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  “We don’t work that way,” the sergeant said.

  “I won’t do it any other way. If I’m going to go inside, I want to be able to look a man in the eye and tell him why when the cuffs go on.”

  “I’ll have to take that up the line,” Miars said.

  “You do that. When do you want me in Vanderbilt?”

  “For the December hunt. We’ll brief you about six weeks ahead and make sure you have a tag. You’ll stay in a camp near there, hunt deer, and hang out in the bars so you can get to know the local personalities.”

  “I don’t do the barfly thing,” Service said.

  “The pasties here any good?” Miars asked, eyeing the shop and ignoring Service’s comment.

  “Best in the eastern U.P.,” Service said.

  “Shall we order?”

  “Not hungry,” Service said. He rarely ate pasties. His first impressions of Miars were ambivalent. Did he want to work for the man, or was it time to hang it up? He had more than enough time in and money to retire.

  “Call me once a week and check in to let me know what you have going. I’ll make arrangements for the place in Vanderbilt, and we’ll put you in there a few days before the gun-opener.”

  “What’re the dates?” Service asked.

  “Late elk is December seventh through the fourteenth. More than forty thousand applications, and only a hundred and twenty-four got drawn in the lottery. This year there’ll be a lot of angst out there. There’s a lot of meat on an elk and a lot of trophy-only hunters.”

  The timing should be okay, Service decided. The baby was due December 28. Service nodded, and started to walk away, but the sergeant caught his arm and turned him around. “You’ve got the reputation of a cowboy. You’ve had some unreal successes, but in this unit we play it by the book, and we talk straight, no bullshit. That work for you?”

  “Yippie-kay-ay,” Service said, earning a sarcastic chuckle from his new sergeant.

  He got into his truck and drove back toward the Carp River. There would be other violators out on a day like this, and he wasn’t going to miss them. As he drove he called Information and got the number for Onaway Public Schools. A woman answered. “This is the DNR,” he said. “Are you open today?”

  “Closed until Wednesday morning,” she said. “The roof is leaking all over our classrooms.”

  Service thanked her. Baranov hadn’t lied about that. He then ran computer checks to see if Baranov had been in trouble with the law, including DNR tickets. The man’s record was clean. He had told the truth about the kids not being in school. And he’d said he’d had no tickets, another truth. He was glad he had given the fishing gear back to the man. Anyone could make a mistake.

  3

  Tuesday, October 12, 2004

  MORAN, MACKINAC COUNTY

  It had been eight days since he had worked the Carp River and today was to be a pass day, what civilians called a day off. He had been sitting on his porch in the morning sun when his cell phone began to vibrate.

  “Service here.”

  “Benny Baranov. I call court just as you tell me. They say it is fortune to pay tickets, but I am thinking maybe you and I can make trade, yes?”

  “You’ve got something to trade with?”

  “You know bank boys?”

  “A family named Bank?”

  “Nyet, nyet, bank boys, bank boys—okay?” Desperation palpable in the man’s voice.

  “You’d better have something. Where and when?”

  “You know scenic overlooking place west of St. Ignace?”

  Service knew it. “Yep, on US Two.”

  “Da, good. Three o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Look for RV.”

  Was this Baranov’s sole vehicle, and if so, how did he afford the gas? Something in this didn’t add up. A deal in the offing? He reminded himself that the Ukrainian had not lied during the initial contact. Keep an open mind, he told himself as he got dressed and headed east.

  Service found Baranov sitting on a ten-gallon plastic bucket in front of his RV, staring out over the spartan-green spans of Big Mac Bridge and the gunmetal-gray slick of the Straits of Mackinac.

  “Beautiful view,” Service said when he got out of his unmarked Tahoe.

  “I think it is easier for a rich man to appreciate beauty than a poor man.”

  Service said, “You want to philosophize? I didn’t drive all the way over here to gawk at scenery.”

  Baranov invited him inside. The interior of the RV was clean and neat.

  “Where are the girls?” Service asked.

  “In school,” the man said.

  “I guess they got the leaks fixed. I called the school and they verified your story.”

  Baranov looked hurt. “I would not lie. My children are important. They will finish school.”

  “You mentioned a trade.”

  The man took a deep breath. “Vodka?”

  “No, thanks,” Service said. Drinking on duty had contributed to his father’s death. It would not happen to him.

  The man reached into a huge cooler and pulled out a bottle. “Okay?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  The man got a loaf of dark rye bread and a jar of pickles out of the small refrigerator and set them out with a brick of jalapeno cheese and a plate of sliced sweet onions. He poured himself a full glass and drained it. It was a cool fall day, but the man was sweating.

  “You nervous?”

  “I have no money,” the man said, his voice cracking.

  “If you don’t pay the ticket, they’ll issue a warrant and it will just get worse.”

  “What is Benny to pay with?” the man shot back. He thumped his chest. “I have nothing.”

