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.
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.
