Bloody River Blues: A Location Scout Mystery (25 page)

“John, what’s this about the money?”

“Money?”

“I hear you’re trying to put something together with Marty Weller, you’re looking for some bucks.”

“I am. That has nothing to do with you or anybody else here.”

“Somebody paying you so you won’t testify, John?”

Pellam lowered his head slightly and eased a long breath of whiskey-scented air into his lungs. “I think maybe you and I don’t have much more to talk about.”

“No.” Sloan leaned forward, pointing a nubby finger at Pellam. “We got
one
thing more to talk about. You tell Peterson that it was this Peter Crimmins in
the Lincoln. I don’t care whether you saw him or not.
I
know he was in the car and I don’t even know who the fuck he is!”

“Sorry, Tony.”

“How much is he paying you?”

“I’ll ask you to leave now.”

“You want to stay on this job and get your fee, you’ll tell Peterson what he wants to know.”

“That’s money you owe me.”

“If I can’t wrap this picture in three days there won’t be any money for anybody.”

“That’s not my fault. I did my job. Sell one of your Ferraris and pay me.”

Sloan set the glass down on the camper’s tiny counter. He seemed calm but the tendons in his neck were bulging and pronounced just beneath his dark beard. His teeth were set. “Oh, I got your number, Pellam,” he said viciously. “I asked around about you. You and your artsy films, you and your
Cahier du Cinéma,
you and your buddies sitting around and talking about Cannes and
auteur
theory. You make your jokes, you make the crew giggle.
Bonnie and Clyde, The Wild Bunch.
But just tell me, Pellam, how many of those crew people are
you
paying? How many of their kids are
you
putting through college? How many people came to see
your
films, and how many come to see
mine?
”

Pellam’s last film as director,
Central Standard Time,
was never finished. It would have starred Tommy Bernstein, who died of a massive, cocaine-induced heart attack on the set during the second week of principal photography. The film Pellam had directed just prior to that had won a
Palme d’Or
at
Cannes but was seen by North Americans only in New York, Montreal, Toronto, Los Angeles, and in those cities with video stores that indulged in cult films. What Tony Sloan was saying now was absolutely correct.

Pellam said evenly, “I won’t tell Peterson I saw who was in the car.”

“Then you’re fired. Clear out. Get the paperwork and any equipment of the company’s to Stile. He’s taking over as location manager.”

“I’ll sue you, Tony. I don’t want to but I will.”

“If this film doesn’t wrap, Pellam, I’m coming after you for
my
fee. That’s a million seven. And even if I lose you’ll piss away a half million in lawyers’ fees alone. You don’t respect who I am, Pellam, okay, but you got no right to cut my legs out from underneath me.”

“DID YOU KNOW
this?” Ralph Bales asked.

Stevie Flom looked at the offered page of the Maddox
Reporter
and could not figure out what he was supposed to know. “I read the
Post-Dispatch
mostly.”

“Okay, it was in the
Post-Dispatch,
too, I’ll bet. See, it’s the Associated Press. That means a lot of papers get it.”

They were on the riverfront in St. Louis, the silvery arch towering over them and looking lofty and weird at the same time, like a huge toy. In front of them, unhealthy-looking water, bilish and milky, splashed at pilings. From the speakers of a candy red excursion boat, a paddle-wheeler, came brassy jazz. Ralph Bales had been reading when Stevie Flom walked up to him. Reading and leaning up against the scabby railing, really lost in the paper.

Stevie Flom was cold and he was not interested in what was in the paper. He hadn’t slept well the night before, turning over and over, listening to the wind rock the single tree outside his bedroom window. He’d stared at the tree for a long time. When he had gone to bed there were seventeen leaves on it. When he had wakened there were eight. His wife had slept with a smile on her face and that pissed him off.

Then she woke up cheerful and happy and that pissed him off too.

What it was he was supposed to know about was this airplane that took off vertically, then the wings twisted forward and it flew like a normal plane. “That is a
great
idea.” Ralph Bales pointed at an abandoned dock beside the river. “See, it could land there. You wouldn’t have to go out to Lambert. That’s the biggest pain in traveling, getting to the airports, you ask me.”