  “It must cost a fortune to operate this rig.”

  “From time to time I have a little money. Until two weeks ago, we live out of this. Now I have a dacha until end December. Then is back to RV, home on wheels.”

  “Life can be tough.”

  “You have good heart,” Baranov said through a squint. “You give me break long time ago. This time, you give rods back. You are not prick.”

  “Yeah, I’m a regular bleeding heart.”

  “I have no money to pay tickets now!” Baranov keened.

  Service heard panic in the man’s voice. “You can work something out with the court.”

  “I don’t know when I will have money again.”

  “I’m not a bank.”

  “I ask from heart—you drop ticket, please.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Bank boys.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “Not family. Is term. Means boys on bank of river—collectors.”

  “Collectors of what?”

  “Salmon eggs.”

  “For what?”

  “Caviar. The company gives bank boys money for eggs.”

  “What company?”

  “Piscova.”

  Service felt himself flinch. “The outfit that contracts with the DNR to operate weirs and harvest eggs, for the Fisheries division?”

  “Yes, Piscova.”

  “Why would they be buying eggs on the side?” It was illegal to sell or buy eggs, or any wild game or game parts.

  “I hear things.”

  “This sounds like bullshit. . . . What do you think you’ve heard?”

  Baranov poured another glass of vodka, took a bite of bread, a bite of cheese, and drained the glass. “It is said they bring eggs from New York factory to Elk Rapids.”

  “So?”

  “New York eggs come in containers that say ‘Not for Humans to Eat—Bait Only.’ ”

  “You’ve he
ard this?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “From whom?”

  “Bank boys. Some do other jobs for company.”

  “The bank boys collect eggs for Piscova?”

  “They take to company. They are like prick foremen in auto plant, yes?”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I am egg boy. Egg boys give eggs to bank boys. Bank boys take eggs to company.”

  “They’ve paid you for eggs?”

  “Every fall since I am losing job.”

  “How much do they pay?”

  “Two dollars, one pound, this year three dollar, thirty cent. Not many fish, eggs worth more, da? Supply, demand—law of capitalists.”

  Service took out a cigarette and lit it. “That seems like a pretty decent price.”

  “Is hard work to harvest eggs.”

  “And risky with game wardens out and about.”

  “Yes, of course, this is true.”

  “Who does Piscova deal with in New York?”

  “Company has a plant there.”

  “You’re telling me that Piscova ships bait eggs from its plant in New York to its plant in Michigan?”

  “That is what is said.”

  “Why?”

  The man pursed his lips and hunched his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

  Grady Service felt something stir deep inside his gut. He had always had hunches and often played to them. “This is what you want to trade in exchange for making your ticket go away?”

  “Da.”

  “Not enough, Blinky.”

  The Ukrainian looked past him, sucked in a deep breath, and sat up straight. “I take you to see this thing happen, okay?”

  “Explain.”

  “You see them buy eggs from Benny.”

  “One of them is here?”

  “They are all over state—is big network.”

  A statewide network? Was Baranov bullshitting him? “When?” Service tried to keep excitement from overwhelming his skepticism.

  “Bank boy is tonight in bar in Moran. I bring eggs to him, he weighs eggs, pays cash, deal is done”

  “The eggs I took from you. You were going to sell them?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But now you have no eggs to sell.”

  Baranov paused a long time before speaking. “I have eggs.”

  “From when?”

  Baranov looked past Service at a wall, took a deep breath, and said, “Today, yesterday, day before. I meet bank boy tonight. I need money to pay fines.”

  Which meant Baranov had gone back to snagging despite his promise to stop. “How much do you have?”

  “Eighteen kilos, maybe more. Maybe one hundred twenty dollars.”

  He tried to do a quick mental calculation. Eighteen kilograms was about forty pounds. “That’s a lot of dead hen salmon.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I should cuff your sorry ass and take you to jail right now. You promised me, no more snagging.”

  “You have no evidence. There are no eggs here.”

  “You promised to go straight.”

  “I have three darling girls depend on papa,” the man said. “What would you do?”

  They were not exactly little, but Service understood the point.

  “You are not interested?” the man asked.

  “I’m thinking on it.” Officers faced difficult decisions: Make an immediate arrest, or trade for something larger down the line. This felt like one of those times to look to the future.

  “Okay, if this is real. Otherwise, no deal.”

  “No bullshit. I take you to get eggs and you watch me sell. I keep money and you see how bank boys work.”

  “I said okay.” Was he making a mistake? “Where are the eggs?”

  “Not far. We take RV.”

  Baranov drove the RV west to Epoufette and parked behind a store fronting US 2, which was boarded up and padlocked in front. A prominent hand-lettered sign said out of business. The Ukrainian opened a padlock on the back door, went to a freezer, took out clear plastic bags filled with red eggs and two bags of ice, carried them out to the RV, and put them in the cooler. Service made a mental note to find out who owned the out-of-business building and follow up. He was tempted to probe Baranov for why and how he was using the place, but his gut said to stay focused on the eggs in the cooler for now.

