From a distance, it looked like an honest-to-God log cabin hewed with ax and saw. It wasn’t until I was up close that I noticed the nailheads. And it wasn’t until I opened the door to discover a polished interior filled with black leather, mirrored surfaces, and glass—not an earth tone in sight—that I realized the logs were merely a facade. Is nothing real anymore? Even the hair on the receptionist looked fake, a cascading waterfall of midnight that splashed over her shoulders and down her back. Against her pale face it looked like a wig displayed on a mannequin’s head.
The name plate on her desk read ANGEL JOHANNSON, and perhaps there had been a time when the name applied. But no longer. Angel Johannson had lost the wholesome innocence usually associated with the species, her face taking on the mistrustful countenance of one who’s fallen from grace. According to the inscribed date, the high-school graduation ring she wore was only two years old.
I guessed she was the daughter of the infamous Johnny Johannson and sister to the punk. How many Angel Johannsons could there be in Deer Lake?
“May I help you?” she asked pleasantly enough.
“I’d like to speak with Michael Bettich,” I told her.
She hesitated before answering, “I’m afraid you must have the wrong office.”
“Is this the address of Rosalind Colletti Investments?”
She repeated herself, never taking her eyes off me. “I’m afraid you must have the wrong office.”
“This is where the United States Post Office sent me.”
“Perhaps you’d care to speak with Mr. Koehn.”
“Does he know Michael Bettich?” I asked sarcastically.
“Mr. Koehn can help you.”
“Fine, I’d like to speak with Mr. Koehn.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Koehn is not in at the present time,” Angel informed me. “If you would care to leave a message …”
This is going well, I told myself. “When do you expect Mr. Koehn? ” I asked.
“I really couldn’t say. He’s at the rallies.”
“Rally?”
“Rallies,” she said, emphasizing the plural. “Some folks want the casino, some don’t. At the park,” she added, gesturing vaguely west with her hand.
Along with my business card I gave her my best Arnold. “Tell Michael I’ll be back.”
“I told you, she isn’t here,” Angel insisted.
“How did you know Michael is a she?”
The church, a small brick affair with glass doors and a steeple topped with a crucifix, was rooted in a large field on the right side of the county road. It left me feeling a slight pang of nostalgia. I hadn’t been inside a church since that bright autumn day when services were held for my wife and daughter, and won’t I catch hell about that the next time I see them.
In front of the church was a small platform, perhaps two feet high. Not high enough for the anti-casino protesters in back to see the speakers, though, and many stood on tiptoe and craned their necks. What they didn’t see were two men, one sitting on a metal folding chair, the other standing before a single microphone. The man sitting was a priest. From a distance, he reminded me of the priest who had heard the confessions of my teammates and I when we were in high school. Right after practice the day before every football game, he would hear our confessions, and no matter what our individual transgressions, each one of us was given the same penance: five Hail Mary’s and five Our Father’s. We called him Father Minute Wash.
The casino proponents were gathered in a park on the left side of the county road, the Augustus Eubanks Memorial Park, dedicated to the memory of the only Kreel County resident to fall in the Sioux Uprising of 1862—it said so on the metal plaque attached to the huge rock at the park entrance. The platform in the park was much higher, nearly ten feet. This time it was the people in front who had the most trouble seeing the speakers.
About two hundred fifty people were in each camp, many of them holding signs that I couldn’t read from where I stood on the road. Dueling protest rallies in the heart of conservative Wisconsin. I had to admit, I was fairly impressed. They weren’t in the same league as the 1960s civil rights marches or early 1970s anti-Vietnam War rallies, still … Come to think of it, I hadn’t been this close to a protest rally since the Vietnam War, and even then I had only joined to meet girls. The draft had been abolished before I started high school, and I didn’t personally know anyone who was over there, so what the hell.
From where I stood, I could hear the speakers who addressed both sides, their words wafting up from the amplifiers a full two beats behind the gestures that accompanied them. It reminded me of a badly dubbed Japanese movie:
“Hope, this time, is more than the fleeting, seasonal stirrings of spring. It is concrete, and is being poured by workmen just down the road.…”
“If gambling is our game, we should be ashamed.…”
“Look at them! They say no to gaming. I say, Where were you when the Kreel County Civic Center needed your support? …”
“They call it gaming. Gaming is softer and nicer than gambling. But it isn’t the right word. Gaming is checkers and Monopoly and hopscotch. Gambling is when there is a bet on the outcome of a game.…”
“A casino will supply jobs. Many jobs. Real jobs.…”
“What’s next? Hookers in low-cut sequined dresses on Broadway and drive-by shootings in the neighborhoods? …”
“Yes, some people will have a gambling problem. It does break up some families. So does alcoholism, but shutting down the bars wasn’t the answer for that.…”
“What message are we sending to our children if we condone gambling in this community?…”
“It’s a chance to pull ourselves up. It’s a chance to make our community strong again, for us and our children.…”
I paid little attention to the rhetoric. What was the point? Whenever questions of morals and sin arise, factions quickly form and become so deeply entrenched that compromise usually becomes impossible. Just ask the people who have been warring over abortion for the past few decades. Besides, it wasn’t my town.
Instead of listening, I watched a few Kreel County deputies as they sauntered quietly through the two crowds, looking for trouble; others were leaning casually against cars parked along the county road. I was searching for Gretchen Rovick, hoping I’d see her before she saw me. I didn’t want her to know I was in town. Gretchen had lied to me. She had known Alison was in Deer Lake, of course she had. She’d probably helped her disappear in the first place.
I moved to a large oak tree and hid behind it. Two teenagers sought refuge in the same spot, both sporting hairdos that were quite the rage among young men in the Twin Cities about five years ago. They were passing a joint between them, telling each other what a bitch it was growing up in Deer Lake. Yeah, they knew where it was at, and it wasn’t anywhere near them, no way. They had seen the world on Daddy’s satellite dish, and they wanted a piece of it.
I plucked the joint from the taller teenager’s mouth, dropped it to the ground, and squashed it beneath my heel. I’ve seen what drugs do to people, I’ve seen it up close and personal, and I’m no fan. Anyone who tells me grass should be legalized gets it right in the neck. They argue that alcohol is worse. Maybe so. But you can have a drink or two without getting drunk. You can have a glass of wine with dinner or a few beers at the ball game and not be any worse off for it. But you can’t smoke a joint without getting high. And after a while you crave a higher high. Then a higher one still. Pretty soon you want to be up there all the time, until you crash and burn. Not everyone, no. But enough. I’ve seen them. I’ve arrested them.
The teenager stared defiantly, wondering what to do about me until his companion whispered to him, “Narc.” They both smiled nervously and walked away without looking back. I did the same, retreating to The Height until the rallies broke up and King Koehn returned to his office.