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

“Who said anything about thumbing my nose?”

“I just did. You’ve obviously got some kind of beef, that’s why you lit into that Mr. Stegman, ain’t it?”

“He slapped me around when I was a kid. Seeing him again... maybe I overreacted. But that’s got nothing to do with building this house.”

“Don’t it?”

“No, Mr. Paquette, it doesn’t. Now about these support logs. The only way to salvage them is to tear the building down?”

“The only practical way,” Shea said. “You might be able to jack up the building, replace the beams with a concrete and steel framework, but it would take a year and eat up most of your profits.”

“Are the beams sound the way they are?”

“Appear to be. They’ll have to be inspected but they look rock solid.”

“Good. Then it’s nice to know they’re valuable but it doesn’t matter. If you want the remodeling job it’s yours, Mr. Shea.”

“Whoa up, Beau,” Pachonka said. “The man just said you can clear a quick hundred grand.”

“But only if I wreck the thing I came for,” Raven said. “That wouldn’t make much sense, would it?”

“You haven’t been making sense since that cracker popped you in Iowa. You got nailed in the arm, man, not the head. You need to start thinkin’ straight.”

“If you don’t like it here, Chunk, the keys are in the Caddy. Take off.”

“Not me,” Pachonka snorted. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

“What about you, Mr. Paquette? I get the feeling you don’t like me much.”

“Not much, no.”

“Which half bothers you? The Ojibwa half or the black half?”

“Color’s got nothin’ to do with it, sonny. I’ve worked with Indians all my life and I soldiered with blacks in Korea. We all bleed red. But I do have a problem with you.”

“What’s that?”

“The chip on your shoulder. This is rough country up here, Mr. Raven, with some pretty rough characters in it. If you’re here lookin’ for trouble, you’re damn sure gonna find it. If it don’t find you first.”

Shea shook his head, kissing the job goodbye. But again Raven’s smile surprised him.

“I’ll bear that in mind, Mr. Paquette. Thanks for telling me about the logs, gentlemen. I know you didn’t have to. So. Do you guys want the job or not?”

Two days later, the first trucks rolled in. Flatbeds carrying structural steel, fifty-foot H- and I-beams. Shea’s work crew followed the steel in a ragtag convoy of work vans and pickup trucks. A gypsy construction gang, six men plus Puck and Danny. North-Country boys from around Valhalla. Woolly and rough around the edges. Hard workers who knew their trades.

Job one? Tearing out the ramp from the shore to the fish house, replacing it with twelve-inch I-beams, bolted to concrete pylons ashore and the ancient railroad trestle supports over the water.

A few locals stopped by to eye the construction and the crew. One old-timer complained about the stack of steel girders blocking access to the boat ramps. Most left without saying much, a rare thing in a part of the country where common courtesy is still common.

First official visitor? The village constable. Old enough to vote but not much more. Looked like a kid dressed up to play sheriff: tan uniform, brown jacket, oversized baseball cap. Adolescent acne. Found Shea, Puck, Raven, and Pachonka in the fish-house office, scanning the architectural drawings.

“Who’s in charge here?”

“I’m Beau Jean Raven, it’s my property. What can I do for you, Officer?”

“I’m Constable Chabot. Those men out front work for you?”

“They work for me,” Shea said. “What’s the problem?”

“Half the parking lot is still city property. Your men are taking up most of the slots.”

“A few are still open and I haven’t noticed anybody using them.”

“Maybe they don’t like the company. There’s another lot up the street. Move some of those vehicles there, all right?”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“Nothing official, but some of the town folk are wondering about the boat ramps. You’ve got them blocked off. I understand they’re on your property now, Mr. Raven, but they’re the only access to the bay at this end of town. Are you going to keep them closed?”

“I haven’t given it much thought.”

“They have to stay blocked for now,” Shea said. “It’s a construction zone. What happens afterward is up to Mr. Raven.”

“Who hasn’t given it much thought. Okay, I’ll pass that along. Meantime, keep the parking lot clear, understand?”

“No problem.”

“You’d best think hard about keeping those ramps open for the locals,” Puck said after the constable left.

“Why? There’s another park with ramps at the far side of town. They still have free access to the bay.”

“You’re not seeing it the way they do. When we finish this remodel it’ll be a showplace, a three-story home in the heart of the town shoreline. It’ll have a great view of the bay, five miles out at least. And your house will be visible just as far. Man goes out to do a little fishing, get away from things. He looks up, first thing he sees will be your place. It’s like you’re making the bay your own private pond, Mr. Raven. Or is that the point?”

“The point is, I’m turning an eyesore into something special. It’s got nothing to do with anybody but me.”

“It ain’t that simple. Look at these old pictures on the wall. The bay full of logs from one end to the other. Most of these folks came here then to work the timber. After the virgin forest was logged off and the Fires took the rest, they stuck it out, fished the lakes for a living. Now that’s played out, too. But they still hang on, doing what they can to make a life in this country, raise their kids. An outsider comes in, buys up—”

“Outsider?” Raven snapped. “Mister, I’ve been gone awhile but I was born in this town. And you don’t have to tell me squat about fishing. My mother worked in this building. Standing at a long table with a half-dozen other women, mostly Ojibwa, cleaning fish with big-ass scissors. Snip off the head, zip open the belly, scoop out the guts with your thumb. Her hands always ripped up by fish bones. Don’t tell me how tough life is around here, pops. I know all about it.

“Know what a gutbucket man is? End of the day, all the fish heads and guts are dumped in a big tub. Somebody’s gotta row that tub way the hell and gone out in the bay, dump it downwind, away from the town. The gutbucket man. Filthy job. Ojibwa job. My grandfather’s job. Everybody else is headed home for supper, we’re puttin’ out in the bay with a stinkin’ tub of fish guts. Gramps half drunk—” Raven broke off suddenly, turning away, massaging his injured shoulder.

“Look, I don’t want anything from these people, but they’ve got no favors coming from me, either. I just want to wake up in my house, make a fresh cup of coffee, watch the sun climb out of the bay. If anybody’s got a problem with that, tough rocks.”

“It’s not just their problem, Mr. Raven,” Shea said, “it’s yours, too.”

“How so?”

“For openers, we aren’t likely to get that commercial-zoning variance you want from the city council.”

“I can manage without it.”

“Sure you can. And if the local building inspector gives us trouble we can appeal his rulings to the state board, but it’ll cost time and money. It’d be a lot simpler to make peace, try to get along.”

“Hate to say it, but the cracker’s making sense, Beau,” Pachonka said. “Sooner you finish this dump, sooner we get back to real life. Do a deal.”

Pausing in front of the old pictures of the bay, Beau shook his head. “Man. I wonder if it was this complicated a hundred years ago?”