"Now goddammit, Doc, I never said that. Not exactly anyway. What I said was-"
The evening dragged on with slashes and parries, advances and retreats, assertions and reversals. I was pretty bloody sick of it before long, and was glad when my two Great Buddies, the law officers, departed.
I had what I wanted for the moment. Joe had delivered the goods on Item # 2 on my list of requests: the identity and whereabouts of the owner of the blue van I photographed on the pier in North Plymouth.
He handed me the data earlier on in the evening, telling me to do nothing until I talked with him. Well, I'd talked to him all right, so now I could do something..
And I did.
The next morning I went to the office bright and early, and went over my bills and invoices. I scheduled in patients for the third week in October when I knew my hand would be fine. I answered overdue correspondence by talking for two hours into a tape machine. I wanted to get the office work behind me. I wanted to clear the decks.
I went to the Rod amp; Gun Club shooting range and pumped two boxes of twenty-two rounds through my Ruger Bull-Barrel, fast-firing every other clip.
After lunch I headed west on the Mass Pike in the Scout station wagon. With me were binoculars, my camera system, and the fact sheet describing the owner of the Ford Econoline van: Rudolph Buzarski _
121 Mt. Pleasant Drive
Belchertown, Mass.
Age: 54 Ht: 6 ft. 1 in.
Weight: 215 Hr: Brn
Eyes: Blue
Upon reading this poop sheet, I began to disbelieve that Rudolph Buzarski was a shady character. Poles are the most crime-free of all ethnic groups. They may whack you on the head in a football game. They may beat you at bowling and chortle over it. They may get stinko at a polka party and break their accordions. But as far as really nasty behavior goes, they are damn clean. They also have the nation's lowest unemployment rate, a distinction that's generations old. Western Massachusetts is an old-line Polish enclave, full of truck farmers, dairymen, small contractors, and the like. I sped along the Mass Pike wondering about old Rudolph. He could be an onion farmer. He could have two dozen head of fine Holstein that he'd call by name and lead into the barn each night and kiss goodnight-each one on her big wet salty-nose. He could be a tobacco grower, since the Connecticut River Valley grows a lot of the prime wrapper leaf for the cigar industry. He could run a small trucking firm. But he wouldn't… couldn't be involved with Jim Schilling. I pulled into Belchertown and got gas, asking for the whereabouts of the Buzarski place. I was told that the Buzarski farm was a mile ahead and to the right. See, he was a farmer.
I took the route indicated and came upon his spread, set of from the main highway by a mile.
The Buzarski place was a showpiece. Out front there was a fruit and vegetable stand fairly dripping with the produce grown on the flat, green land of the Connecticut River Valley. The alluvial flood plain that lines the river on both sides for miles is rich. The proof of it was before me as I ambled around the stand eyeing the squash, early pumpkins, late tomatoes, sugar-and-butter corn, Indian corn, apples. It was a cornucopia. Off behind the stand the kelly-green grass shot away level for hundreds of yards, then commenced to hump and dip a bit. Behind the far rises were the distant mountains of the Berkshire range. It sure was pretty. The farm was too big. How could I find out about the blue van, and its driver, without arousing suspicion? If it were a small place a quick glance around and perhaps two questions could settle it. But this place was the King Ranch compared to most of the truck farms. Two big white barns with silos stood far away off to the left. A score or so of Holsteins and Brown Swiss stood munching in the pasture. There was a goat here and there. Far off to the right were two low buildings with slatted walls. From their shape, and from the ripe aroma that wafted over from them now and then, I guessed them to be hog barns. Was there anything Rudolph Buzarski didn't raise?
I studied the roads. There was the one I was on, Mt. Pleasant Drive. But there were numerous side and access roads that crisscrossed the Buzarski place. After buying some corn I returned to the car and headed along the access road that ran into the farm. If stopped, I could merely say I had gotten lost.
The house was half a mile in. It was modest, a shingle-sided blocky structure with a big porch around two sides. Tire swings for the kids. A big willow tree and three oaks near the house. Small kitchen garden. A trellis of roses., A birdbath. Norman Rockwell could have painted the scene, perhaps adding Grandma and Grandpa sitting in their rockers on the veranda behind the gingerbread latticework of carved railings and cornices and spindle screens, looking out over the farm from the hilltop] house, listening to the robins cluck on the lawn… perhaps smelling the kielbasa and sauerkraut from the kitchen.
I stopped the Scout and began swearing to myself. Why had it taken me so long to realize what had happened? Obviously, I'd been duped by my own brother-in-law. Perhaps he and Brian cooked the scheme up together. Perhaps even Mary had had a hand in it too! I had been sent off on a wild-goose chase to stay out of trouble. It was glaringly apparent that the only place safer than the Buzaxski farm was the vault at Chase Manhattan.
I continued my rounds and drove on slowly past the farmhouse. Before long I turned and found myself on the road that led past the two low buildings. They were hog barns. There's no smell like it, believe me. Buzarski had all kinds of pigs. He had Hampshires, Berkshires, and Chester Whites. He had a few Poland-Chinas. There were fall piglets fastened onto the teats of huge brood sows who grunted and dragged them around the muck as if they weren't even theirs. The big old brood sows made snorting and grunting noises. A big hog, which can weigh over 700 pounds, makes a noise like a walrus burping in a septic tank.
I passed the hog pens and came to a slow curve in the road, which led to an old barn set in a gentle slope that led up to some thick woods. The barn looked abandoned. Was it part of another farm? I was past the barn and about to dismiss my entire trip when I saw the blue van. It was parked on the far side of the old farm building. Next to it was a motorcycle. It was a chopper, an old Harley Davidson Duo-Glide on a modified, or "chopped," frame. There was a fancy paint job on the tank and a lot of shiny chrome parts. The motorcycle and van looked strange parked near the old barn. As I drove past I looked in through one of the building's broken windows and saw nothing but hay bales. It was converted to hay storage, as are many old buildings on farms. I crept past and kept moving. In the rear-view mirror I saw two men emerge from the old barn. One jumped on the cycle and kicked it over; the other climbed up into the van. I couldn't really see what they looked like because of the mirror's vibration. I took the next right turn, planning to get back on the main road. The van and cycle followed me. Both were going fast. They passed me on the narrow dirt road, one on either side, and blocked it. I cruised up and lowered the window slowly. The van's door. flew open and a youngish bearded man swung out and ran up to me. His eyes were full of hate.
Beating him to my car was a large German shepherd, who leapt up at me, popping his jaws. The man asked me what the fuck I was doing there, and why the fuck didn't I get the fuck out of there? I explained I wanted to see Mr. Buzarski. He asked me what the fuck I wanted with him. His vocabulary had a certain poetic intensity, although a bit limited. But he did ask me a fairly penetrating question. What did I want with Mr. Buzarski? g
"I'm wondering if he could sell me a couple of goats," managed quickly. "I was following this road to get a closer look at them and I guess I got lost. Are you Buzarski?"