Stevie Flom didn’t travel much. Reno, of course. Then he and some of the guys had gone to a casino in Puerto Rico once. He’d taken the wife to Aruba, which was nothing but sand and wind and as hot as an engine block. He wondered why Ralph Bales traveled so much he had to worry about getting to the airport.

“I wish I had a piece of that.”

“Yeah,” Stevie Flom said, and he looked at the picture of the airplane, which, after a moment of reflection, he decided
was
a pretty good idea. He thought that with the money he was going to make from Lombro, he would take the wife on another vacation. Or maybe one of the girlfriends. He’d have to decide which one.

“I’ve got the go-ahead,” Ralph Bales said. He turned the paper to the front page, where there were no airplanes or other clever ideas at all.

“You got . . . Oh, to take care of the guy in the camper. The beer guy! Why’d it take so long?”

“Lombro was nervous. I don’t know, he’s a—”

“Weird dude is what he is.”

“Yeah. Weird. He’s upped your share to ten.”

“Ten
thousand?
”

“Of course, thousand. What do you think?”

“Well, why?” Stevie grinned deep creases into his baby-skin cheeks.

“Why? Excuse me, you want me to call him up and give it back?”

“I’m just curious.”

“Curious. He’s curious,” Ralph Bales whispered. “You’ve got to make it look like an accident.”

“Accident? Why?”

“Because it’s got to. That’s why the extra money. I was thinking, maybe something with that motorcycle of his.”

“He’s got a cycle?”

“That yellow Yamaha. He keeps it on the back of his camper.”

“Sure,” Stevie said. “A cycle accident. That’s easy.”

Like he did it every day.

STEVIE FLOM THOUGHT
: Maddox is an easy place to steal a car but a tough place to drive one around once you’d boosted it.

The cops didn’t have much else to do but check out hot cars and the place was hardly big enough to get lost in the camouflage of heavy traffic. He was eyeballed
by two cops as he made his law-abiding way out of town. Stevie was also unhappy that this particular Dodge’s former owner was a rent-a-car company, which meant that the forty-eight thousand miles on it were hard miles, careless, heavy-foot miles. The damn thing rattled and clanked and there was a hiss coming from the AC even though it was off.

But it moved pretty fast and he was able to keep up with the cycle though the beer guy drove like a son of a bitch. Stevie worried that if the Yamaha started lane-hopping he could kiss the man’s ass good-bye. He goosed the accelerator and closed on the cycle.

He may have had a lemon car but Stevie was lucky in one respect. He had arrived at the Bide-A-Wee trailer park just as the guy walked out of the camper and jumped on the Yamaha. He’d even glanced at Stevie’s car but just briefly, not even looking in the driver’s seat. Stevie drove past. In the rearview mirror he watched the man kick-start the Yamaha. Stevie made a slow U-turn and followed.

Now, on the expressway, the beer man changed lanes, shot forward, braked hard, then settled into the express lane, about twenty miles over the limit. Stevie, hands sweating, managed to keep with him and soon they were cruising smoothly toward St. Louis.

As he tapped his gold pinkie ring on the steering wheel, Stevie was thinking about his father. He had a limited, but severe, repertoire of images of the old man and he realized now that some of them matched this fellow on the bike. Lean, mid-thirties, leather jacket, cycle. This thought put him in another bad mood, and, agitated, Stevie leaned forward to turn on the radio. It was a digital model and he couldn’t figure
out how to set the station for the boss sound, We Rock St. Louis all the hits all the time. The old radios, you just twisted the dial to where you wanted it, then pulled the button out and shoved it back in. All this electronic stuff. Crap!

He kicked it hard with his boot heel and cracked the housing. It kept playing something classical. He kicked it again and plastic snapped and the speaker went silent except for a hiss.

Stevie Flom stopped worrying about music and concentrated on the motorcycle.

DONNIE BUFFETT DID
not see her right away. He opened his eyes and was afraid to move his head. He thought it might make him vomit, the motion. He had been on pills for a flare-up of pain in his shoulder—the gunshot wound—and they made him nauseated.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Penny, honey . . .” He lifted his hand out toward her, and—this was the weird thing—she grabbed it in both hands and kissed his fingers, then rubbed them against her cheek.

