Black House (Page 86)

As far as Richie is concerned, he has a duty to tell Beezer that the police have finally learned the whereabouts of Irma Freneau’s body. That busybody Myrtle said it was a secret Richie has to keep to himself, but he’s pretty sure that right after Myrtle gave him the news, she called four or five other people. Those people will call their best friends, and in no time at all half of French Landing is going to be heading over on 35 to be in on the action. Beezer has a better right to be there than most, doesn’t he?

Less than thirty seconds after getting rid of Myrtle Harrington, Richie Bumstead looks up Beezer St. Pierre in the directory and dials the number.

"Richie, I sure hope you aren’t shitting me," Beezer says.

"He called in, yeah?" Beezer wants Richie to repeat it. "That worthless piece of shit in the DARE car, the Mad Hungarian? . . . And he said the girl was where?"

"Fuck, the whole town is gonna be out there," Beezer says. "But thanks, man, thanks a lot. I owe you." In the instant before the receiver slams down, Richie thinks he hears Beezer start to say something else that gets dissolved in a scalding rush of emotion.

And in the little house on Nailhouse Row, Beezer St. Pierre swipes tears into his beard, gently moves the telephone a few inches back on the table, and turns to face Bear Girl, his common-law spouse, his old lady, Amy’s mother, whose real name is Susan Osgood, and who is staring up at him from beneath her thick blond bangs, one finger holding her place in a book.

"It’s the Freneau girl," he says. "I gotta go."

"Go," Bear Girl tells him. "Take the cell phone and call me as soon as you can."

"Yeah," he says, and plucks the cell phone from its charger and rams it into a front pocket of his jeans. Instead of moving to the door, he thrusts a hand into the huge red-brown tangle of his beard and absent-mindedly combs it with his fingers. His feet are rooted to the floor; his eyes have lost focus. "The Fisherman called 911," he says. "Can you believe this shit? They couldn’t find the Freneau girl by themselves, they needed him to tell them where to find her body."

"Listen to me," Bear Girl says, and gets up and travels the space between them far more quickly than she seems to. She snuggles her compact little body into his massive bulk, and Beezer inhales a chestful of her clean, soothing scent, a combination of soap and fresh bread. "When you and the boys get out there, it’s going to be up to you to keep them in line. So you have to keep yourself in line, Beezer. No matter how angry you are, you can’t go nuts and start beating on people. Cops especially."

"I suppose you think I shouldn’t go."

"You have to. I just don’t want you to wind up in jail."

"Hey," he says, "I’m a brewer, not a brawler."

"Don’t forget it," she says, and pats him on the back. "Are you going to call them?"

"Street telephone." Beezer walks to the door, bends down to pick up his helmet, and marches out. Sweat slides down his forehead and crawls through his beard. Two strides bring him to his motorcycle. He puts one hand on the saddle, wipes his forehead, and bellows, "THE FUCKING FISHERMAN TOLD THAT FUCKING HUNGARIAN COP WHERE TO FIND IRMA FRENEAU’S BODY. WHO’S COMING WITH ME?"

On both sides of Nailhouse Row, bearded heads pop out of windows and loud voices shout "Wait Up!" "Holy Shit!" and "Yo!" Four vast men in leather jackets, jeans, and boots come barreling out of four front doors. Beezer almost has to smile — he loves these guys, but sometimes they remind him of cartoon characters. Even before they reach him, he starts explaining about Richie Bumstead and the 911 call, and by the time he finishes, Mouse, Doc, Sonny, and Kaiser Bill are on their bikes and waiting for the signal.

"But this here’s the deal," Beezer says. "Two things. We’re going out there for Amy and Irma Freneau and Johnny Irkenham, not for ourselves. We want to make sure everything gets done the right way, and we’re not gonna bust anybody’s head open, not unless they ask for it. You got that?"

The others rumble, mumble, and grumble, apparently in assent. Four tangled beards wag up and down.

"And number two, when we do bust open somebody’s head, it’s gonna be the Fisherman’s. Because we have put up with enough crap around here, and now I am pretty damn sure it’s our turn to hunt down the f**king bastard who killed my little girl — " Beezer’s voice catches in his throat, and he raises his fist before continuing. "And dumped this other little girl in that f**king shack out on 35. Because I am going to get my hands on that f**king f**khead, and when I do, I am gonna get RIGHTEOUS on his ass!"

His boys, his crew, his posse shake their fists in the air and bellow. Five motorcycles surge noisily into life. "We’ll take a look at the place from the highway and double back to the road behind Goltz’s," Beezer shouts, and charges down the road and uphill on Chase Street with the others in his slipstream.

Through the middle of town they roll, Beezer in the lead, Mouse and Sonny practically on his tailpipe, Doc and the Kaiser right behind, their beards flowing in the wind. The thunder of their bikes rattles the windows in Schmitt’s Allsorts and sends starlings flapping up from the marquee of the Agincourt Theater. Hanging over the bars of his Harley, Beezer looks a little bit like King Kong getting set to rip apart a jungle gym. Once they get past the 7-Eleven, Kaiser and Doc move up alongside Sonny and Mouse and take up the entire width of the highway. People driving west on 35 look at the figures charging toward them and swerve onto the shoulder; drivers who see them in their rearview mirrors drift to the side of the road, stick their arms out of their windows, and wave them on.