Гарри Алекзандер: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 128, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 781 & 782, September/October 2006

“Put a cork in it, Freddy,” the black woman said. “Carmen never said that and I need this job.”

“So do I,” Shea said. “You’re hired, miss. Freddy, take a hike. Any other complaints?”

Nope. Shea took names and social-security numbers from the willing four and set them to work cleaning out the nave. They ripped into the job with a will but he warned Puck to keep a weather eye on them anyway. They were a crusty bunch and new hires always bring new headaches. Still, one attitude case out of five was better than average.

The next hassle came from Mrs. Ford. Most of the church pews had been trashed for firewood or the hell of it. Lydia wanted someone to sort through the wreckage, hoping to salvage a few pews from the pieces.

“No offense, but that’s nuts,” Shea said bluntly. “You can replace them for twenty bucks a pop in any secondhand store.”

“But they wouldn’t be from this church,” Lydia countered. “A restoration is supposed to preserve the heritage of a particular place.”

“We’re also supposed to finish the job before Christmas. I can’t spare men for this.”

“Then loan me two of your new-hires. They won’t mind the extra hours. We can use the columbarium to store the salvageable pieces. The porch off the north side.”

“I know what a columbarium is, lady.”

“Glad to hear it. And since we’re not working in it yet, I’d like to use it. Okay?”

Shea eyed her, knowing he should draw a damn line in the sand right here and now. Decided against it. He’d be going head-to-head with Mrs. Ford soon enough. A few crummy pews weren’t worth a war. Or so he told himself.

“Okay,” he said abruptly, “go ahead. No overtime, though.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shea.”

“Yeah, right.” Dodged that bullet. But if she was already giving him static, it didn’t bode well for the long run.

More trouble. This time from a guy who was born for it. Mafe Rochon. Full-blood Anishnabeg/Ojibwa, and proud of his heritage. Mafe wore his thick hair braided, favored beaded buckskin shirts. A bull of a man, ironworker, hard worker, best hand on the planet with an acetylene torch.

And one surly-ass attitude case. Mean as a snake when he was drinking, worse when he wasn’t. Serious bar brawler. Never met a fight he didn’t like.

Shea and Mafe had tangled more than once and expected to again. But this time was different.

Rochon showed for work, running late, head hammering from a major hangover. Whipping his Chevrolet pickup into the church lot, he nearly rolled his truck veering to avoid one of the basketball players.

Skidding the big Chevy to a screeching halt, Mafe piled out, roaring a barrage of curses, expecting to scatter the teenyboppers like quail. But they didn’t run. Held their ground instead, eyeing him warily. Uneasy, but unmoved. As though they’d heard it all before.

Probably had.

“You better slow that junker the hell down, chief,” a little fireplug of a kid in a Raiders muscle tee said, stepping up to Mafe, right in his face. “You run somebody over, it’s rough gettin’ blood off ya bumper.”

Kid said it flat, no smile, no inflection. Like lobbing a rock at a grizzly to see what would happen. The others watched, ready to run. Or fight.

A metaphysical moment for Mafe. Through the grim haze of his hangover, he glimpsed the lightning flicker of a spirit vision, the memory of a savage clearing he’d found as a boy.

Spattered with blood. Bone chips and shreds of fur strewn about, the ground torn and gouged as though it had been attacked.

“A fierce battle happened here,” his grandfather said, squatting on his heels, reading the signs. “A rogue bear found coyotes feeding on a fawn. Sure of his power, the bear tried to drive them off. But the coyotes had blood in their mouths and would not go. They fought the giant bear for their kill. And he slaughtered many, gutting them with his razor claws, hurling their broken bodies about like toys. But more coyotes came, drawn to the combat by the stench of blood. Boiling over him, they pulled the great bear down. And ripped him to pieces. And in their madness, they turned on each other, savaging their own over his carcass.”

The ancient Anishnabeg were a preliterate people who shared tribal wisdom through storytelling, memorable tales that always had a point.

Even hung over, Mafe remembered how that bear ended up. And he recognized the daredevil gleam in the fireplug’s eyes. Knew it well. Saw it every time he looked in a mirror.

So instead of clocking the little punk, he backed away. And went off in search of Shea.

Found him arguing with Lydia Ford over the pews. Butting in with his usual tact, Mafe told Shea about his face-off with the ballplayers.

“No problem.” Shea shrugged. “Round up a couple of guys, we’ll run ’em off.”

“Sam Ryan said we could use his parking lot,” Lydia argued. “If the boys aren’t underfoot, why not let them stay?”

“No chance,” Shea said. “It’s a construction zone. If one of them gets run over—”

“Maybe I can talk ’em around,” Mafe offered. “Tell ’em if a truck pulls in, get their skinny asses out of the way. They ain’t got many places to play in this ’hood. The lady’s right, let’s leave ’em be. I played some ball when I was jailin’ in Jackson. Maybe I can show ’em a few moves.”

Shea stared at the big man as if he’d suddenly started speaking Swahili.

“Okay, but they’re your responsibility, Mafe,” Shea said. “They can play as long as they stay out of our way. Any problems, they’re history. And so are you.”

“Hell, you can’t fire me, Danny.” Rochon grinned. “You ain’t happy unless you’re knee-deep in trouble, and who gives you more grief than me? Don’t worry, I’ll straighten ’em out.”

Mafe walked off whistling, leaving Shea shaking his head.

“Is that a fair assessment?” Lydia asked. “Do you like trouble?”

“If I do, I damn sure picked the right business,” Shea said. “How about you?”

“Me? I’m just trying to save my fellow antiques.”

“Your fellow what?”

“Antiques, Mr. Shea. It was joke. About my age.”

“What about it?”

“I... never mind. We’d better get back to work.”

“Mrs. Ford?” he called after her. “If you’re gonna josh me, better hold up a sign or something. I’m just a simple country boy, you know?”

Day one and she was already ticking him off. And he wasn’t even sure why.

Maybe her confidence bothered him. The kind that comes with money. Problems shrink fast when you can throw cash at ’em. An option Shea never had. He and every man in his crew risked their necks for wages every damned day. Rebuilding the Black Chapel would be tough enough without some rich... dilettante trying to salvage every splinter in the place.

But by noon, his mood lightened. He was already seeing progress, feeling the first surge of satisfaction as the project began morphing from a catastrophe into an endless string of problems, tough but doable.

His new-hires had the first dumpster nearly full; Shea had to call for an early pickup and replacement. Then building materials began arriving and he had to scramble to find space for them. Anything left outside would vanish like morning mist in this neighborhood.

He poked his head into Carmen San Miguel’s classroom to ask permission to use empty rooms in the school for storage. Technically, he didn’t need her consent, but she was a pretty girl and he was a long way from home. She gave him permission, and a warm smile to go with it.

Walking back, he saw the basketball players move politely aside for the refuse truck dropping off the dumpster. Score one for crazy Mafe.

Inside the church, the new-hires were making a visible dent. And rich or not, the former Mrs. Ford wasn’t afraid to get dirty. Working alongside the temps in the filth of the nave, Lydia was checking over the wrecked pews, marking some for salvage, the rest for the dumpster parked out front. And clearly she knew the difference. Score one for her.