He looked at her as though he had not seen her for months, as though he had never before seen her. Dark, thick hair, a narrow face, pretty. Good figure, bad posture, shoulders forward, to conceal large breasts of which she was self-conscious. She wore clothes he knew she owned and had worn before but which weren’t familiar to him: a gray suit, an orange blouse, light-colored nylons.

Buffett wished they had a child, someone for Penny to be with. Someone whom Penny would have to be strong for. She had strength somewhere in her,
he believed, but she needed someone, or something, to bring it out.

She handed him a shopping bag. She had baked him some cookies (what he had told Pellam was true; she was a hell of a cook) and brought another bag of Ruffles potato chips and a container of Sour King French onion dip. A
Reader’s Digest
, some crossword puzzle books.

Donnie Buffett had never done a crossword puzzle in his life.

She bent down and kissed him, brother-sister, on the cheek. He smelled her perfume. Buffett wondered, If you got shot in the neck do you lose your sense of smell?

But, of course, he hadn’t been shot in the neck. He had just been shot in the back. Luckily. He could still smell like a sonofabitch.

He looked at the crossword book. “Thanks, hon.”

“I’ve marked these for you.” She opened the
Reader’s Digest
for him. “My Battle with Leukemia.” There was another. “Live Your Life 365 Days a Year.”

Another article was from
Higher Self
magazine, entitled “Joy: Go for It.”

Buffett looked at the food, and Penny said, “I don’t know if you can eat those things.”

“Sure. It’s not like I had my appendix out or anything.”

She nodded earnestly.

Buffett’s hair was a mess. It fell across his forehead. He was always pushing the dark strands off his face. He did this now and his arm went out of control. It crashed into the metal headboard of the bed.

“Shit,” he whispered.

Penny’s pretty face was shocked. “The nurse,” she said, alarmed, standing up abruptly, looking for the call button.

“I’m okay. It’s nothing. The pills I’m taking.”

“The nurse!”

“Penny.”

Neither moved for a moment. “I’m so sorry.”

“Stop saying that. Why are you saying that?”

He opened the potato chips and ate a couple, to show her that he liked them. He could not bring himself to eat the dip. Then he ate a cookie. They were good. He ate another one. The sweetness reminded him of his Last Supper, the doughnut and coffee Pellam had brought him. He picked up the bag she had brought, intending to set it on the floor beside the bed. He felt the candle inside the bag. He took it out. “Penny . . .”

“I know what you think but it can’t hurt. And you’ve got oil, too.”

“Oil.”

She stood and took the bag from him. “It’s wish oil.”

“Wish oil.”

“What it is, you pour some in the bathtub—”

“Well, I can’t
take
a bath.” He was exasperated. “How can I take a bath?”

She stared at him, tears welling. “I don’t think you have to put it in a bath. I mean, if it works in the bath it’d work just as well dabbing it on you, wouldn’t it?” She added, “I know it works. You keep wishing that you’ll get well. Put the oil on you, then wish and wish and wish. I meditated for an hour and seven minutes last night . . .”

The Terror hears this and rolls upright. It starts to prowl through Donnie Buffett’s guts.

Sweat pops onto his forehead.

Bleeding Christ, is it restless! Dodging around inside him, playing with the pain in his legs, slipping up to his heart, dancing over his crotch. (Can’t get south of there, can you, you shit?)

The Terror. . . .

He fights it down. He presses his nails into the palm of his left hand. He concentrates on the pain, willing it to become a wave of agony. This ironically numbs the Terror. Its prowling slows and it grows tired. Buffett begins to calm. Penny does not seem to notice her husband’s absence and continues to talk about shopping and her parents and a consciousness-raising group she’s been attending.

The Terror finally falls asleep.

Buffett took a deep breath and calmed down, then interrupted her to say, “I’d like you to meet my doctor.”

Penny blinked.

Buffett continued, “Dr. Weiser. She’s the best in the city.”

“You know how I feel about doctors. You need more than—”

“But I
do
need a doctor, honey,” he said. “Come on, please. Just meet her.”

“Okay,” she said cheerfully, eyes sparkling, “I’d like that. I promise I won’t lecture her on . . .”

What was she going to say? On the
right
way to practice medicine?
Holism? Spiritualism?