Stardust

Chapter 16

IN the morning I headed west on the Mass. Pike I with the sun gleaming off the new snow and the temperature in the low thirties. I felt good. I’d looked up Waymark on the map and it was there. It was as close as I’d gotten to a clue in this whole deal. For the first time since I’d met Jill Joyce, I knew where I was going.

Waymark was in the Berkshire Hills, maybe two hours and twenty minutes west of Boston. There was a high gloss of rustic chic in the Berkshires, Tanglewood, Stockbridge, Williamstown Theater Festival; and there were enclaves of rural poverty where the official town mascot was probably a rat. Waymark was one of those. Driving into the east end of town after a long winding climb out of the valley, I saw a small house with a porch sagging across the length of the front and a discarded toilet bowl with a ratty Christmas tree stuck in it. In the next lot was a trailer, set on cinder blocks, its front yard fenced with bald tires, wet in the ground to form a series of half-circles, black against the snow. Two brown cows, their ribs showing, stood silently at a wire fence and gazed at me as I rolled by, and in a yard next to a convenience store a milk goat was tethered to the wheel of a broken tractor.

Beside the convcnicnce store, which advertised Orange Crush on an old-time sign that rose vertically beside the door, was a tall narrow two-story house with roofing shingles for siding. The shingles were a I:ulcd mustard color. Like a lot of the houses out here, it had a full veranda across the front. The veranda roof sagged in the middle enough so that th snow melt dripped off in the middle and puddled in front of the broken front step. There was a sign don in black house paint on a piece of one-by-ten pin board. TUNNYS GRILL it said. In front, on what onc might have been a lawn, a couple of cars were parked nose in. I pulled in beside them. The space hadn’t been cleared, merely rutted down by cars parkin and backing out. I could see where some of them ha gotten stuck and spun big hollows with their rea wheels. The dark earth below had been spun up ont the snow, mixing with exhaust soot and litter. nosed in beside a vintage 1970 Buick and parked an got out. From Tunnys Grill came the odor of winter vegetables cooking-cabbage maybe, or turnips. I walked across the buckling wooden porch and in through a hollow-core luan door that was probably intended to go on the closet in a housing develolment ranch. It was not meant to be an outside door and the veneer was blistering and the color had fade to a pale gray brown. When I pushed it open the coarse smell of cooking was more aggressive.

Inside was a lightless corridor with a stairwell running up along the right wall to a closed door at the top. In front of the stairway to the right was an archway that had probably led into the living room. It had been closed off with a couple of pieces of plywood. Whoever had done it was an inexpert carpenter. Several of the nails were bent over, and instead of butting in the middle, one sheet of plywood lapped over the other. To the left was a similar archway, this one still open, and in what must once have been a dining room was a bar. There was a brown linoleum floor, three unmatched tables and some kitchen chairs, and a bar which had been worked up out of two long folding tables, the kind they use in church halls, with some red-checkered oilcloth tacked over it. Behind the bar was a tall dirty old refrigerator and some shelves with bottles on them. One shelf contained a row of unmatched glasses sitting mouth down on a folded dish towel. There was an old railroad wood stove set in a sandbox in the far corner opposite the bar, and on the wall to the left of the bar was a big florid picture of Custer’s Last Stand, with a very Errol Flynnesque Custer standing, the last man upright, in the center of his fallen troop, his blond hair blowing in the wind of battle, firing a long pistol at the circling Indians.

There were two overweight guys in overalls and down vests sitting together near the stove drinking highballs and smoking cigarettes. The stove was putting out enough heat to bake bread, but both men seemed not to notice. They had on woolen shirts under the vests, and the sleeves of long underwear showed where they had turned their cuffs back. One of them had on a red woolen watch cap and the other a ”Day-Glo“ orange hunting cap with imitation fur inside the earflaps. He had pushed it back a little on his head, but otherwise made no accommodation to the heat. The woman behind the bar was smoking a cigarette on which nearly an inch of ash had accumulated. As I came in, she got rid of the ash by leaning forward in the direction of an ashtray on the bar and flicking the cigarette with her forefinger. The ash missed the ashtray by maybe three feet, and she absently brushed it off the bar and onto the floor.

I assumed she was a woman, because she wore a dress. But that was the only clue. Her graying hair looked as if it had been cut with a hatchet. She had a lipless slash of a mouth that went straight across her wide square face. Her eyebrows were thick and grew together over her nose, and her skin was gray and harsh. She stood with her massive forearms folded over her shapeless chest and raised her chin maybe an eighth of an inch in my direction. I glanced at my watch. It was quarter of ten in the morning.

”You got any coffee?“ I said. She shook her head.

One of the guys at the table said, ”Hey, Gert, couple more.“

She went around the bar and got their glasses. She took a couple of ice cubes out of a bag in the freezer top of the refrigerator, plunked one cube in each glass, poured some bourbon over it, and added ginger-ale from a screw-top bottle. She walked back around, put the drinks down and said, ”Two bucks.“

Each of the drinkers gave her a dollar bill. She came back around the bar, put the two bills into a small, square, green metal box on the shelf. Then she looked at me again.

”Beer or hard stuff,“ she said. Her voice had a thick wheezy sound to it.

”Anything to eat?“ I said.

”Got a Slim Jim,“ she said.

I shook my head. ”I’m looking for a guy named Wilfred Pomeroy,“ I said.

She had no reaction. She didn’t care if I was looking for Wilfred Pomeroy or not.

”Know him?“ I said.

”Yuh.“

”Know where I can find him?“

”Yuh.“

”Where?“

She simply shook her head.

”Owe him money,“ I said. ”I’m looking to pay him.“

She looked across at the two fat guys drinking bourbon and ginger ale. Both of them wore highlaced leather boots. The steel toe of one showed through where the pale leather had worn away.

”Guy here says he owes Wilfred Pomeroy money,“ she said. The wheeze rattled in her chest. Her cigarette had burned down close to her lips. She spat it on the floor and let it smolder there while she got another one out of the pocket of her shapeless cotton dress. She lit it.

The guy in the ”Day-Glo“ cap said, ”Shit.“ Nobody else said anything.

”You’re not buying that?“ I said.

The other guy at the table said, ”Wilfred never done nothing that anyone would owe him money for, mister.“

The guy in the ”Day-Glo“ cap spat against the stove. It sizzled for a minute and then everything was quiet again.

”You from Boston or New York?“ the other guy said.

”Boston,“ I said.

”How much that fancy jacket cost you?“

”DayGlo“ said. At 9:50 in the morning he was already a little glassy-eyed. I was wearing jeans and a leather jacket, and in Tunnys Grill I felt like Little Lord Fauntleroy.

”Free,“ I said. ”I took it away from a loudmouth in a barroom.“

”Day-Glo’s“ brow furrowed for a minute while he thought about that.

”You think you’re funny?“ he said.

”No,“ I said, ”I think you’re funny. You know where I can find Wilfred Pomeroy, or not?“

”Maybe you want to get your wise city-boy ass stomped.“

”Don’t be a dope,“ I said. ”You’re half gassed already and you’re fifty pounds out of shape.“

”Day-Glo“ looked at his pal.

”You want to show this city mister something?“ His pal was looking at me thoughtfully, or what passed for thoughtfully in Waymark. Then he made a dismissive gesture with his left hand.

”Fuck him, Francis.“

The woman at the bar said, ”You gonna buy something or not? If you ain’t I don’t want you loitering around my bar.“

I looked around at the three of them, slowly. ”Have a nice day,“ I said, and departed haughtily. Mr. Charm, smooth-talking the bumpkins.