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  “Come spring,” Owen said, “I’m betting it’ll be my home run model.”

  Erling stood tall, stretching out his low back, then took his shovel and mimicked swinging it at a baseball. “Only home run I’m hoping for,” he said, taking a swing, “is the real thing. Did I tell ya? Babe Ruth’s doing a national tour. Big cities, except for one stop in a little town. Know where?”

  “I don’t know. International Falls? Ranier?”

  “Nope. Sleepy Eye, Minnesota.”

  “Where the heck is that?”

  “Southern part of the state somewhere. And I’m going. I’m going to catch a train and see him.”

  “Is that right?”

  Erling shrugged. “I just want to watch him and Bob Meusel play with a couple local teams.”

  “And what’ll you do if you meet him?”

  Erling shrugged. “Heck, I don’t know. But you know you’re looking at the next Babe Ruth, don’tcha?”

  Owen reached down, packed together a snowball, and threw it. Erling was ready and smacked it into a zillion flakes of dazzling white.

  They spent all day following horse-drawn plows and truck plows around the county as they cleared the main roads. Farms on side roads were going to have to wait until the next day. As Owen and Erling drove the half-filled creamery truck back into Ranier, the sun sank low in the West.

  “Stuck seven times,” Erling recounted, “with one smashed crate of eggs from your wipe-out.” He laughed. “You were funnier than Charlie Chaplin!”

  “Glad I could provide you with a little entertainment in your sorry life,” Owen joked in return. His elbow still hurt from hitting a patch of ice as he’d carried stacked egg crates to the truck. He tried to save the eggs by taking the fall, but the top crate went flying up as his legs flew out—and just after he went down, the crate and some of its contents landed on top of him. He glanced in the side mirror. Egg was still clumped in his hair. If he’d just kept his cap on. He needed a bath. But that would have to wait.

  As they drove down Main Street, the sun slipped below a gray and orange horizon. His heart sped up. There, parked just outside the White Turtle, and lined up as if at some beauty contest, were six, seven . . . more than twelve beautiful, snow-dusted Studeys. “Erling! Look at ’em! They’re here!”

  The driver’s door of a yellow Light Six opened and out hopped Jerry. He took off his bowler hat and waved it high overhead. Owen honked back from the creamery truck and rolled down his window.

  Jerry strutted over to the driver’s door, his broad shoulders tucked into a heavy woolen jacket. “Special delivery! Rolled off the last train!” he exclaimed, peering in. “Pengler couldn’t reach you, so he called me. Said they were here. So, Mr. Studebaker, where do you want ’em?”

  “Behind the White Turtle,” Owen said, motioning. “But I haven’t had time to shovel it off yet. Gotta unload the creamery truck, and then we’ll head right over.”

  Jerry tilted his head toward the Studeys and their drivers. “Me and the boys are still on duty. We’ll get started.”

  “Thanks, Jer!” Owen called as he shifted the truck back into gear. Iwn double time, he and Erling had the truck unloaded and the separator operating at full tilt. They left Mom and the boys to disinfect milk cans. Then Owen and Erling hurried to the lot behind the hotel, just as Jerry and several guys finished shoveling it.

  Under a darkening sky, drivers started up motors and turned on headlights, and then drove around to the lot. After Jerry parked a Studey, he jumped out and clapped Owen on the shoulder. “They’re beauties, I tell you.”

  “I owe you, Jer,” Owen said, shaking his head in amazement.

  Jerry laughed. “Don’t worry, I figure you’re going to want an ace mechanic someday! Now, tell us how to park ’em.”

  “Face ’em this way!” Owen called, motioning to the drivers as if in a dream. One by one, the cars lined up, facing southwest, both for viewing and so the daytime sun might help keep the engines from freezing solid. But to his surprise, there were more cars coming—a half dozen more than he’d ordered. They were gorgeous, but this wasn’t what he bargained for. He was already out on a pretty long and precarious limb.

  One by one, drivers climbed out and headed inside the White Turtle.

  Collar turned up, Owen huddled in his jacket alongside Jerry and Erling. He could barely believe it. He was glad to share this moment with Jerry, his childhood friend, and Erling, his closest brother. Wheels, grills, and running boards sparkled. Cars gleamed with fresh, perfect paint in an array of colors—pale yellow, navy blue, cream, burgundy, black—like jewels in a king’s crown.

