Doug Allyn: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 6. Whole No. 766, June 2005

“Do they?”

“How the hell would I know? Where’s this job?”

“Right down on the harbor, the man said. Major remodel. Good money, maybe enough inside work to carry us till spring.”

“Better be. It’ll be a long winter, we don’t find somethin’ pretty quick. Thing is, I worked around here one winter when I was loggin’. Don’t remember any houses near the harbor.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Sometime after Korea. Mid ‘fifties, maybe.”

“Jesus, Puck, you really are older’n dirt.” Shea grinned, turning right, cruising down a gently sloped main street lined with antique and curio shops, most of them already closed for the season.

Slowed as he approached the harbor. Not much to it. Paved parking lot, couple of cement ramps for lowering small boats into the water.

Not a home in sight. Only a ramshackle old warehouse crouching out over the water on ancient log pilings. Sagging wooden ramp leading out to it, windows boarded up. Eyeless. Weather-beaten sign over the door. Jastrow’s Wholesale Fish.

“The job must be someplace else,” Shea said, looking around. “Guy said he’d meet us here... ” He broke off, his voice drowned by the rumbling thump of rap music. The black Cadillac Escalade pulled up alongside Shea’s pickup, the heavy bass rattling his windows.

Raven and Pachonka climbed out. Leather car coats, shades. Raven’s left arm was suspended in a blue shoulder sling under his coat.

“Who we got here?” Puck asked. “The freakin’ Sopranos?”

Puck and Shea stepped out of the pickup. Both of them North-Country working class. Faded jeans, sweat-stained baseball caps, Carhartt vests, steel-toed boots. Faces rough and reddened from working in the wind. A matched set, blue-collar men, before and after, thirty years apart.

“Mr. Raven? I’m Dan Shea. This is my foreman, Puck Paquette.”

“Beau Jean Raven,” the black man said. “That’s Tommy Pachonka.” Nobody offered to shake hands. “So, what do you think? Is it doable?”

“Is what doable?” Shea asked. “You don’t mean this old... fish house?”

“It looks rough, but that’s how you guys earn your money, right? I have architectural drawings in the car. Would you like to check them over?”

“Why don’t you just walk us through it first,” Shea said doubtfully. “Might save time all around.”

“Fine. Got a flashlight? Power’s turned off in there.”

Grabbing a lantern out of the glove box, Puck fell into step with Pachonka, following Shea and Raven across the ramp.

“For openers, you’re gonna need a new ramp,” Puck said, kicking at a loose timber. Pachonka glanced at him, but didn’t reply.

The front door was padlocked and Raven’s key didn’t seem to fit. Annoyed, he reared back and kicked the door in, nearly tearing it off its hinges.

“And a new door,” Puck added.

Inside, the building was musty, dusty and dim. And huge. Puck played his light across the cobwebbed ceiling peak, two and a half stories above the rough wooden floor, massive wooden roof beams the size of tree trunks. Except for a couple of corner offices, the room was entirely open, no partitions.

“Floor’s rock solid,” Raven said, stamping his foot for emphasis. “They used to store ice blocks in here to preserve the fish, stacked it all the way to the ceiling. Must’ve weighed thirty, forty tons. The plans call for adding a second level in here, twelve feet up, steel beams bolted to the original building frame for support. The new upper level will be a loft, living quarters with a lot of light and a full view of the bay. Windows all around, skylights in the ceiling. With me so far?”

Shea nodded.

“The bedrooms and baths will be partitioned off, but I want everything else left open to the light. See that little door at the far peak? It leads to a tackle tower outside, built out over the water. It held the winch for lifting the ice blocks. I want that tower enlarged into an office, fourteen foot square, glass walls.” He glanced the question at Shea.

“If they winched ice up from it, it should be solid enough for an addition.”

“The ground floor will be partitioned,” Raven continued. “Weight room, laundry room, storage room, a heated garage, and a workshop for my motorcycles. Still with me?”

“Sure you don’t want one of them discos down here while we’re at it?” Puck asked drily.

“I’ll let you know. Can you do the job or not?”

“Maybe,” Shea nodded, scanning the room. “What you’ve described is complicated but not impossible, Mr. Raven. Pretty damned expensive, though.”

“The architects priced it out at two hundred and eighty thousand, give or take ten percent. Does that sound right to you?”

“I’d have to check their paperwork,” Shea said, “but it’s in the ballpark. Can you play ball in that park, Mr. Raven?”

“I have a little over two hundred thou in savings. I can finance the balance.”

“That might be a problem. Loan officers don’t like jobs like this.”

“Our bank will cover it,” Pachonka said.

“You fellas own a bank, do ya?” Puck asked.

“We work for one. Sort of. M.T.C.A. Mohawk Tribal Casino Administration, St. Regis, New York.”

“You’re a long way from home.”

“Only me. Beau Jean is half Ojibwa, so Northern Michigan is home, I guess. He’s sector boss for the Midwest. The Financial section will cover anything he needs.”

“Must be nice,” Puck said. “What kind of work you fellas do, exactly?”

“Collections,” Pachonka said with a smile that never reached his eyes. “Write a bum check, cancel a credit card, scam a casino dealer, we’ll be around to see you. Some white people shouldn’t gamble.”

“Some Mohawks shouldn’t talk so much,” Beau Jean said. “What else do you need to see, Mr. Shea?”

“We’ll have to look under the building, check the support structure.”

“Let’s get to it, then.”

Two people were waiting on the shore side of the ramp when they came out. A woman, late twenties, tweed sport coat and jeans, auburn hair cropped short. Pretty, in a tomboyish way. Her companion was taller, elderly, with thinning silver hair, sunken cheeks. Blue cardigan with a matching bow tie.

“Excuse me,” the woman called, “we’re looking for a Mr. Raven?”

“That would be me,” Beau said, crossing the ramp with Pachonka at his shoulder. “What’s up?”

If the woman was intimidated, it didn’t show. “I’m Erin Mullaney and this is—”

“—Mr. Stegman,” Beau finished for her. “Nice to see you again. Still running the supermarket on Montreal Street?”

“No, I’m retired now but — I’m sorry, have we met?”

“A few years back. Maybe thirty. You caught me stealing comic books in your store, slapped me around pretty good. Called me some pretty ugly names. Funny you don’t remember. I was the only black kid in town. And I definitely remember you.”

Stegman started to shake his head, then hesitated, reading Beau Jean’s face. “My God. Raven. You’re Mary Raven’s... boy.”

“Mary Raven’s pickaninny, you mean? That’s what people used to call me. Not politically correct nowadays, but I guess those were different times.”

“I’m sorry. I—”

“No need to apologize, it was a long time ago. Still, it seems like there ought to be some sort of... settlement.” Reaching inside his coat, Beau took out his wallet, peeled off a bill, and held it out.

“Here, Mr. Stegman. Fifty bucks for all the times you didn’t catch me stealing comic books.”

“I don’t want your money,” Stegman said, reddening.

“Then give it to charity,” Beau said, stuffing the bill in the older man’s shirt pocket. “I always pay what I owe.”