Once Upon a Time by Barbara Fradkin Page A

them recently, just out of curiosity, you know? ’Cause I used to get my fishing and hunting gear at his shop. But no one seen much of them since they moved out to the country.”
    Green spoke for the first time. “I understand he had an assault charge, maybe twenty years ago. Any chance there’s still a file on that?”
    Tom Wells scrunched his craggy, sun-weathered face in an effort to remember, then shook his head. “We don’t keep stuff that long, and in that case, the charge was dropped.”
    â€œSo you remember the case?”
    â€œYeah, I was the one took the call,” Wells said. “I remember I was surprised. Eugene was a regular at Paddy’s place on Saturday nights. There were more than a few times when me and my partner had to bring him home and put him to bed. But he was a quiet drunk. Never got into fights, never bothered anybody. So I thought it was kind of strange. In fact, I asked him about it. I didn’t want to lay an assault charge, and I was hoping he’d tell me why he did it, but he never said a word. Just said he’d had one too many, his mistake.”
    â€œWhy were the charges dropped?”
    â€œThe fellow he assaulted wouldn’t press charges. I tried to persuade him to—I mean, when Eugene wouldn’t give any excuse. The fellow was a visitor, and I had a bar full of drinkers waiting to see if I was going to apply the law. But nobody would say a word if Dubroskie and his cousin weren’t going to. In this town, everybody minds everybody else’s business, including the cops’.”
    â€œDubroskie?”
    â€œLocal farmer, good man. Cousin’s name was something unpronounceable. Polish, began with G.”
    â€œSo what did this Mr. G. say about it?”
    â€œNothing,” Wells said with a shrug. “He was an immigrant, heavy accent, seemed awful confused. Apologizing all over the place if he’d upset anybody.”
    Immigrant! Green hid his excitement as another possible piece of the puzzle slipped into place. “And Dubroskie? Did he or anyone else in the family have any idea what was going on?”
    Wells shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve known the Dubroskies all my life. Family’s owned a farm west of town since the pioneer days. I went to high school with Karl, and my kids went to high school with Karl’s kids. We never been close friends, because here in the valley, the oldtimers tended to stick with their own. Poles with Poles, Irish with Irish. And people kept the secrets within their own group, you know? I mean, the Poles might fight like cats and dogs among themselves and one family hate another’s guts, but a Protestant Welshman like myself is never going to find out why.”
    â€œSo you think people are hiding something about this assault, but only a Pole is going to find out what it is. But Walker’s British—why would he keep an insider’s secret?”
    Sergeant Wells’ eyes widened. “Walker? Are you kidding? He was Polish!”
    It was Green’s turn to be surprised. “Are you sure?”
    â€œOf course I’m sure! He had an accent thick enough to cut with a knife. He came here after the war.”
    â€œBut his wife… And his name…”
    â€œThe wife’s British, you’re right. Fine lady. We always figured he took her name. When he first came, there was quite a stir in the Polish community. I remember my father talking about it. Back then, the communities around here were very traditional—you’d know that, Brian—everyone had their place. Walker fitted nowhere. His wife was British and a Protestant, and the Poles thought he’d turned his back on his Polish roots when he changed his name. Plus he would never talk Polish. He would never talk about the old country. He was one of them, but he avoided them. Him and his wife didn’t really fit in anywhere.”
    Green turned to Sullivan.