The young man with the limited vocabulary (and by extension, I reasoned, limited brain) looked confused for a second, then softened. He seemed greatly relieved at my explanation.
"Naw, he's my father-in-law. Dint ya see him out front? Big guy with a crewcut?"
"Gee. I must really be dumb. Sure I saw. him. I thought he just worked here-"
"Yeah. He does. Alla time. And he owns this place too. You better get the fuck out. Private!"
"I would appreciate it if your friend wouldn't do that."
The motorcyclist, the Wild One, was busy attacking the grill of the Scout with his feet. It was making a loud racket and wasn't doing the vehicle any good either. He was probably wearing the boots that the Sears catalog calls "Mechanic's steel-shank Wellingtons," the kind commonly called motorcycle boots. The punk was beefy, with weak eyes. He was smoking a cigarette and chewing gum. Chewing gum is tacky. Cigarettes are tacky. When you run into someone who does both at once you have tackiness multiplied. Tackiness squared. He kept it up, delighted. He didn't look me in the eye though. The weak child's eyes played over the shiny grill as he kicked it. His face was too young, his body too old. I leaned on the horn. He hadn't counted on this trick, and the noise sent him jumping backward. He looked mighty silly, and his friend lost no time in telling him so.
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.