Billingsgate Shoal (26 page)

The humiliation enraged him. Snorting like a bull he
came around to the right side door and yanked it open. He grabbed me
by the knee and yanked. I let him. He grabbed me by the shoulder,
too, and began to pull me from the Scout. I let him, not saying a
thing. Twice he looked up at my face. He was growing hesitant in the
milliseconds since he had flung open my door. I didn't want that; I
wanted him full of confidence and raring to go. He would be easier
that way. At least that's what Liatis Roantis had told us.

So I began shouting. Telling the Wild One to lay off.
As he pulled me off the front seat I resisted hard the last few
seconds to let him really yank at me. I wanted him to build up a good
head of steam. Then I came out fast. As I passed him I grabbed his
right upper arm, spun into it close to his chest so the tip of my
head was nestled into his armpit. Then I dropped down, bending my
knees. His beefy body's momentum was already carrying it over my
head; But I helped. I began to stand up again, and at the same time
pulled down hard on the upper arm. My shoulder was the fulcrum, and
it flipped the motorcyclist over and past me. He sailed on over my
head like Dumbo the Elephant. .

He landed upside down on his upper back. I could hear
the whoosh of air as it was driven from his lungs. Instinctively he
rolled over onto his stomach, trying to recover. He resembled a wide
receiver who'd landed the wrong way after leaping for the long bomb
in the end zone. He grabbed at the ground in front of him and drew
his knees up underneath him. But as he rose to his feet I was already
there, and when I saw his head bobbling up toward me, I chopped it
hard with my left hand just behind his ear. The good doctor who had
replaced my cast had fastened. a steel shank to my wrist and covered
same with lots of plaster. It was very heavy and hard; it worked
well. I was better than Bruce Lee. He fell without a sound.

But before I had time to turn around, the first man
was on me and drove me to the ground. I felt a great pressure on my
foot, and realized that the German shepherd had it in his mouth. He
was growling and shaking his head, his front paws down in front of
him and his rear legs up, as if in play. His tail was wagging. He
wasn't a very good attack dog, fortunately. We rolled around snorting
and cursing for a while. Out of the comer of my eye I could see Wild
One's feet working as he lay on the ground. He was lying on his side
and looked as if he were trying to pedal a bicycle. If he got up
there'd be big trouble.

Suddenly it was over. My attacker was yanked off me
like a reverse thunderbolt. I got up. I couldn't see who had hold of
him. All I saw were two huge hands on his shoulders. The fingers were
wide as bananas. The nails on the fingers were wide and flat, and
surrounded by black lines of dirt. Then I saw the crewcut, and soon
Rudolph Buzarski had shoved his big round red face into his
son-in-law's and was giving him quite a going over. He shook the boy
back and forth, then flung him into the side of the van. A girl
rushed up to the big man, pleading.

“
Oh, Dad, please! He won't do it again—"

"Damn right! Now git! I want you out of here!"

He was yelling at the young man leaning against the
van, though, not the girl, whom I supposed to be Buzarski's daughter.

"Take my van, but git!" bellowed Buzarski.
He walked I over to me.

"You hurt?"

"Nope. But I think I hurt that fellow there."

Buzarski glared at the Wild One as he staggered to
his feet and sheepishly made his way over to, his chopper.

"Shit," he said. "That's three hundred
dollars I owe you, mister."

"For what?" .

"For beating the snot out of that. . .that. .
.hell, I don't know what to call him."

I got back into the Scout, told Mr. Buzarski I was
sorry I'd disturbed his farm. He thanked me over and over, and
insisted I stop once again at the vegetable stand where he
overwhelmed me with free produce.

"Do you own the blue van your, eh, what's his
name?"

"Randy. . . Randy Newdecker. Piece of shit as
far as I'm concerned. I've had no peace since he joined the family.
Sorry. Didn't mean to spill out my troubles to you. What were you
doing that far back in the farm anyway?"

"Looking for a goat to buy, but I think after
what I've been through, I'll pass. Does Randy live on the premises?"

"Yep. In the back wing of our house. You should
hear the arguments—but you asked if I own the van. Yes. But Randy
drives it. I've kind of given it to them. Since he has no job, it's
maybe a mistake. He's got free room and board and transportation.
What else does he need?"