  There was only one other person he wished could be there just then. He’d sweep her right off the floor of the Sweetheart Ball, right out of the arms of Sam-the-Damn-Thoughtful, and spin her around and around, right there under the emerging stars. “All of this is for you,” he’d say. “For us!”

  Jerry grabbed Owen’s arm and tugged. “C’mon, Owen, let’s go talk with Pengler.” Then he lightly punched Owen’s shoulder. “First one’s on me—and don’t argue. This is big! Time to celebrate!”

  “But I don’t get it,” Owen said, still studying the lot and counting the Studeys again. “There’s six more than I ordered.”

  “Oh, yeah. Pengler’s special order.” Jerry gave him his lopsided smile. “And lucky you. Heard he’s buying a bundle of ’em.”

  “Really?” How could he have fifty percent more inventory—inventory already spoken for—without knowing anything about it? Whose business was this, anyway? He’d sent a check to Studebaker for the wholesale cost of twelve cars, not eighteen.

  Jerry must have read his discontent, understood that he was forcing wide the jaws of this gift horse. “Owen, I tell you, things are heating up every day, with more and more hooch coming down from Canada, all the way from Saskatchewan. Pengler’s no fool. It makes sense he’s gotta have a bigger fleet to keep it flowing south.” Then he tugged Owen’s arm. “They’re not going anywhere, at least for tonight. And hey, Erling, you coming?”

  Erling shrugged. His towering frame seemed too large for his age, certainly too large for his jacket, the sleeves a few inches too short. “No,” Erling said. “Go on without me. I’m headin’ home.”

  As Erling turned and disappeared toward the tracks, Owen felt a twinge. He shouldn’t have involved his brother in any of this. Erling had always looked up to Owen, and Owen promised himself he’d never let his kid brother down.

  When Jerry pushed his shoulder, Owen turned away and headed into the White Turtle.

  He needed to talk to Pengler.

  10

  DUCKING AFTER JERRY THROUGH THE SHORT DOOR INTO the White Turtle’s blind pig, Owen was met by a wall of smoke and a woman’s voice rising from the phonograph. He recognized the singer. It was Elsie Clark cooing, “those Cry Baby Blues, You’re gonna cry . . . baby . . .”

  Owen spotted Pengler at the far end of the room, where a round of applause rose from the group of men at a round table. Pengler pushed back his chair, stood up, and lifted his glass to Owen. “A toast to Ranier’s newest businessman! To the beginnings of Owen Jensen’s Studebaker business!” Clinking glasses, clapping, and cheering followed.

  Owen recognized many of the guys from around Ranier. He’d gone to school with several, and yet there were more than a few new faces in the group, too. Izzy Larson was seated deep in a booth, leaning into the shoulder of Wayne Hopper, a councilman from International Falls.

  Yeah, he’d like to celebrate, but how could he when the deal he’d agreed on was already looking skewed? He walked directly to Pengler and whispered in his ear. “There’s more Studeys out there than I ordered. What’s going on?”

  Pengler pulled back a bit, yet beamed a smile, and then clamped his hand on Owen’s shoulder, nearly forcing him to take a seat. “Sit. Celebrate. I’ll tell you.”

  Owen complied, while the rest of the room went back to their own business. Drinking. Smoking. Talking low enough that th
e lyrics floated above everyone’s conversation.

  Sugar o’ mine, You’re so refined . . .

  You won’t do this! Won’t do that! Now what’s on your mind

  Cry Baby Blues, You’re gonna die . . . baby . . .

  Then Pengler lit a Lucky Strike, inhaled, and turned away from Owen to one of the drivers on Pengler’s other side. The men chatted quietly while Owen waited, as if he were at Pengler’s beck and call. Heck, folks had nicknamed E. W. Ennis “King Ed” since he pretty much employed everyone, directly or indirectly, through the paper mill. Maybe it was time to add another king to the county. “King Harvey,” Owen thought, King of the Underworld.

  Jerry set down two glasses filled with ice cubes and light-amber liquid. “Cheers,” he said with a nod, then lifted his own glass and took a drink. Owen didn’t touch the whiskey. He needed answers.

