Bloody River Blues: A Location Scout Mystery

by Jeffery Deaver

  Pellam had liked Badlands and his favorite films were minimal and essential. He felt he should hear Sloan out.

  “John, I’ve asked around. People say you been all over the country. They say you’re a walking site catalog.”

  Perhaps not. But Pellam did have many scrapbooks filled with Polaroid snaps of quirky, cinematic locales just right for the sort of feature film that Sloan was describing. Moreover, Sloan had less location experience than most directors because his flicks were usually soundstage setups and computer graphics transfers. To make his movie he’d need a solid location manager.

  “Keep talking,” Pellam said.

  “They’re bank robbers,” Sloan was explaining. “Young bank robbers. It’s a vehicle—for like Aidan Quinn and Julia Roberts before she was Julia Roberts. I don’t want to go with anybody who’s been on the cover of People. Nobody bankable. It’s got me scared, but I need to make this change. Between you and me I’m suffocating under the system. You know what I’m saying?”

  Pellam did and he told Sloan so.

  “They’re not understood, this couple. They’re angry, they’re disaffected—”

  Listening to Sloan back then, Pellam had seen what he believed were the Black Hills. They weren’t black at all, but were dark blue. They were very far away, but in the awesome, undisturbed sky towering above, they looked both regal and unsettling.

  “It sounds vaguely familiar, Tony.”

  “I know, you’re thinking Bonnie and Clyde,” Sloan said.

  Ah, right. That was what Pellam had been thinking.

  “This’s different,” the director continued. “It’s called Missouri River Blues. You hear about it? Orion was kicking it around a few years ago before it was belly-up time. These characters are real. They live and breathe. Dunaway and Beatty were . . . Dunaway and Beatty. What can I say? Good movie, one of my primal influences. But I’m going beyond it. Okay, Ross, that’s the boyfriend, he’s in prison and going crazy. He’s going to kill himself. He can’t take it anymore. We open on these incredible shots of a lock-down. That’s when . . . See, in prison—”

  “When they close up the maximum-security cellblock for the night.”

  “Right. How’d you know that?”

  “Tell me about the film, Tony.”

  “I’ve got the DP working on a special micro lens. Angles on the insides of the locks and bars clanging shut. It’s beautiful. So we get a sense of confinement. Everything closing around him. Well, Ross escapes, and he and Dehlia—”

  “Dehlia?”

  “. . . he and Dehlia drive around the countryside, robbing armored trucks mostly. They’re highwaymen, modern highwaymen. Ross’s driven by his fear of the lock-down. She’s driven by the social convention that forces women to be homemakers. Claustrophobia. The script plays off the risk of freedom versus the fear of imprisonment. Which is worse? Prison with its security, freedom with its dangers?”

  “It sounds a lot like Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “No, no, the characters are all different. Also the freedom of love versus its confinement. Oh, and the kids’re concerned about the environment.” He added significantly, “This’s the early fifties. They’re concerned about A-bomb testing.”

  “A-bombs,” Pellam said. “That’s very socially conscious.” Sloan completely missed the irony and Pellam asked, “Set in Missouri, I presume?”

  “Medium-sized town,” Sloan said. “The postwar boom has passed it by. That sort of town.”

  “Bonnie and Clyde was set in Missouri,” Pellam pointed out. “Part of it anyway.”

  “It’s not like Bonnie and Clyde,” the director said icily.

  Pellam flipped through his mental Rolodex of locations he knew in the Midwest. “I did a job in Kansas a few years back. Small town on a river. How’s Kansas?”

  “I want Missouri. The title, you know.”

  Pellam asked, “Could you tell Kansas from Missouri?”

  “I grew up in Van Nuys. I can’t tell Ohio from Colorado. But that’s not the point. I want Missouri.”

  “Got it.”

  Sloan now paused. “The thing is, John, I’ve got some timing problems here.”

  The tail of the sentence wagged silently.

  “Timing.”

  “You know, I’ve had nothing but headaches with the project. You know the Time article about me? Last year?”

  “I missed it,” Pellam said.

