Up North

By Tom Tytar

For readers who enjoy hardboiled pulp crime fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098395438

Book preview

ONE

It was 10 a.m., late July, with the sun rising in the sky already heating up the day. She was there on the beach. Beautiful legs with well-shaped calves, her toes dipping into the water. A tawny wave of hair fanned out over the shoulders and her skin was pale as skim milk. She wore a turquoise string bikini, and there was a girl riding a dolphin tattooed on the small of her back.

Her face was buried in two inches of sand on the shore of Sweetwater Lake. The body wasn’t bloated, so she hadn’t been in the water for very long.

Sweetwater Springs Village Constable John Angelo knelt down and rolled the woman over exposing her face and an open mouth full of sand. She looked to be in her twenties. Her nose was crushed like it had been hit with a heavy object and there were black and blue marks covering her mid-section indicating she’d taken several hard blows to the gut.

My God, she’s just a kid.

Those words came from the mouth of Clyde Wodarski who hovered nearby as he pulled his flat shiny eyes away. His voice sounded like it was battery-operated. He was an older gentleman, late seventies, dressed in Bermuda shorts, a flowered shirt, and most notable, over the calf black socks and black leather wingtip shoes. Not your typical lakefront beach attire. But this wasn’t a typical beach or a typical lake in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. It was Sweetwater Lake. Ten miles long. One mile wide. Three hundred feet deep with a sand bottom and water as clear and pure as a mountain spring.

Angelo, sandy brown hair and a combination of Irish and Italian good looks with the face of Steve McQueen aged ten years, stood and took a couple of steps back from the body and said, You don’t recognize her?

No. Lot of high school and college kids around here. She could be anyone of them. Or maybe she worked at Diamond Jack’s at the south end of the lake. They hire a boatload of young girls every summer. Whoever she is, probably got drunk last night at one of those pontoon parties with all the other beboppers, went for a swim and drowned. Somebody ought to be able to identify her on account of that racy tattoo. Ya know what I mean? Like I said, I was having my morning coffee up there on my deck when I spotted something on shore.

Beboppers? Now there’s a term from out of the past. Old man Wodarski was a relic, living a high pension, low-mileage life. Probably spent all his days up there on his deck watching the boats go by humming the tunes of Benny Goodman and Tommy Dorsey.

Angelo looked up at Wodarski’s house. It was one of those split-level mid-century modern creations built back in the 1950s that dotted the landscape of suburbia U.S.A. It was a lakefront home, but it didn’t look out of place. Other similar homes, some smaller, a few larger, surrounded the entire lake. There was one home that stood out. It wasn’t lakefront. It was smack dab in the middle of the lake on an island. To call it a home was to sell it short. It was a big castle constructed of gray granite, and it stood out like a monument to lavish wealth. It had a black slate roof and two tall towers and looked ready to ward off any 9th century hoard of Viking marauders. There was a one-hundred and sixty-foot luxury yacht tied up at the dock. The boat was all polished wood and gleaming chrome.

Angelo stood there in his new constable uniform of blue gabardine slacks and tan shirt, adjusted the Colt .45 on his hip, slid on his Ray Ban Aviator sunglasses against the glare of the sun, and trained his eyes on that castle on the island in the middle of the lake.

The owner putt-putt around the lake in that big boat?

You’re that new fella they just hired from Detroit, aren’t you? How long you been on the job?

Angelo, his body loose and relaxed. Nonchalant as he edged his eyes over to the old man.

Two days. The owner got a name?

The drink showed in Wodarski’s face and bulbous nose. That morning coffee he was drinking probably had a couple of shots of Polish vodka. He looked like the kind of guy who got his eight hours every night and didn’t owe anyone any favors.

His name’s Archie Aho. He uses the boat for parties. The after-sundown drinkers. He takes them out to Lake Superior through the channel on the north end.

That last name brought surprise to the lilt of Angelo’s voice.

Aho? That a joke?

