’t much to talk about.”

  Bapcat guessed that description would fit Geronissi equally well.

  “Home?” Gipp asked.

  Bapcat motioned forward.

  “Will Mr. Zakov be with you for long?”

  “I hope not.”

  “He seems real smart,” George Gipp said.

  “Books are one thing, life another,” Bapcat said. “Remember that, George.”

  26

  Kearsarge, Houghton County

  MONDAY, JUNE 23, 1913

  The house was built in a copse of paper birch along the course of the sluggish Slaughterhouse Creek, which was choked with tag alder. Clothes were pinned to a line suspended between two trees, women’s clothes, no kids, no grown men. A woman alone, Hannula’s wife. Hepting, as promised, had gotten in touch with Mayme Hannula, and she had agreed to talk to Bapcat—not at her home, but a nearby location along the creek, a small clearing you had to battle to find through a tangled trail. Bapcat saw no sign of human traffic, but a bear had left a sizable calling card a few days back.

  She arrived shortly after he’d gotten into place. She was thin, attired simply in a baggy black dress, barefoot. “Mrs. Hannula?” The woman stared down at her feet and nodded. “I’m Bapcat,” he added.

  Met with silence. Bapcat said, “John Hepting said you would talk to me.”

  She looked up with intense, confused eyes, palpable fear. “It’s dangerous talking to the likes of you. Ask what you got to ask, and then leave me be.”

  “You told the sheriff that Enock was getting an early start on venison.”

  Panic flashed in her eyes. “You din’t found none?”

  “We found them. What I want to know is, why? He do this every year?”

  “First time ever,” she said. “He goes by the Good Book, you know, but this is new. You know . . . the strike.”

  “There is no strike,” he told her.

  “Will be.”

  “How does illegally taking deer fit into the strike?”

  “People gonna be off work, need to eat, feed their kids.”

  “He’s going to give meat to miners?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You a fool? Enock don’t give nothing to nobody.”

  “But he goes by the Good Book.”

  “Parts he agrees with.”

  “Does he have more deer elsewhere?”

  “Was me, I’d ask Laurium Ice Company.”

  “Ask?”

  “They bring ice to him,” she said. “He finds out I talked to you, he’ll break every bone in my body. I heard him say plenty times, Good Book don’t hold with game wardens. God’s job to care for all the creatures he done made. You need to git,” she concluded, sliding into the brush.

  Two things were clear: She was scared, and there was more talk of a strike, just as Harju and the judge had said.

  Laurium Ice Company. Why didn’t I think of that? I saw dry ice! God. Maybe I ain’t up to this job.

  Enock Hannula was scared-dog mean. The woman had reason to worry. Might be time to revisit Houghton County sheriff Big Jim Cruse, show him his badge, tell him about the Hannula woman—how she needed looking after, urge protection. This was probably not the sort of splash Harju wanted, but the woman was in danger and deserved help.

  Bapcat walked out to the Mohawk Road where Gipp was parked. “You want to drive, boss?” the boy asked.

  “That’s your job, George.”

  “I can’t do this forever, boss. I think you need some practice.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, George, but not today. Take us to Laurium.”

  “Where?”

  “Laurium Ice Company.”

  Gipp grinned. “Sorry, boss, that’s in Centennial, near the dam. They cut ice from Calumet Lake in winter.”

  “Laurium Ice Company is in Centennial?”
/>   “Yeah, my Uncle Herman works there.”

  “Herman got an opinion on game wardens?”

  “Don’t everybody?” the boy said, deadpan.

  27

  Centennial, Houghton County

  MONDAY, JUNE 23, 1913

  They turned off the Mohawk Road past the looming Centennial Number 6 Rockhouse. “If you got to work underground, Centennial Number 6 is okay,” Gipp said. “Good captains. People say they don’t see Wop, Finn, or Mick, just how a man works.”

  “People say?”

  “You play ball with fellas from all over, you can learn a lot.”

  “You hearing strike talk?”