  “When they called me the ‘High-tech Visionary’?”

  Pellam said that whatever they had called him, he’d still missed the article.

  “I mean, Sony or Disney would have written a check for the GNP of France if I’d made the sequel.”

  Son of Circuit Man, Pellam thought, then reconsidered. He said, “Circuit Man Rewired.”

  “Ha, John. Very good. Very funny. But Missouri River? It was a battle to get the green light. It’s an action film, but it’s a period action film, and it’s an intelligent period action film. That scared people.”

  Perhaps competing with Kurosawa and Altman and John Ford—and Arthur Penn, the director of Bonnie and Clyde—scared people, too.

  “So what are you saying, Tony?”

  “I’m saying that I’m in a bind. I got the go-ahead yesterday and I need locations in two weeks, absolute maximum.”

  Pellam laughed a laugh that terrifies producers and directors. It means: Not only are you asking the impossible but I don’t need the job nearly badly enough to put up with the crap I know I’m going to have to put up with to do what you want.

  “Six,” Pellam said. He was, in fact, ready to leave that night—just as soon as the Black Hills turned truly black and he finished his beer. But two weeks was impossible to find sites for the hundreds of setups in a full-length feature.

  It was the moment when one of them would say, “Four weeks” and they would shake hands, remotely, on the compromise.

  Tony Sloan said, “You find me locations in two weeks and I’ll pay you twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  Pellam felt heat flow from his black hair down into his throat. He believed his skin was flushed. “Well—”

  “Thirty-five.”

  Thirty-five thousand?

  “I’m a desperate man, Pellam. I’m not going to bullshit you.”

  After a pause, Pellam asked, “Tony, tell me, does a Texas Ranger track them down in the end and machine-gun them to death?”

  “It is a goddamn different movie, Pellam.”

  “Deal. Express Mail the script to me care of Kansas City GPO.”

  Two days later, Pellam drove over the city limits into Maddox, Missouri, braked the Winnebago to a stop, and knew he’d just earned himself some big money.

  MISSOURI RIVER BLUES

  SCENE 34—EXTERIOR EVENING, STREET IN FRONT OF BANK

  MEDIUM ANGLE ON Ross and Dehlia, dressed up as if they were “out for an innocent stroll.” They are supposed to be casing the job, but Ross is introspective. He stops.

  ANGLE ON REAL ESTATE OFFICE, ROSS’S POV

  CU OF LISTING SHEETS OF ONE-FAMILY HOUSES

  ANGLE ON Ross’s face

  ANGLE ON Dehlia’s face, looking at him:

  TWO SHOT OF both of them.

  ROSS

  There was a time when I needed to be an outlaw. But it’s different now. (CLOSE ON his face.) Since you and me’ve been on the road together, lover, it’s all different. Now I’ve got you and I want to be part of the world we’ve been looking in on. Looking in on from the outside for a long, long time.

  The bank-robbing lovers in the film come upon a small midwestern river town filled with abandoned factories and characters whose lives have been ruined by rampant capitalism. They decide to make one last heist then follow the lead of all the returning World War II veterans: buy a house in the ’burbs and raise babies.

  More than even minimal or essential movies, Pellam loved good movies. He was not convinced that Missouri River Blues was a good movie. The script contained a number of time bombs—long speeches,
shoot-outs, car chases and stylish camera directions. But a script is merely a promise. What Sloan would make of it, nobody, perhaps not even Sloan himself, could know at this point.

  It was not Pellam’s job, in any case, to career-counsel visionaries. He did what he’d been hired to do. He read the script ten times, got a sense of what it was about, did his outline of the scenes, blocked them out, consolidating similar ones to minimize travel between locations. Then he clocked seven hundred miles on the Winnebago as he threaded through Maddox and environs, shot sixty packs of Polaroids, met with the mayor and the city’s insurance company, then wrote up his report and shipped it off.

  Within a day Sloan and the director of photography flew to St. Louis and drove north, where Sloan approved most of the locations. They jetted back that night to finish casting.

