“So basically you have nothing new?” Dross said.
“Basically,” Cork said. “How about the Reinhardt shooting? Anything new there?”
“You mean aside from Will Kingbird’s confession?” Larson said.
“You believe his confession, Ed?”
“Why shouldn’t I? We didn’t exactly beat it out of him.” Larson gave him a piercing look. “Unless you know something we don’t.”
They all sat eyeing one another while dust slid down the plank of sunlight.
“I don’t know what that would be,” Cork said.
Dross glanced at her watch. “Then I guess there’s not much more to talk about this morning.” She folded her hands on the desk and stared at Cork until he stood. “Keep us informed, okay?”
“Sure, Marsha.” He nodded to Larson. “Ed.”
Rutledge stood up, too. “I’ll walk Cork to his car.”
Across the street from the sheriff’s department, the park was full of children, giddy on that warm Saturday morning, bathed in the promise of spring. Rutledge stood by Cork’s Bronco eyeing the park and smiling broadly.
“Chase has a track meet this afternoon,” he said, speaking of his teenage son. “I’d love to be there.”
“But you won’t?”
“Duty calls.”
“What’s going on, Simon? Back there in Marsha’s office, I had the feeling we were all playing ring around the rosy. What do you guys know that I don’t?”
“There’s a rumor floating around that you’ve been retained by the Iron Lake Ojibwe, Cork.”
“I’m not going to say that’s true, but supposing it is?”
“How does it go in the Bible, the line about no man serving two masters?”
“Gospel of Matthew, and I don’t think it applies. We’ve all got parallel interests here, it seems to me, Simon. Everyone’s concerned with the same truths.”
“Same truths, maybe. Not necessarily the same outcomes.”
“All the Ojibwe want is justice.”
“And what exactly is that, Cork? Seems to me a little like the story of the blind men and the elephant. Everyone has a different interpretation.” Rutledge had been grinning affably, but now he stopped. “Remember one thing. We’re the cops. We can hold stuff back. You hold something back from us, it’s different.”
“I know the rules, Simon.”
“I’m sure you do.” He shook Cork’s hand cordially in parting and took a last wistful look at the park.
FORTY
On his way out of town, Cork stopped at Sam’s Place to pick up some cash, which he kept in a safe he’d installed in the floor. When he pulled up to the old Quonset hut, he saw a boat tied to the dock, near the picnic table, and a man and a boy standing at the serving windows. They watched him hopefully as he got out of his Bronco and walked toward them.
“Morning,” he said.
“Hi. You run the place, right?” the man greeted him.
“That I do.”
“Are you open today?”
“Usually I would be, but I’m running a little behind this year. I’m looking at next weekend for sure.”
“Oh.” The man glanced down at the boy, who didn’t look as if he was having the best of days. “We come every year for opener, always make a stop at Sam’s Place. Kind of a tradition.”
“I’m glad to hear it. How’s the fishing?”
“Not even a nibble so far,” the boy said, his disappointment obvious.
“Have you tried casting a line off North Point?” Cork said.
“No,” the man answered. “We were south.”
“There’s a drop-off about fifty yards to the west of the tip of the point. Usually good in early season. Give it a try. And I hate to send you to the competition, but if you dock at the Four Seasons in town, they serve a pretty mean cheeseburger. Of course, they’ll charge you double what you’d pay here.”
The man smiled at the boy. “What do you say?”
“That sounds okay. I’m hungry.”
The man offered Cork his hand. “Thanks.”
“Good luck with those walleyes.”
He watched them head to their boat and cast off, and he felt guilty for letting them down. He liked the idea that people counted on Sam’s Place, that they appreciated it enough to make it a part of their tradition. This created a different kind of contract with the public, it was more than just delivering good food. But there was nothing to be done about that now. He went inside to grab the money he’d come for.
It took him a couple of hours to drive to Duluth. Much of the way he thought about what had been planned at LeDuc’s store that morning. Dangerous business with the very real potential of ending badly. Good men might be hurt or killed and if that happened, how could it possibly be explained? Fortunately it would all go down on rez land, and the Iron Lake Ojibwe were good at keeping secrets. Or were they? Somehow Dross and the others had learned that he’d been retained and was now in the service of the Ojibwe.
But there was another, even deeper concern for Cork. He’d spent much of his life trying to prevent violence, yet here he was, party to a plan that almost ensured it. Was there some other way to confront an organization like the Latin Lords, for whom killing seemed to come as easily as sleep? He’d wrestled with the urge to talk to Marsha Dross, but he’d given his word to LeDuc, and he would stand by that. Besides, bringing in law enforcement would lead eventually to disclosures that would put a lot of the Red Boyz behind bars. It made sense for the Ojibwe to handle the situation. In the end, what Cork hoped was that the show of solidarity among the Anishinaabeg, the closing of the ranks between the young and old warriors, would be enough in itself to convince the Latin Lords that this was territory they should abandon. Whatever happened, for better or worse, he would be a part of it. In what was to come, he was one of The People.
When he arrived in Duluth, he was greeted with a fine day in the harbor city. The hills rose to the west, steep and green, and the streets that ran down toward Lake Superior were rivers flooded with the gush of spring sunshine. Two freighters lay anchored outside the harbor, awaiting permission to enter the port. They looked like black whales stranded on a blue beach. The Slow Burn Bar turned out to be on Superior Street, within sight of the harbor and the Lift Bridge. Cork parked at the curb and headed to the door. In the glass display out front was a poster hyping the Follies that occurred every Saturday night. The graphic illustration seemed to be suggestive of the Folies Bergere: a dance line of women lifting their dresses to show dark stockings and frilly underthings. Cork noted that the names of the featured performers, which were printed below the illustration, were all male.
Inside, the Slow Burn was quiet and, compared to the bright afternoon outside, dark. A dozen small, round tables were set about the central floor area, which was outlined with small booths lit by Tiffany-style lamps. Along one side of the room was a raised platform, a kind of stage, where performances-the Follies, perhaps-could take place. A beautifully restored wood bar with a long beveled-glass mirror behind it stretched almost the entire length of the back wall. Above the bar at one end hung a television, the only one in the place, tuned at the moment to a home-remodeling program but with the sound muted. The Slow Burn smelled of fine old wood and only faintly of booze. Two booths were occupied by couples. In another booth near the front sat a solitary drinker, a young woman, reading a book and sipping a Bloody Mary.
The bartender looked to be in his thirties, hair shaved to a shadow, wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt. “What can I get you?” he asked.
“Do you have Leinie’s on tap?”
“Only Honey Weiss.”
“What do you have in bottles?”
“Everything.”
