Billingsgate Shoal (25 page)

He oozed out of there like baker's dough. Like
pink-gray Silly Putty. He was a formless puddle of stinking goop.

"Can I leave now?" I asked, and headed for
the door and fresh air even before I got the answer.

We rode back to Concord in
silence. Twice we stopped the car on the side of 128,and got out and
walked around slowly, breathing deeply.

* * *

We had Joe stay for dinner. Gradually, as the day
progressed, he talked more and more of food. Still, we didn't eat
much. Mary was in a sense glad of the discovery of Murdock's body,
since it meant once and for all that I hadn't been I imagining all
this maritime skulduggery, and that finally the authorities would
pitch in and help out.

"You're not alone anymore on this thing,
Charlie, you should be glad of that," she said.

"Yeah, and I can bet the first son of a bitch to
show up will be Brian Hannon. You watch. Pass the wine please and
fill the glasses. I want to propose a toast: To Mrs. Katherine
Murdock—May her lot in life improve."

"Hear, hear,"
echoed Joe. "After all, it could hardly be worse."

* * *

"—and the best thing is, Doc, you're not alone
on this thing anymore. Why we—"

"You're excused, Chief Hannon," I said into
the phone.

"Now wait. After all, who provided—"

"Excused!"

"Now look, goddammit! I went out on a limb for
you. I'm telling you the way it is. I went along with your
harebrained scheme to play down your survival. I helped you plan that
lame-brained cruise of yours aboard the Ginger Rogers—"

"The
Ella Hatton
."

"Well, whatever. And I'm investigating the
people whose names you gave me. I've got some stuff, for instance on
the girl who went cruising with Walter Kincaid."

Dammit, the son of a bitch had me there. `

""What'd you find out?"

"It can wait."

"Look. Be here at nine."

"No, you look. You cannot order policemen
around. You will be here at the time I say. Clear?"

"Naw. Forget it, Chief."

"What time was that again? You said your place?"

"Nine."

* * *

Chief Brian Hannon sat sipping on a Tab.

"The oil. I wonder how they thought of the oil?"

"Because," said Joe, "there were drums
and drums of diesel fuel outside. After stuffing Murdock down the
steel channel, they covered him with diesel fuel, then put the cap on
and welded it tight. If we hadn't discovered him there he'd have
remained for ages."

"Now what about Walter Kincaid's girlfriend?"
I asked. "That she never was. I've tapped every source I know,
official and unofficial, and I can tell you for certain the girl
Jennifer Small just isn't, at least around the North Shore. Whoever
told you about her is mistaken."

I considered this tidbit carefully. It meant a lot.

"And what about our humane friend Jim
Schilling?"

"Looked clean as a whistle except for one big
thing that he'd managed to hide for a long, long time: dishonorable
discharge. Assaulting a superior officer. Did time in the stockade.
Court martial. DD."

"Thanks for the help, Brian. Now can you plunder
Box 2319 for me? My brother-in-law has cold feet in that department."

"Look, Charlie, I have cold feet because it
happens to be illegal. It's illegal until the PO. officially declares
it an abandoned box. At that time—and I've got an intercept notice
in—the contents will fall into my lap. And maybe yours. Maybe,
Charlie."

I grunted in disgust.

"It would seem to me it might be a good idea to
keep a sharp eye out for the
Rose
,
and Jim Schilling, along the coast of Cape Cod Bay," said Brian.

I let out a whistle of disbelief.

"You mean with the help of all your former
friends? The ones who were so put out and embarrassed by your jackass
friend Doc Adams?"

Chief Hannon spoke out of the comer of his mouth as
he clamped his fangs around a newly lit Lucky. He flumped around
awkwardly on the couch as he stuffed his matches back into his
pocket.

"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 & 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?"

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.