  They arrived on the outskirts of the village of Moran around 5 p.m. and parked down the road from a bar called So Soo Me, the name in blinking neon. Stupid name, Service thought. It seemed that some bars in the U.P. tried to outdo each other with their insipid names.

  “You take the eggs inside?”

  “No; first I go in, have drink, make small talk. After some time, we come outside, I give eggs, he weighs, he pays, and then we leave.”

  “You expect me to walk in with you?”

  “No, I go first, you follow later. I must be alone to do this thing. It is rule.”

  “If you’re lying to me . . .” Service said, not finishing the sentence.

  “Baranov is man of honor.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Service got out of the RV and watched Baranov drive away. He half expected the man to rabbit, but he watched him pull into the parking lot in front of the bar and get out. Service popped out his false teeth, put them in a plastic container in his pocket, and followed the Ukrainian inside.

  The bar was quiet and dark, with the usual garish beer brand and Green Bay Packer signs, a few for the Red Wings, no colleges. An orange-and-black sign behind the bar said welcome to bulldog country. There was the face of a cartoon bulldog staring out, its teeth bared. Who the hell were the Bulldogs? Baranov was at the bar with a clean-shaven man with short white hair, and a black chook on the bar in front of him. He watched the two men down shots, get up, and stroll out.

  After a decent interval, Service put on his coat and followed, cracking the door before stepping out and going to the corner of the building. Service watched the man wearing the chook come out of the RV with the egg bags, take them to a red truck, open the cap, take out a scale, weigh the bags, put the scale and eggs inside, close the cap, and lock it. Baranov stood beside the man, watching. The man took out his wallet, handed cash to the Ukrainian, and went back into the bar. Service wrote down the plate number and vehicle description.

  Baranov went back to his RV.

  Service walked down the road and waited for Baranov, who soon pulled up and showed him the cash from the sale.

  “Who was that?”

  “Big cheese.”

  “Your usual contact?”

  “No, this one is called Vandeal.”

  “Where’s your usual contact?”

  “No longer employed,” Baranov said.

  “They fire people?”

  “Capitalism,” Baranov replied, as if the one word explained all the peculiarities of America.

  “How do you know this Vandeal is a big cheese?”

  “I have heard his name more than once.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Big cheese,” the Ukrainian repeated.

  When they got back to Service’s Tahoe at the scenic pullout on US 2, Baranov poured another shot of vodka for himself.

  Service got into his Tahoe and ran the plate through the state computer. The 2004 red Ford pickup was registered to one Willem Vandeal, with an address in Elk Rapids. Service stared at the computer for a long time. He ran Vandeal for warrants and wants. Nothing. He called Station 20 in Lansing and asked them to run Vandeal through RSS, the Retail Sales System, to check for any licenses, hunting or fishing, and to run another check for any DNR violations in the past. Again nothing. On paper Vandeal was squeaky clean,
but he had seen the man buy the eggs and he knew such practices didn’t start overnight. His gut was telling him to go with this.

  Decision made, he went back to Baranov’s RV. “Okay, we almost have a deal,” Service said.

  “What is almost?” the man asked. He looked pale. “You tell Benny we have deal.”

  “I’m not reneging. Just tell me what rumors you’ve heard about why the eggs are shipped from New York to Michigan.”

  The man looked into Service’s eyes. “The best vodka is pure. The cheapest is mixed, you understand? But even the cheapest in cost can make very high price when demand is high.”

  The company was mixing eggs fit only for bait with those cleared for human consumption? New York’s eggs were contaminated. Service was pretty sure Michigan’s salmon were also filled with crud, but they had not yet been banned by the FDA or EPA for food. Was this possible? Was it possible that such a case could fall into his lap so easily?

  “You have my number. You hear anything more, you call.”

  “There is reward for this?”

  “Your reward will be in heaven.”

  “I am atheist. God is dead.”

  “Your ticket will be erased—that’s reward enough. Tell me honestly, how much can you make selling eggs?”

  “Last fall, seven thousand dollars.”

  Service did a quick mental calculation. He had no doubt the money was undeclared and therefore tax-free. “That’s about three and a half tons of roe.”

  “Of course, I move from river to river and it costs much to keep this American pig on road.”

  “Typical business type,” Service said. “Always complaining about operating costs and the bite into profit.” Service had more questions. “Piscova’s the only one who buys eggs?”

  “Now,” the Ukrainian said. “Years ago, I hear many paid for eggs and meat, mom-and-pop, you understand? But these Piscova guys, they convince them to find other business.”

  “Convinced them how?”

  “You be careful,” Baranov said as Service opened the door.

  “How’s that?”

  “Benny hears Piscova has powerful friends in Lansing.”