"Spending money'?"

Buzarski rubbed his stubbled chin with a huge dirty
paw.

"Funny. Never thought of that. I guess that's
the one thing in the bum's favor. He never bugs me for spending
money."

We were standing in the shade of the Buzarski fruit
and vegetable stand. All around was evidence of this man's handiwork,
determination, and—from what I could gather from what I'd seen in
the past hour—the ability to work fifteen-hour days for decades on
end. I liked him immensely.

"Can I trust you?" I asked.

It was a deliberately stupid comment: A teaser. I
wanted to see what the big man would say. But he didn't say a thing
for ten seconds. He just flung his level gaze on the horizon and
worked his jaw a bit. Then he wiped his other paw across his mouth.

"Don't see why not."

"How well do you know your son-in-law'?"

"You're a cop, aren't you?"

"Nope. I'm a doctor by trade, but I've been
interested in where your son-in-law's been lately, riding in your
blue van."

Rudolph Buzarski propped his booted foot up onto an
apple crate and squinted at the cows in the far pasture. Then his big
round face seemed to harden, and the corners of his eyes crinkled up.

"Don't wanta hear it," he said, "I
just don't wanta. He's not a good catch, that's for goddamn sure.
But. But he is the catch if you get what I mean. He's in the family
and that's that. You get going; mister. I believe you came to help.
Maybe. But now I want you to go. Maybe I want to keep thinking
everything's OK as long as I can. It's all I got."

So I went. As I walked toward the Scout, I saw
Buzarski with his head down. His hands were covering his face and
rubbing at his eyes.

Boy, did I feel great. If there was a chance to
volunteer for a scientific experiment to see how long a human being
could live in peace with a gaboon viper in a phone booth, I'd have
been first in line.
 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SO I ROLLED the Scout out of there with Rudolph
Buzarski's payload of fruits and vegetables thumping around in
cardboard cartons in the back. The gourds and squashes and ears of
corn bumped around and played a crude symphony of guilt and sadness.
Well to hell with it. I swung around and hunted side roads. After
forty-five minutes I found one I liked. It snaked around above the
flatlands of the valley flood plain and wended its way up into the
wooded hills that surrounded the farm. I bumped and grunted along
this for another hour until I found a way that took the truck off to
the side to a small clearing just big enough to hide it. I left it
and fought my way through tangles of thickets until I was looking
down at the farm buildings below.

The farm looked even neater and more efficient from
above. The buildings were squared with one another, the furrows
absolutely parallel. The roads and fences were laid out in
anal-compulsive rectangles and right angles. The faint roar of a
tractor—invisible from where I waited and watched—wafted up to me
on the warm wind. The same with a cawing of a rooster. Then mostly
silence and wind-hum. I saw the old farm building at the edge of the
property where I'd had the scrape with Randy Newdecker and his
leather-clad friend.

The old building looked gray and dusty compared to
the dairy barns. It looked saggy and hollow compared to the swine
buildings. I crept down through the trees and thickets to the edge of
the woods. I was up on a gentle slope perhaps seventy-five yards from
the building. A shape moved and pranced at the doorway. It was the
German shepherd dog, tied to a stake with about forty feet of chain
to romp around on. Enough to romp around on so that he guarded the
doorway quite well, thank you. I was skunked. I returned to the car
and headed home. It was three-thirty in the afternoon. I could come
back after supper and be ready with all I needed for a nighttime
siege of the building.

Mary and I were civil to one another, but it ended
there. She knew I wasn't leaving the "thing" alone, but had
been out snooping. We sat through a decent dinner and chatted, but I
knew she wasn't leveling with me. For that matter, I wasn't with her
either. At half past nine I left Concord in the Audi 110 thought it
better not to take the Scout again. . . it had become almost a
landmark at the Buzarski farm in the few short minutes I'd spent
there earlier. With me I had:

1. A quartz-beam searchlight, hand-held, that plugged
into the cigarette lighter socket.

2. My 7 x 50 binoculars, perfect for nighttime use.

3. The .22 calibre Ruger Bull-Barrel auto-loading
target pistol, with two clips.

4. A small crowbar.

5. A flashlight.

6. My quart thermos full of hot coffee.

7. A pack of cellophane-wrapped beef chunks.

The beef was a touch cut, a cheapie the stores like
to disguise with names like "Family Steak" and "Value
Cut." It was what I wanted, though, a tough portion of the cow
that could stand abuse and yet be irresistible. The red sticker on
the package said: "Great for Cook Out!" The meat was cut
into golfball-sized chunks for shish kabob.