Yeah, sure sounds like it, but he’s a Finn. Lots of them here in the U.P. His family goes back near a hundred years. Made all their money in the copper mines. They owned a string of them. Own this lake and all the land surrounding it. We own our homes but not the land they sit on. We just lease it from the Aho family trust.

Angelo knelt down next to the body again and said, Strange, isn’t it?

What’s strange?

Her busted nose and the bruises on her belly.

The old guy thought on that a second, then grinned a tired smile.

These kids aren’t the sharpest tools in the toolbox. All they want to do is party and get plastered. Ya know what I mean? She must’ve been hit by a boat. That’s the way I’d figure it.

Angelo stood and pulled his notebook out of his back pocket and checked his notes.

Let me get this straight again. You walked out on your deck this morning and saw something floating up on shore. Said you thought it was a log, but when you got down here you saw the body. You called me, then went back up to your house, finished your morning coffee and waited till I arrived. That the gist of it?

That’s all I know. You called Cusak’s Funeral Home over in Lakeview, I hope? Ralph’s the Township Coroner, but I’m sure you know that. It’s supposed to hit eighty-five today. I don’t want this girl lying here in the sun too long stinking up my front yard. I got a plumber coming this morning to put in a new toilet in the bathroom. Ya know what I mean?

Angelo looked at Wodarski standing there in his black socks and wingtips and knew exactly what he meant. Dead Jane Doe was a nobody and he could give a rat’s ass, other than she might stink up the place and, God forbid, interfere with him getting that new toilet.

TWO

Angelo talked to Ralph Cusak on the phone before he left the girl’s body at the lake. The funeral home director/Township Coroner had assured him he would do a thorough autopsy on the girl’s body. The only lead Angelo had was the tattoo and maybe she worked at Diamond Jack’s on the south end of the lake. Being new to the job and the area, it was a place Angelo hadn’t visited yet. He’d heard talk of it downstate over the years as the hot spot nightclub in the U.P. He decided to drive down there and check the place out, maybe someone could identify her by that tattoo. It would take him about twenty minutes to get there.

Diamond Jack’s was a roadside diner or roadhouse. It was two story, built of solid cedar with shake shingles, and was showing its weathered age. A large neon sign graced the front entrance held in place by a welded metal frame. It was the lone structure on this end of the lake and it stood out among the tall pine and cedar trees that blocked out the sun on this hot July morning, 1967.

John Angelo parked his new Ford Fairlane police cruiser by the front door in the empty parking lot. The car had all the bells and whistles. A huge spotlight on the driver-side door. A wire cage separated the front seat from the back and a twelve-gauge Winchester pump shotgun was tucked under the dash. A mile-wide rack of lights stretched across the roof and in the trunk was a bulletproof vest, fire extinguisher, bullhorn, box of smoke bombs and, for good measure, a tear gas gun with enough grenades to rout a small army. The car had less than one-hundred miles on the odometer and had that new car smell of vinyl seats and polyester carpet.

If you were the only law enforcement in the entire township you couldn’t ask for more. And that was one of the perks that lured Angelo out of retirement. No one under him, no one above him. Ten grand a year on top of his Detroit Police pension left him sitting pretty, or so he thought. If he needed backup there was that high-frequency police radio that he hadn’t even had a chance to break-in yet. But the closest law enforcement was the Michigan State Police Post in Wakefield and that was sixty miles away. Did Angelo need backup? He didn’t think so. Twenty years working Homicide and Vice gave him an air of confidence and a smattering of arrogance. No, Angelo decided he was the Lone Ranger on this suspicious death of one Jane Doe whose body washed up on shore and looked like she’d gone ten rounds with a heavyweight.

Angelo got out of the car and walked to the front door of Diamond Jack’s. A plaque next to the entrance said that the place was built by the WPA in 1935. He tried the door but it was locked. Another sign said that it was open Monday through Saturday, 5 p.m. to 2 a.m. He knocked a couple of times but no one answered. Angelo walked around to the lakefront side of the building. A large deck with tables and chairs looked out onto Sweetwater Lake. There were as many empty boat slips at the dock as there were spots in the parking lot.