  For the next week Pellam helped the key grip with site preparation and deciding what cranes and other equipment would be needed for the shooting. Sloan and the cast and crew had arrived in a swirl of frenzied excitement. Grip trucks, camera cranes, Winnebagos, location vans. This movie was bigger news in Maddox than FDR and William Jennings Bryan combined.

  As on most sets, the atmosphere was boisterous in the first few days of shooting. Pellam had had some fun. Because scouts are often first on the scene, newly arrived personnel ask them for tips on places to eat and things to see. A young hotshot actor, playing one of Ross’s gangsters, asked Pellam bluntly where he could get laid and how much would it cost.

  Pellam thought for a bit, then remembered an ad he had seen not long after he arrived in Maddox. “It’ll be cheap but you’ve got to drive a ways.” He gave the actor elaborate directions that sent him ten miles into the boonies. He returned an hour later, fuming, and stormed onto the set, where Pellam and the crew greeted him with high-pitched squeals and calls of soo-eee!

  Pellam had sent him to the St. Charles County Hog and Ham Museum.

  But that had been a month ago, and now the time for jokes was over. Missouri River Blues was badly over schedule and vastly over budget. The producer from the studio financing the film had sent a representative—Sloan referred to him, openly, as “the stoolie”—to goose things along. The problem, in Pellam’s view, was that while Sloan could entice performances from characters fighting to the death with lasers or changing themselves into charges of electricity, he did not, despite his aspirations to art, know what he wanted in less apocalyptic scenes: love, betrayal, friendship, longing . . . So the introspective scenes were gradually replaced by more shoot-outs and chases and extreme close-ups of guns being loaded and dynamite bombs being assembled and armored truck locks being picked or blown apart.

  And all the while Sloan shot more and more film. He averaged ten thousand feet a day—almost two hours worth of film from which to distill out about two minutes of real screen time.

  “It’s an asshole picture,” the lean, balding key grip complained to Pellam. Meaning the movie was not being made here, as it was filmed, but would be cut and pasted together at the back end of the whole process—in the editing room. Desperate Tony was shooting as much footage as he possibly could, out of which he would hammer together his movie. (“Hitchcock didn’t work that way,” the grip whispered.)

  After principal photography started Pellam thought that he would have plenty of time on his own. The bulk of a location manager’s work would normally be finished at this stage. He had merely to oversee paying site rentals on schedule and keep track of permits and insurance binders. But more and more frequently he found himself waiting for calls from an increasingly anxious Sloan—such as this morning, which summons now had him racing at seventy miles an hour through the bleak and abandoned streets of Maddox, Missouri, which might have been a businessman’s nightmare but was at least a motorcyclist’s dream.

  Chapter 4

  PELLAM PUT A twelve-foot skid mark from the curb to the catering table on the set of Missouri River Blues and hopped off the Yamaha only to find the dusty Ford Taurus braking to a stop six inches from his thigh.

  Pellam shrugged and Stile emerged from the Ford out of sorts. He had lost the race because he had stopped for a red light that Pellam had ignored.

  “Didn’t know we weren’t playing by the rules,” Stile grumbled, wandering off toward wardrobe. “I’ll gitcha next time.”

  Pellam walked to the scaffolding that rose above that morning’s setup.

  Tony Sloan was a hawkish man, muscular, very lean in the face, which was why he sported a black beard. He was wearing blue jeans and a faded green T-shirt. His black hair, dusted with gray, was pulled back in a short ponytail. Occasionally he talked frantically. Other times, not at all. His eyes, perhaps reflecting his thoughts, would either dart about or lift slowly and hover before descending momentarily onto the face of the person he was speaking with.

  These eyes now landed hungrily on Pellam.

  “John, gotta get that phone fixed. Listen, I’ve been rethinking the ending. I want them to get that house, you know.” He fidgeted with his beeper.

  “Ross and Dehlia?”

  “I’ve got an image of what they should have. I can see it. You find me one? A fifties sort of house. You know, a bungalow maybe.” Sloan’s gaze rose, did a few slow circles, and returned to Pellam, who was trying to recall the most recent ending for the film.