It was almost midnight when I reached Belchertown,
and quarter to one when I cruised to a stop up the side road where
I'd parked earlier. The road was tricky and rutted, and I was glad
I'd thought to bring the quartz-beam spotlight. I left the car with
my satchel on my back and made my way down the slope again. I managed
to squirm up closer than before in the darkness. I got to within
twenty yards of the barn door, and hid in a tiny clump of bushes that
grew out of a rock cluster. I swept the binoculars over the ground.
Their ability to gather light was as important as their ability to
magnify, and I saw the sprawled heap of the dog asleep right in front
of the door. There would be no getting past him without raising a
ruckus. I could just see the outline of the main house on the knoll a
quarter of a mile away. There was no other dwelling nearby though;
that was good. Just the hog barns with their ripe smell. I was
thankful for this aroma; if the dog had any scenting talent it would
be hindered by this thick odor, and keep me hidden. But if the dog
were to eat the meat he had to be awake. On my way down the slope I
had gathered half a dozen rocks, one of which I now threw at the dog.
No response. I chucked two more at him before I wised up and flung
one right at the old barn. It whunked into the wood solidly and the
big dog was up in a second, barking and whirling around full of
self-importance. I glassed the house with care during this show to
see if any lights came on.

It remained dark. Before the dog dozed off again I
flung a hunk of meat at him. The dope couldn't smell it, probably
because of the hog barns. I switched on my flashlight and let the
circular beam fall near the animal. I wiggled it on the ground like a
fishing lure, and the dog rose and went over to it. I teased him
around with the beam for a minute or so. The dog didn't bark because
there was no noise. Finally, he found the meat. I saw his head bob up
and down with the convulsive, gobbling motion common to dogs. I threw
him another chunk, and he heard it land. He found it instantly and
snarfed it down. He was getting the idea. I threw another. Same
thing. He remained standing now and his tail was doing a slow wag. I
heard a soft whine.

I figured he weighed between seventy and eighty
pounds, and judged the dosage accordingly. Earlier I had selected
five particularly big and tasty-looking chunks of beef and had
inserted into the center of each a capsule containing 200 milligrams
of chloral hydrate. This drug, a sedative/hypnotic, when mixed with
alcohol is called a Mickey Finn, or knockout drops. Used alone in
sufficient quantities it puts people to sleep. I didn't want to kill
Fido, just immobilize him for about three hours. I figured three of
the chunks would make him
non compos mentis
,
and four would slide him right under. Five might be dangerous to him,
but I needed a spare. I threw him three loaded chunks, which he
gobbled down. I waited twenty minutes. The dog sank to his belly, his
head still up, looking. I threw a small rock at the barn. He jerked
his head in the correct direction and gave a little
whuff!
But he didn't get up. He was gassed, that's why. I threw the fourth
chunk. Ten minutes after ingestion, the dog's head was on his paws.

After ten more minutes I threw another rock at the
wall. Nothing. I approached close to the dog and threw a rock at him.
It skipped and caught his hind leg. Nothing. Fido was in the land of
nod. I kicked his tummy gently with my boot and heard a faint sigh,
then went on past him toward the barn. The door was closed but
unlocked. This was understandable; if indeed the old barn held
something other than hay bales a locked door would only call
attention to it. It was clear then that Randy Newdecker was relying
on the dog to keep the barn safe. The pistol was zipped inside my
Windbreaker, since I owned no holster. I unzipped the jacket. The
crowbar was thrust into my belt. The flashlight was cradled lightly
in the cast of my left arm. I had left the satchel of meat and the
thermos of coffee back at the clump of bushes.