“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.
“Yeah, I guess I know what you mean,” the old man admitted, squinting up at him. “And I guess you got a right to come back here. But as far as belonging? If I was you, sonny, I wouldn’t try puttin’ that to no vote.”
Fish-house office: Beau, Shea, and Puck.
“So?” Shea asked.
“I gave it a shot,” Beau shrugged. “The lady doubts it’ll fly.”
“Like sendin’ Attila the freakin’ Hun to a tea dance,” Puck groused. “Now what?”
“We’d best find out how tough they’re going to make it,” Shea said. “Pull two men off the ramp and dig out around a couple of the support pilings. I’ll ask the county building inspector to check ‘em. If he’s gonna jack us around, we might as well know up front.”
“And if he does?” Beau asked.
“Those supports may be a hundred years old but they’d hold up the Sears Tower. If he won’t approve them, we can file a complaint with the Bureau of Construction Codes, ask for a state inspection. We’ll win, but it’ll take time.”
“How much time?”
“Depends. Might take a month for the inspector to show up.”
The next afternoon, Shea was installing headers for the new door when a white Chevy van pulled into the lot. Lanky older guy in coveralls and a painter’s cap clambered out, carrying a clipboard.
“Mr. Shea? I’m Howard Donakowski, township building inspector. Understand you’ve got some supports you need checked.”
“Right. Thanks for coming out so quickly.” Shea tossed aside his wrench, waving Puck over. “They’re down here.”
“Do tell,” Donakowski said sourly, following Puck and Shea down the bank into the soft sand beneath the fish house, now neatly raked. “Any idea how old these timbers are, Mr. Shea?”
“Older’n any of us, but in better shape,” Puck answered.
“Speak for yourself,” Donakowski grunted, kneeling down beside one of the two beams Puck had dug out, prodding the concrete base with a scratch awl, then jabbing the timber as he rose. “The bases are original Portland cement. Gotta be a hundred freakin’ years old.”
“Still rock-solid, though.” Shea said.
“That one seems to be.” Donakowski conceded, crossing to the other, repeating the process. “You only dug out two. I count... twenty-four.”
“We checked the others down to the ground, they’re all in perfect shape. We’d replace ‘em if they weren’t.”
“Damn straight you would. I wouldn’t pass them otherwise,” Donakowski finished filling out the check sheet. Signing it, he tore off the small green sticker at the bottom and gave it to Shea. “You’re approved.”
“Thanks,” Shea said, surprised, checking the number on the sticker against the sheet, to be sure it was in order. “We appreciate it.”
“You should. I’ll tell you flat out, Mr. Shea. I don’t like this project of yours. An outsider buyin’ up the only dock this end of town to build a fancy condo? Lived here all my life, like the harbor just fine the way it is.
“If it was up to me, I’d chickenshit this job every step of the way. Make you dig out every damn one of those pilings, check every timber for plumb, exactly ninety degrees, you know the drill. But I’ve got my orders. Keep your work up to code, you won’t have any problems with me. See you boys around.”
“Right,” Shea said, giving Puck a what-the-hell look. “Thanks for coming out.”
“He didn’t hassle you at all?” Raven said when they told him. “Why not? What’s up with that?”
“The man said he had his orders,” Puck shrugged. “Must be small-town politics involved. Same families probably been runnin’ this place for a hundred years. Maybe you’ve got a friend here you don’t know about.”
“Not likely. Well, maybe one. So what does this mean to the project?”
“Katie bar the door.” Puck grinned. “If we’re gonna be inside before the snow flies, it’s pedal to the metal from here on, full speed ahead.”
As soon as the new ramp was complete, Shea backed the flatbed across it and unloaded the I-beams into the warehouse. Inside, the crew began bolting them together like an Erector set, stiffening the original structure and creating a support base for the new second floor.
On the roof, a three-man crew began stripping off the old shingles, leveling or replacing uneven boards, marking it off for skylights and modern shake-style architectural shingles. Shea was pushing the crew hard, ten-hour days, sometimes more.
No complaints. The men were used to the grind and happy to collect the overtime pay, knowing the first winter gales could sweep down anytime. Nobody wanted to be skating around on a roof or wrestling steel beams in the wind at ten below.
The first week blew past in a blur. Men cursing, riveting the building’s new steel skeleton into place, trash trucks dropping off dumpsters which the roofers promptly filled, suppliers delivering materials for the first phase of construction: rough lumber, shingles, skylights for the roof, rolls of Tyvek insulation wrap to seal the building, prepping the walls for cedar siding.
Then? Trouble. Shea and Puck found it when they arrived at first light. Paint thrown against the side of the building, lumber stacks tipped over. Nigger spray-painted over the old Jastrow’s Fish Wholesale sign.
The constable was already leaving when Raven and Chunk rolled in.
“What’s all this?” Raven asked.
“Kids, according to the local junior G-man,” Shea said.
“What kids?”
“He doesn’t know,” Puck said. “He’s gonna look into it.”
“How much damage?”
“Nothing serious. The paint they slopped around doesn’t really hurt anything, we’re re-siding the building anyway. I’ll have my guys pick up the lumber and paint over the racial slur—”
“Leave it. It doesn’t bother me.”
“It bothers me,” Puck said.
“Whatever. What do we do about this?”
“I’ll move a cot into the office,” Shea said. “Keep a man here at night.”
“No need for that. I can sleep here.”
“That’s not a good idea, Mr. Raven. You’ve got a bum wing and I don’t think kids did this.”
“Neither do I. That’s why I want to be here if they show up again. Don’t worry about my arm.”
“It’s not just the arm,” Puck said. “If they know you’re here alone they may decide to have a go at you.”
“Good. Let’s get back to work. Winter’s coming.”
That afternoon, Raven was in the fish-house office scanning delivery lists when there was a knock on the door.
“Got a minute?” Erin Mullaney asked, stepping in. She was wearing a somber blue business suit and a look to match.
“What’s up, Red?”
“I stopped to let you know about the council meeting last night. They didn’t grant your zoning variance. Sorry.”