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.
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