  “That’s instead of what?”

  “The bus depot,” Sloan answered. “We don’t need the bus depot anymore.”

  “Okay. That’s easy. You want a house. You want to do interiors there?”

  “I don’t want to, no.” Sloan’s voice was exasperated. “Why would I want to?”

  “I didn’t mean want to, Tony. I meant are you going to?”

  The eyes rose. “I want to build a set. On a soundstage. I don’t want to have to cram all the damn equipment into a twelve-by-fourteen-foot living room. But I don’t have any choice.”

  “You want a bungalow with a twelve-by-fourteen living room.”

  “Well, I want bigger. If you can get me bigger.”

  “I’ll—”

  The voice was very close to Pellam’s ear. “Excuse me.” He started in surprise.

  They turned.

  “One of you John Pellam?”

  Pellam smiled a greeting.

  “I’m Detective Gianno, this’s Detective Hagedorn. With the Maddox Police Department.”

  Pellam saw ID cards and gold badges and immediately forgot their names. An Italian detective, dark-complected and short. And a WASP detective, blond, athletic, tall. He had a very square jaw. Pellam smelled after-shave. Something dry. He had been close to cops a few times in his life and could not recall smelling after-shave on a law enforcer.

  Sloan said, “What’s this all about?” His eyes now alighted on the Italian detective’s and remained fixed.

  The cop asked in response, “Who’re you?”

  “Tony Sloan.” When they registered no response he added, “I’m the director.”

  The WASP turned away from him. “If you’ll excuse us we’d like to talk to Mr. Pellam here.”

  “If there’s some problem, I’m in charge of—”

  “There won’t be a problem, sir—” he glanced at Sloan as if he were a nagging panhandler “—if you’d just give us a few minutes alone with Mr. Pellam here.”

  Sloan gave him an astonished glance then turned to Pellam. “I’ll get you that house, Tony.”

  The director wandered off to a motorized camera crane, a Chapman Apollo, the boom extended and the camera platform nearly ten feet above the ground. Sloan paused in the shadow of the boom and glanced back at the two men now standing on either side of Pellam. Several grips and gaffers noticed Sloan’s frown and stopped what they were doing to watch the three men.

  The WASP stepped closer. The scent of lime was very strong. “The Post-Dispatch did a story about this film.” He spoke with the same stilted formality that marks conversations between cops and civilians all around the world.

  “It’s a crime
movie? About bank robbers?” The Italian detective said this as if people would not think of breaking the law if movies didn’t put the idea into their heads.

  “Armored car robbers,” Pellam corrected.

  “We’ve never had a movie made in Maddox,” he added solemnly. “I hope you portray the town in a good light. We’ve had our share of trouble but that’s not our fault.”

  “No, it isn’t,” said the WASP.

  “What exactly,” Pellam asked, “do you want?”

  “Last night there was a shooting. We’re wondering if you could give us some information about it.”

  “Around here?”

  “It happened on Third, near the river.”

  He tried to remember if he had heard anything. He couldn’t recall but with the tape deck playing and the Cardinals on TV and the noise of five men playing poker, a lot of sound outside would get missed. Pellam shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can help you.” He started to walk away.

  The WASP detective put a firm grip on Pellam’s shoulder and laughed in surprise, like a schoolteacher insulted by a student. “Hey, hey, hold up there a minute. We’re not through yet.”

  Pellam shrugged the hand off and turned around. “I can’t help you.”

  “Well, we think you can, sir. A policeman was shot and critically injured and two people were killed. Vincent Gaudia and a Miss Sally Ann Moore.”

  “I’m sorry. That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “People are killed and you don’t care?” the WASP asked. His hands, palms up, rose at his sides.

  “I don’t mean that. I just mean I don’t know who they are.”

  The Italian was saying, “The car? The Lincoln? Does that ring a bell?”

  “No. I . . . Oh, wait. There was this guy got out of a big car, maybe it was a Lincoln. I didn’t really notice. I’d bought some beer. He bumped into me.”

  “Could you describe him?”

  “Was he the guy who was killed?”