  Gipp grimaced. “The local boys are gonna demand a meeting with the companies and present what they call their demands. No meet, they’ll strike, and the Colorado big shots won’t have no choice but to pitch in.”

  Gipp acted like he cared only about playing ball, but he had a good mind and was a lot deeper than most people might suspect. “Tell me about your uncle Herman.”

  “Quiet little fella, works hard, got a big family—spends a lot of time out in the woods.”

  “Maybe I should talk to him alone. No sense linking you to the game warden.”

  Gipp laughed. “Boss, I been driving you all over. People already know. I’ll go with you. Herman trusts me.”

  Smart and mentally tough. Good kid, but does he trust Herman? Not the time to ask.

  Uncle Herman was a bocci ball with legs and sported a white walrus mustache. Most of his hair was reduced to diaphanous strands that moved when he moved, like ghostly little worms vying to cover his ears.

  “Georgie boy,” Herman warmly greeted his nephew.

  “Unc, this is Deputy Bapcat, the game warden.”

  Herman looked at Bapcat and winked. “I told him: Georgie, no deer for another month.”

  Uncle Herman liked the role of joker, one Bapcat didn’t care for. “This isn’t about George,” Bapcat said. “I need help from you.”

  “Like what?” Still smiling, the grin losing some traction.

  “Ice deliveries.”

  “Georgie not pay his bill? Shouldn’t the sheriff be here?”

  “It’s not about a bill,” Bapcat said.

  “C’mon, Unc,” Gipp said. “He’s okay.”

  “Customers ain’t my job,” the older Gipp said. “You need ta talk ta Ogden, da sales manager.”

  “Is he in?”

  “Guys who wear ties don’t talk ta guys who don’t wear ties.”

  Celt Ogden wore a shiny grayish suit, had thinning pink hair, and what Bapcat assumed to be a perpetual smile.

  Bapcat showed his badge.

  “Have we met?” Ogden asked.

  “I doubt it. We’re trying to determine if ice deliveries have been made by your company to a certain individual,” Bapcat explained, but not amplifying the we.

  “Who?” the sales manager asked.

  “Enock Hannula.”

  “No,” Ogden said.

  “You don’t have to look at your records?”

  Ogden tapped his forehead. “Records are all up here. I know every customer the company has ever had.”

  Thinking quickly, Bapcat asked, “How about deliveries to the upper Black Creek area?”

  Ogden crossed his arms. “Where exactly is that?”

  “I think you know.” Bapcat pointed at his own head. “Up there.”

  “We have customers everywhere up here. You’ll have to be more specific.”

  Stonewall. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Don’t mention it,” the man said.

  Uncle Herman met them at the truck. “You get what you needed?”

  “No,” Bapcat said.

  “Ogden’s asino buco,” Herman said. “What you need?”

  “Deliveries to Enock Hannula, or to the upper Black Creek area.”

  “Hannula, da one people call Stumper?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Everybody knows Stumper. Man’s crazy. When you need ta know?”

  “Anytime soon; a few days?”

  “Okay, anyt’ing for my favorite nephew Georgie.”

  Bapcat and George Gipp drove away and Gipp said, “I know Unc can be a little strange with all the jokes and stuff, but you can always count on him. Is this important?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Bapcat admitted.

  28

  Bumbletown Hill

  TUESDAY, JUNE 24, 1913

  Gipp was gone, had taken the truck to a game for the afternoon. Bapcat tore at the wood floor, finally revealing a hole with a narrow ladder. Zakov puffed up with pride. “You see, it is just as I said.”

  Bapcat went outside, fetched a large bucket of birch bark into the house, and started wrapping the bark around sticks to make torches. Birch ignited gracefully and noiselessly, even in the rain.

  Zakov asked the deputy as he looked into the hole, “What do you expect to find?”

  “Chinamen.”

  Zakov snorted. “An Occidental myth of ignorance.”

  The hole under the floor had been hacked through solid rock and seemed stable, but within minutes Bapcat found his heart racing. He was having trouble catching his breath. He knew the cause and tried to fight it, but surrendered within minutes because of the terror growing inside him.