  Pengler turned. He leaned into Owen, his face inches away, and spoke low; this was between just the two of them. “I went ahead and ordered extra stock. The sooner we can get a dozen here and running, the better. I have inventory to move—”

  “I didn’t sign up for this. You ordered Studeys without talking to me? Whose business is this, anyway?”

  Owen had agreed as part of the loan to convert vehicles for Pengler into “Whiskey Sixes,” so coined after the first busts on cars stopped for illegally transporting whiskey from Canada into the United States. The vehicles were rigged to hold greater weight and to handle difficult terrain.

  “Settle down. You’re selling me extra stock, that’s all.” Pengler pulled a few folded sheets of paper out from his coat. “Here’s the invoice.” He laid three sheets out on the table, smoothing out the wrinkles with the palms of his hands. The fine print included wholesale figures and the model names and numbers. “Eighteen Studebakers. All bought wholesale, by you.”

  “By me?” Owen said. “I ordered twelve, not eighteen.”

  “Hold on,” Pengler replied. He produced a check already written out and handed it to Owen. “I went ahead and made it out to ‘Jensen Dealership.’”

  Owen stared at the figure on the check. It was payment for a dozen automobiles, but far below full retail prices. He quickly calculated that the amount was enough to pay off a quarter of his dealership loan to Pengler. “Far from full price,” Owen said.

  “I hoped you’d be happy,” Pengler replied. “The way I see it, I’m buying twice the volume from you, so a sizable discount seems only fair.”

  Though Pengler’s smile seemed sincere, Owen nodded cautiously. He swallowed his frustration. He had the feeling that arguing with Pengler wasn’t going to change his situation. At this point, the only way out was up. He would have to sell the remaining six cars at full price to make any headway.

  Jerry stood off a few feet, then stepped closer. “I still say there’s more money in bootlegging than in automobiles.”

  “Can’t do one without the other,” Pengler said. “And you gotta mix it up. Automobiles, trains, planes.”

  “Planes?” Owen asked.

  Pengler nodded. “Sure, got a fellow flying my Curtiss Oriole. Gotta keep the feds guessing. Soon as you keep doing it the same way, you’re going to get caught.”

  Owen crossed his arms. “I can’t afford to go to jail or prison. My family depends on me.”

  “You’re right,” Pengler said. “And I admire that in you. That’s exactly why I tell my employees if they get caught, if they’re asked to testify about me and refuse, I promise to support their wives and children until they come home from serving time. It’s only right. You can’t run a business on the backs of your employees. We’re either in it together or we’re nothing at all.”

  Then he added, “Just so y’know, I called ahead and asked them to get ’em rigged before shipping. The way I see it, the risk is all on me, and you’ve just gained one very satisfied customer.”

  Someone had restarted the song. For a split second, Owen looked in the corner, just to see if Dad were there—a ghost playing the music again, just to haunt him.

  Cry Baby Blues, you’re gonna die . . . baby

  Kisses you’ll lose as sweet as pie . . . baby

  I’m the bestest baby in our neighborhood.

  They say I’m not bad, but still I’m not so good.

  If I skidoos you’re gonna cry . . . Baby,

  Those Cry Baby Blues.

  Then Pengler knocked back the last of his drink, pushed away from the table, and announced, “Time to load up! I want the automobiles outta here—long gone before sunrise.”

  Men in coats and jackets; fedoras, derbies, and bowler hats; coveralls and plaid shirts; gray hair and barely any chin hair, rose from tables like a small mismatched army. Jerry motioned for Owen to follow.

  Owen tapped Jerry’s shoulder. “Thought you said the Studeys weren’t going anywhere tonight.”

  Jerry smiled. “I’m not the boss. Pengler’s ready to load, we load. He says ‘Go,’ we go.”

  Instead of ducking back through the door to the restaurant, Jerry headed out another door, straight to the lot out back. In what had been a pine-board wall of photographs of fishermen and their prize catches, a door now swung wide. Owen followed Jerry through it, right out to the lot full of cars, where Pengler’s men were already unloading crates of booze from the closest train car at the tracks.

