“Oh.”
Mike concentrated on the view below them, at the nub of which lay the well-tended Ayrshire domain.
“That’s a fact, son. And while it may mean nothing at all, it could mean trouble.”
Ted pooh-poohed it. “I thought the Ayrshire Dairy Farm belonged to Percy Wrighthouse. Old Perce. A gentleman farmer. Deacon of the Finleysburg Methodist Church. A pillar of the community.”
“It did. But life is fleeting, flesh is mortal, and last month Percy passed away from the galloping ague or some damn thing. He left his farm to his brother Clyde.”
“The junk dealer.”
“The same. I doubt if Percy really wanted to leave his farm to Clyde. They’re as different as you and Terence.”
“Terence?”
Mike paused for a moment. Wasn’t one of his sons named Terence? He thought so, but decided to ignore the question. He went on. “They say Percy and Clyde hadn’t spoken to each other in forty years. Percy’s wife is dead, they had no children, and his two cousins live in Illinois. The property went to Clyde.”
Ted yawned.
Mike bristled. Had this fresh-faced son of his learned so much about calculus up above Cayuga’s waters that he couldn’t add two and two?
“Have you seen the Wrighthouse Junk and Salvage Yard, son?”
“No.”
“It’s a vision of hell. It’s a crime against God’s green and pleasant land. All junkyards are ugly. This one is an atrocity. Can you imagine what would happen if... if—”
Ted said, “You sobbed, Pop. Jeez, what can I say? Maybe Clyde will sell the place to another dairy farmer. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”
They waited.
They saw what happened.
It was hard to miss.
Within a week, a half-dozen gutted, rusted automobile hulks stood piled up like profane corpses along one side of the spotless white barn. Within two weeks, by careful count, twenty-seven metallic cadavers littered the landscape, making a garish mockery of the best view in America.
Mike took aspirin and Irish whiskey to ease the pain. He chased it with Harp lager. He tried to collect his thoughts, tried to decide on a course of action. He paced the dining room in off hours, grim and despairing.
Should he phone Clyde Wrighthouse and start yelling? Should he call on Clyde Wrighthouse and utter a few syllables of sweet reason? Should he take off the mitts and have his lawyer in Elm City bring legal action?
More loathsome, twisted cars arrived in the valley. Then came a mangled and monstrous tractor-trailer, which, for some reason, remained a unit despite its collapsed wheels and caved-in metal from hood to tailgate. The Ayrshire Dairy Farm was beginning to resemble nothing so much as an untended cemetery for wrecked autos and trucks.
Seven days passed. On the eighth day, as gray rain coursed down, matching Mike’s mood, and as thunder rolled across the valley, matching his thoughts, and as bolts of lightning continued to miss what should have been the Almighty’s primary target, Mike dialed Clyde Wrighthouse’s number.
“Ay-yuh?”
“Mr. Wrighthouse.”
“Ay-yuh.”
“This is Mike O’Shea. Up on the mountain.”
“Ay-yuh.”
“I’m calling about those wrecks on your property. Those cars and trucks you’ve been bringing in.”
“What about ’em?”
“I thought your salvage yard was in Elm City.”
“Overflow.”
“You mean your Elm City yard is full and you’re bringing the wrecks out here?”
“Older ones. Not much call for Kaiser-Fraser parts, you know. Hudson, Studebaker. Stuff doesn’t move.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Wrighthouse, it’s an eyesore. It’s a damned disgrace. It ruins the view. It spoils everything up here on the mountain.”
“Tough luck. I’m in business, O’Shea. Business ain’t always pretty.”
“Move the wrecks, Mr. Wrighthouse, or you’ll hear from my lawyer.”
Clyde shot back, mean as a junkyard dog, “I’ve already checked with mine, O’Shea, and I’m within my rights. This is my land. You need any parts from a used DeSoto?”
“Mr. Wrighthouse, I’m not joking.”
“Me neither. I’m a junk dealer. I got auto parts to sell. You name the car, I got the parts. You want to buy, or you just in the mood to caterwaul?”
Mike studied the black holes in the mouthpiece of the phone.
“No answer, O’Shea? Okay. If you ain’t buyin’, I ain’t talkin’.”
“Mr.—”
Click.
Mike switched to an extra-strength pain reliever and grabbed a double shot of Bushmill’s. His headache thundered on, unimpeded, out-booming the electrical storm. Mike’s fury reduced all remedies to impotence.
That night the Honorable J. D. Medworthy, U.S. Representative for the Twenty-seventh Congressional District of New York, a wealthy son of Finleysburg, a local lawyer with clout, came to O’Shea’s to sip vodka and tonic and ruminate on his own singular magnificence. He often came to O’Shea’s. He considered himself a drawing card. As if to clinch that presumption for him tonight, the crowd was large and boisterous. Medworthy sat alone at his window table, handsome, aquiline-nosed, a veritable lone eagle of the Republic.
Mike approached him. “J. D.?”
“Hey, Mike-O! Good to see you, pal. We missed you at the door. Got your daughter Eileen as an escort, I think. How’s it going these days? Grab a chair and tell us what’s new.”
Mike smiled thinly and sat down in a chair beside his congressman. He said nothing, but pointed toward the cancerous junkyard surrounding the Wrighthouse farm. A crumpled white Jeepster, just dragged in, caught the last rays of the sun.
Congressman Medworthy grinned. “That’s Clyde Wrighthouse’s place, I believe. Old Clyde, he’s a regular two-ring circus these days.”
“A circus, J. D.? He’s a criminal.”
“Hey, wait a minute, Mike. Watch your words. That’s Wrighthouse land down there, and... well, look, I guess you know Clyde W... he supports the party right down the line. Flush times and bust, ever since I was a councilman. He’s always backed us pretty good with those dimes and dollars. Better’n...” Medworthy glanced uneasily around the room, “why, hell, Mike, better’n you.”
“I’ll sue him,” Mike whispered. “I’ll sue the creep.”
“Sue him? No way, pal. He’d laugh you out of court. There’s no zoning restrictions on that valley land. I mean, you may like the sight of munching Holsteins better than a bunch of rusted-out cars from the fifties, but that’s Clyde’s land down there. Clyde’s got powerful friends.”
Mike groaned, “But the view, J. D.”
“The view? Hey, Mike, like the old gray mare, she ain’t what she used to be. When Tony Lopata built this place, back when Gehrig was in knickers, you couldn’t find so much as a nick in any of the white fence rails on the flat. It was gorgeous. I admit it. But times change, nothing lasts.” He slapped the table for emphasis. “You got to roll with the punches, Mike-O. This Clyde’s a helluva guy. A go-getter. And you shouldn’t slander his business. You should appreciate it. Hey, look at the crowd you got here tonight. You’re not hurting too bad.”
Mike stood up and walked stiffly away, rather like Rick in Casablanca. Ordinarily he liked Medworthy. J. D. patronized The Vista O’Shea without also patronizing Mike, which distinguished him from a number of other window-hogging superstars. But tonight—
Still, there was no ignoring reality. Mike got the picture, and a few days later, reluctantly, he made up his mind. He knew what he had to do.
He dialed the number in the valley.
“Ay-yuh?”
“Mr. Wrighthouse, this is Mike O’Shea, up on the mountain. I won’t beat around the bush. I want to settle this thing with you once and for all. What’s your asking price for that junk on your farm? I’ll buy it all, if you’ll agree not to bring in any more.”