  “Looks like you encountered Mongoloid ghosts instead of Chinamen,” Zakov quipped when the deputy climbed out and sat with his unsteady legs dangling in the opening.

  Suddenly, a woman’s voice said, “You seem to have taken complete leave of your senses, Mr. Bapcat. I do swear.” Jaquelle Frei stood at the front door, arms crossed. She was dressed in a nondescript frock and riding boots. “I’m speaking to you, Trapper; cat got your tongue?”

  “Why’re you here, Jaquelle?” Bapcat managed to say.

  “Don’t you dare use my given name in public, Mr. Bapcat. We are not familiars, you and I. Let us not misconstrue our relationship with loose etiquette.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Frei. Yes, ma’am.”

  Frei smiled. “See how easy it is to keep things on the high road, which makes me wonder why on earth you are up here in a hovel on a baby hill, living with the pitiful Borzoi. I must say, I am deeply conflicted by what I see, sir. Much confounded and greatly disappointed.”

  “It’s not a hovel,” he said.

  “There is a gaping hole in your floor, sir.”

  Zakov stared at the front door screen and announced, “The screen is turning red.”

  “The process is called oxidation,” Frei said, “you Russian baboon.”

  “How do you know that?” Bapcat asked her.

  “I am an educated woman, sir. I read, I think; I control my own destiny.”

  “But why are you here?”

  Frei glanced at the Russian. “It’s in the way of a . . . private matter.”

  “About?”

  “A certain account in arrears.”

  “Or what, you’ll make an accusation as you did against Enock Hannula?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know about Hannula?”

  “I helped John Hepting arrest him.”

  She clapped her hands together. “Finally there will be justice.” Her face hardened as quickly as it had lit up. “Hepting and you; are you his deputy, sir?”

  “No, I’m a deputy state Game, Fish, and Foresty warden for Keweenaw and Houghton counties.”

  “Since when?”

  “Marquette.”

  “But you went for the former president’s trial.”

  “That’s what I thought, too, but I had no role in the trial.”

  “When word came that he won, I assumed it was you who ha
d helped him, but I never saw your name on witness lists or in newspaper accounts.”

  “The summons had nothing to do with the trial.”

  “It was about this so-called game warden position, and I suppose this was offered by the State on the strength of the former president’s say-so?”

  “It was. The colonel gave me the rifle I used in Cuba.”

  “The one you used to dispatch Spaniards?”

  When he remained silent, she pressed on. “Wouldn’t suit a state deputy to be known as a deadbeat.” He thought he saw the hint of a smirk.

  “So which part of your business am I indebted to—the wilderness outfitter, or the supplier who brings sporting houses back to life?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” she said sharply, clearly surprised by his question.

  “The thing about law enforcement, Mrs. Frei—it’s a kind of brotherhood. We talk to each other, share information.”

  “I have no idea what you are referring to, and I find your insinuation patently offensive.”

  “I’m saying face-to-face only what others say behind your back, Mrs. Frei.”

  “You will surely hear from me again,” the widow said. She gathered up her skirt and petticoats and flounced to the front door, where she stopped. “Debts left unpaid too long can become malignant.”

  “Malignant?” Bapcat asked when she was gone.

  “Cancer,” Zakov said. “She acted like I’m not even alive.”

  “I think she pretty much decides who lives in her world, and who don’t.”

  “Like a czarina. Women do nothing but complicate men’s lives.”

  Young Gipp returned just as the widow drove away.

  “Who was that? She looked real mad.”

  “Mad, happy—it’s impossible to sort out such emotional attributes among females,” Zakov said.

  29

  Traprock River, Houghton County

  THURSDAY, JUNE 26, 1913

  George Gipp’s next contest was not scheduled until Saturday, and Bapcat had him along, not certain why. The boy was his driver, not a fellow warden.

  They stashed the Ford a half-mile east of the river and walked back through the woods. Gipp was quiet and appeared uneasy.