Billingsgate Shoal

by Rick Boyer

  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.

  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 j
oined 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.

  There was a mere hint of moonlight, just enough to guide me through the small door next to the big one. Once inside the barn I softly closed the door behind me and stood and waited. I breathed slowly through my open mouth, hearing the faint rustle of my canvas jacket with each breath. I was being very quiet. I damn near jumped out of my socks when I heard a loud flutter from above. Either a pigeon or a barn owl. I crept forward between the rows and stacks of hay bales. They were stacked like giant bricks, each two by two by four feet and weighing eighty pounds. I snaked my way through the walls of dried grass. I turned here and there. I didn't know where the hell I was. After crisscrossing the barn for twenty minutes, I sat on a bale and considered. There was nothing of interest on the ground floor, which left the loft and the stable floor below. The barn was a typical older one: built on a slope with a main door in the end and another big doorway in the middle on the underside of the slope which gave access to the stable floor underneath. But usually there was a trap door or ramp connecting the two lower levels. It took me another forty minutes of searching before I found it: a wall ladder over an elongated trap door. It was the rungs that tipped me off; I brushed by them as I felt my way along the wall and knew there was a ladder. With my light I found the handle of the trap door, a metal ring set in a recess. I switched off the light and raised the door slowly. Nothing. Black as pitch down there. I didn't really want to go. . . I flipped the light on quickly and looked down. There was no monster lurking there. I stuffed the flashlight into my hip pocket where I could reach it in an instant and started down. It was mighty hard gripping the rungs with my left hand but I managed. The old stalls were still there. Most of them were stacked high with hay, but some weren't. Curiously, it was lighter down there than up above because of the long narrow windows above the stalls. They were rectangles of faint bluish light, like frozen ghostly fish swimming around the edges of the barn. I crept out to the center aisle and could see the stalls, perhaps eight on a side, receding away into the darkness. I began with the nearest stall and worked my way along. My watch said two-thirty. Each stall was taking about five minutes. If I didn't get lucky I'd still be there at dawn. And how long would my friend Rover stay zonked? Probably another hour at the most.