A gaggle of young women, a dozen or so, sporting skimpy bikinis, sunned themselves on the beach. The women noticed Angelo as he noticed them. They had an Eastern European look. Tall, sad-eyed bottle blondes and raven-haired babes with naughty eyes. Swell lookers. Angelo waved with a friendly smile. Most of them turned away, but two blondes smiled and waved back. Angelo stepped onto the deck and peeked through a sliding glass door into the building. There was a woman walking toward him.

She opened the slider and said, You didn’t give me enough time to answer the front door, hon.

Those words came with a honeyed smile. She looked to be about sixty, with a pretty face, but acne-scarred, and a bird’s nest of platinum blonde hair piled high like whipped cream on top of her head. She wore a tight-fitting V-neck black T-shirt with the logo of Diamond Jack’s, and black pedal pushers. She was a little plump, thick in the waist, and the way she presented herself was like an invitation to dive right in. One eye didn’t work too well. It kept winking. Angelo noticed that right off.

Come on in. I’m Jenny Jorgenson. My husband Jack and I run the place. Can I get you a drink, hon?

Cup of coffee would be nice.

The inside of the joint had a well-worn maple floor and tables and chairs were set up for dining and drinks at one end. Wood folding chairs circled the large dance floor and a stage was set up at the opposite end of the dining area. The walls were yellowed knotty pine and covered with neon beer signs and framed photos of party-goers and dancing couples from years past.

Coffee comin’ right up. So, you be that new fella they hired. Even got ya a mighty-fine lookin’ uniform there. Old constable just wore street clothes. Didn’t look professional, ya know what I mean?

Angelo followed her to the bar and watched her pour him a cup of coffee. The bar was long and the maple top marred with names and what the carvers with their pocket knives thought at the time were catchy little phrases like Kilroy was here and Call Brenda for a good time.

Jenny Jorgenson seemed to be a happy camper, not worn down by life living in the outback of beyond. She handed Angelo his coffee.

Fresh brewed for ya. Geez, that’s too bad about Sally McDonald. She was a pretty nice girl.

She poured a cup for herself.

Angelo had a thought…how does she know something happened to this girl, and how does she know her name… Sally McDonald?

Am I missing something here? I just found her body not an hour ago and you’re telling me her name and that she was a pretty nice girl?

Oh, geez. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to jump the gun on your investigation here, but word travels fast in this neck of the woods. And that tattoo she had? It was pretty smutty, if ya know what I mean?

Angelo studied her a moment. Hip-cocked against the bar showing him her profile while she sipped her coffee. Was this no shrinking violet stringing him along being cutesy with that down-home Yooper accent?

Mrs. Jorgenson. How do you know Sally McDonald?

Yah. She was a looker that girl, I mean to tell ya. A local girl. Tended bar for me last summer.

She leaned in close like she wanted to whisper something, but spoke in her normal tone.

It was the talk of the whole county. Her runnin’ off to Detroit with that colored fella.

Now her voice changed. She cupped a whisper.

Last we heard she even had a baby with him. Now I’m not one to be prejudiced, ya know what I mean? But some folks around here just don’t approve of those kinds of things.

She sipped her coffee and blinked her false eyelashes at him almost as if she was flirting. Sure. Not a lick of prejudice with this lily-white woman. Next thing she’ll be telling him is she marched with Martin Luther King.

Angelo finished his coffee and ran his fingers around the rim of the cup.

Have you heard anything, you know through the grapevine, about this man she was with in Detroit?

She said, Can I pour you another cup?

Angelo shook his head no.

She said, No one that I know of has heard from her since she left.

Does she have any relatives here I might contact?

"Dad died a few years back. Her mom passed when she was only three. Jim McDonald did a good job raising that child