  Owen stood back, legs planted wide, arms crossed, watching. The men formed a human chain and loaded the cargo into a dozen Whiskey Sixes—the ones Owen had apparently just sold. He wanted to feel proud, a sense of accomplishment. Here was an immediate payoff, the price he would pay to get ahead in the world. Going forward, he would stay clear of anything illegal. Everything would turn out in the end.

  He lifted his chin and filled his chest with cool air. The temperature was dropping fast.

  Yet, no matter how he tried to rally around this moment, all he felt was a dark, profound foreboding.

  Part II

  Slow Thaw

  Most folks say you need a four-inch thickness for walking, six for a horse, and eight for an automobile. But even in the coldest winter, wherever water is moving beneath the ice, a guy has to be careful.

  Rainy Lake stretches north and east and south for nearly one hundred miles, and in all that vastness of inlets and island and bays, the water is always moving, some places more swiftly than others. It all flows west: Crane Lake to Kabetogama to Namakan to Rainy. It flows under the lift bridge in Ranier and down Rainy River, pausing at the dam in International Falls to power the paper mill, then dashes headlong to Lake of the Woods and up to Hudson Bay.

  All that water.

  Miles and miles of water.

  11

  When roses are red, bees hang around

  When they are dead, bees can’t be found

  There’ll be no bees around when your love grows cold.

  HE MIGHT BE MILES AWAY, BUT HIS LOVE SURE HADN’T gone cold.

  After a long train ride, with a brief stop in St. Paul for flowers, Owen reached St. Peter and headed straight to Johnson Hall. Like a beacon on the Gustavus Adolphus College campus, the massive brick building glittered with lights. Owen tapped the brass door knocker, which produced a murmur of female voices within. With the bouquet of roses in one hand, he finger-combed his hair back from his eyes with the other, but the waves flopped down again, nearly covering his right eye.

  Sometimes, face-to-face is the only way. Too much had happened since Dad died. Letters seemed inadequate to tell Sadie Rose about his latest decision to start his own business. There was all that. Plus the letter he’d received just days ago from Sadie Rose, telling him she’d been asked to the Sweetheart Ball. Not to worry. Right, Owen thought.

  The door swung open, and a middle-aged woman with a tight collar, buttoned to her chin, smiled cautiously. “May I help you?”

  Behind her, several female students clustered together, peering at Owen. All dressed in layers of lace and silky fabrics, they at first reminded him of angels, or a bouquet of faces, so
me pretty, others not as much. A sweet smell of perfumes and soaps wafted toward him, reminding him that his world of late had been filled with work and brothers and men. But he didn’t want the company of just any female.

  “Sadie Rose,” he said. “I’ve come a long way to see her.”

  “It’s after visiting hours,” the woman replied.

  “Oh, come on, Mrs. Dietzman, he’s cute!” one of the college girls exclaimed.

  “Let him in, please,” said another.

  At that, Mrs. Dietzman closed the door so that there was only a crack wide enough to reveal her taut face. “I’m sorry, she’s not in.”

  “But you said it’s after visiting hours. Where is she?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, exactly.”

  His heart dropped. “I took the train down from the border. I’ve come all this way, just to give her these.” He held out the flowers as proof. “And to see her just for a little bit.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Dietzman said again.

  “Is she on a date?” he asked, bracing himself for the answer.

  “Hey, I’m free tonight,” one of the girls shouted, and an eruption of giggling followed.

  “Girls,” Mrs. Dietzman scolded, and then returned to the door. She must have taken pity on Owen, because she added, “If it helps, I’ll tell you she’s not on a date. Once a month, she takes the train to St. Paul for a meeting there. She’ll be on the return train in the morning. She stays overnight with her family on Summit Avenue. It’s a bit unusual, but she claims that these Wilderness Society meetings are educational in nature.”

  Wilderness Society.

  From the start, she’d been interested in supporting Victor’s cause to save Rainy Lake and the northern waterways from E. W. Ennis. Ennis, with his industrial ambition and unlimited money, allegedly had plans to turn the eighty-plus-mile-long lake and watershed into a series of sixteen hydropower dams. Owen knew Sadie cared about protecting the islands and inlets from high levels of flooding. If Ennis got his way, the grand lake would turn into a giant bathtub—a reservoir—all with the purpose of keeping his mills and expanding empire thriving. But Owen hadn’t a clue that Sadie was staying overnight once a month to attend Victor’s meetings.