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

“It was worse,” Puck said. “Loggin’s a tough life.”

“Yeah, I bet it was,” Beau said, shrugging his leather coat on over his sling.

“Where you goin’?” Pachonka asked.

“To cut a damn deal.”

“With that redhead?” Pachonka grinned. “Dirty job but somebody’s gotta do it. Want company?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

City hall was a Main Street storefront with a sign in the window. Wolf Woman Bay, Village Office. A bell jingled as Beau stepped in. Small room, knotty-pine paneling, a Formica counter. Erin Mullaney alone at her desk. White blouse, blue skirt. Prim as a nun. A pretty nun. Scowling over a spreadsheet. On seeing Beau, her frown deepened.

“Mr. Raven, what can the village do for you today?”

“What makes you think I need something?”

“Because you’re not the kind of guy who drops by to shoot the breeze. What’s the problem?”

“I don’t have one, you do. The boat ramps on the harbor. I own them now. I’m told the locals want them kept open.”

“It would be convenient. The public’s always had the use of those ramps.”

“Not anymore, sorry. I prefer to keep them private, but—” He held up his hand, stifling her objections. “—since the construction crew will be repaving the ramp to my building anyway, I can arrange to have them build new boat ramps on the public parking lot next-door. We can split the cost fifty-fifty. Does that sound fair?”

“More than fair,” she said warily. “And in return you’d want... ?”

“Zero. Nada. Consider it a peace offering. All I want is to be left alone.”

“Odd attitude for a guy building a house in the middle of a town park.”

“Anything I do to that building will be an improvement. Hell, dynamite would be an improvement. So is it my building you don’t like, or just me?”

“It has nothing to do with you. We had plans for that building. A museum, a gift shop for tourists—”

“Get over it. I have plans of my own.”

“Plans for a home? Or for getting even?”

“Getting even? Whoa up, where’s that coming from?”

“I’ve heard stories about your childhood here—”

“These people don’t know squat about my childhood. Know what they used to call me? Mary Raven’s lil’ pickaninny. My dad was an airman from the base at K.I. Sawyer, killed in Vietnam. No other blacks here, so I was the town joke. After my mom got fed up and took off, I fought my way through foster care till I was old enough to enlist. Three tours in the Corps: Beirut, Iraq. Then a security job with the Mohawk Nation. All the time saving every damn dime so I could live where I want, the way I want.”

“Even in a place where you’re not welcome?”

“Lady, I collect gambling debts for a living. Nobody rolls out the welcome mat for me, but nobody runs me off, either. We can all get along or not, that’s up to you people. Either way, I’m here to stay. Get used to it.”

“Mr. Raven?”

He turned, his hand on the door. “What?”

“You’re right. It’s not your fault our plans for the fish house fell through. We should have worked harder to make them happen. As you did. Your offer to build new boat ramps is very generous. I’ll take it to the council. But to be honest, I doubt they’ll accept it. People are pretty upset.”

“Whatever.”

“But for what it’s worth, not everyone’s unhappy you’re here.”

“No?”

“No. You’ve made my job a little more complicated but at least it isn’t boring. I’ll let you know what the council decides.”

“Right. Do that. And... thanks.”

“No charge. Anything else?”

“Just one thing. Used to be a guy here named Tobias Gesh. He wrote to me when my grandfather died. Know him?”

“Old Toby? Sure. Still lives in the same place.”

“Which is?”

“A cabin west of town on Old Reservation Road. The gravel ends about three miles out, but just keep going. Can’t miss it. Figures you’d want to see him.”

“Why?”

“Because the locals call Toby the last wild Indian. Of course, that was before you showed up. Have a nice day, Mr. Raven.”

Mullaney was right, he couldn’t miss it. But getting there wasn’t easy.

After a mile or so, the dirt road narrowed to a two-rut trail barely wide enough for the Escalade. It took Beau nearly forty minutes to crawl back to Gesh’s place in low gear.

Erin had called it a cabin but it wasn’t, exactly. It was a hogan, a traditional Ojibwa log hut, sod-roofed. Seemed such a natural part of the forest that it could have grown there like a wild mushroom amid the dark pines surrounding it. Cords of firewood were stacked neatly along one wall. Antlered deer skull nailed up over the door.

Stepping out of the black Cadillac, Beau tapped the horn. “Mr. Gesh?”

“Around back.”

Following the voice, Beau circled the lodge. Old guy out back, seamed face dark as walnut, flannel shirt, jeans, moccasins, buckskin vest, shaggy mane of gray hair. Sitting on a stump, scraping the fat off a beaver hide with a bowie knife. Other furs stretched on hoops were drying in the sun. Muskrat, coyote.

“Mr. Gesh? I’m—”

“—Mary Raven’s kid,” the old man finished for him. “Heard you were in town. Pull up a stump, set yourself. Got anything to drink?”

“No, sir, sorry. Didn’t know I was coming.”

“Just as well. What can I do for ya?”

“For openers, I wanted to thank you for writing to me when my grandfather died. It meant a lot.”

“But not enough to bring you back for his funeral.”

“I was stationed in Beirut at the time, got your letter a couple of weeks late.”

“Figured it was like that. Well, for what it’s worth, Frank didn’t feel no pain. Died like he lived, drunk as a skunk. Got trashed out of his skull one night, never woke up. For guys our generation, it was natural causes.”

“What about his funeral? Do I owe anybody for that?”

“Nah, the tribe paid for it. They got plenty of casino money and it didn’t amount to much anyway. Just me and a couple old-timers. Your grandfather didn’t have many friends. From what I hear, you’re not so different. Why’d you come back, anyway? Ain’t no casinos around here.”

“Maybe that’s why. I’m done with casinos. Seen too much of the harm they can do.”

“Never cared for ‘em much myself,” Gesh said, flicking a dollop of fat off the blade of his knife. “Not natural for Native people to earn that way. Playin’ white man’s crazy games.”

“Do you know if my grandfather ever heard from my mother? Where she went to? Anything at all?”

“No.” He paused, frowning. “He never said nothin’ about Mary one way or the other. But it wasn’t like we was big pals. Just knew each other a long time. Are you tryin’ to find her?”

“Why should I? She gave me up.”

“That was pretty common back in them days. Before the casinos, the Anishnabeg people had nothin’. Whites made our kids cut their hair, educated ‘em in white schools. Made ‘em ashamed of what they were. Nobody wanted to be Ojibwa back then. Now everybody does. Even black guys.”

“Is that how you see me?”

“You shave in a mirror every morning. What do you see?”

“I’m not sure anymore. When I was a soldier, I traveled, saw a lot of the world. Seems like I’ve been moving most of my life. I need a place of my own now. A place I belong.”

“And you think you belong in Wolf Woman country?”

“I was born here.”

“I was born in a hospital in Manistique. Don’t figure I belong there.”

“You know what I mean.” Raven glanced around, taking in the woodland clearing, the scent of hides drying on hoops, woodsmoke rising from the hogan. Remembering other scenes like it. Hazy memories from long ago. In other lives.