He stepped into the bedroom area, dropped his change and bills and wallet and keys on the bed in one big, messy pile. He thought how much he liked living alone. He pulled off his pants and stepped into the shower.
STEVIE FLOM DECIDED he couldn’t shoot a man who was naked. So he sat sideways in the driver’s seat of the camper and looked at the worn controls. He listened to the electric-motor sound of the water. He licked his gouged hand. He was suddenly very tired and decided he needed a vacation. From Ralph Bales. From Lombro. From this piss-ant river town. What Stevie was going to do was take his money from this job and spend two months in Las Vegas. Maybe while he was there he would check around for local work. He liked the idea of perpetual sun. He liked the idea of glossy casinos open twenty-four hours a day. Free drinks and soft flesh. And many hours away from the wife.
He thought it was funny, killing someone whose name you didn’t know. He looked around the dash and found an ID card for a movie set. He learned that the beer man’s name was John Pellam.
Pellam, Pellam, he repeated to himself.
The water stopped hissing.
Footsteps. The camper creaked. The door opened. He smelled shampoo.
Stevie lifted the gun.
Pellam, wearing a thick brown bathrobe and socks, stepped into the hall. He blinked. “How’d you get in here? Who are you?”
Stevie Flom smiled coldly.
And he felt a sudden jolt of nausea, a burn spreading through his gut. His hands started to shake. His teeth, bared by the mad smile, were rattling. He pushed the gun closer toward Pellam, who was speaking, though Stevie couldn’t hear the words. He didn’t know whether the guy was yelling in anger or begging not to be killed. Stevie simply checked out to anxiety and his whole body started sweating. He pulled his right elbow in close to his body to stop the trembling. No effect. His head shook, his neck. He tilted his head sideways, as if that would let the nervousness run off him onto the floor. But he kept shaking.
Trying to calm himself, he ordered Pellam to sit. But the man just stood there, looking at him angrily, ignoring.
“Sit down,” Stevie growled. The words were lost in a nervous swallow.
Pellam remained standing. His eyes began to scan the room. Stevie heard some words. “. . . my friend? . . . You were the one? . . . The motorcycle? . . .”
Stevie took the gun in his left hand and wiped the palm of his right on his pants, then gripped the pistol again. Pellam took two steps sideways and picked up an empty wine bottle like a club. “Okay,” Pellam said.
Okay? What does he mean by Okay? He’s got a bottle, I’ve got a gun. What the hell does he mean by Okay? Stevie told himself to hold the gun out, then he realized he was already doing so. He stepped closer to Pellam. What the hell does he mean by Okay? Stevie stepped back again.
Squeeze.
Nothing happened. His finger would not respond. He looked at his hand. This did not help.
Squeeze the fucking trigger. He realized he had mouthed the words. Maybe he had actually said them.
Pellam was saying, “Put it down.”
Stevie’s mind suddenly went blank. He stuck the gun out in a single furious motion, pointed it right at Pellam’s chest, closed his eyes, and began to pull the trigger.
The cloud of glass surrounded Stevie Flom. Bluish smoke and a thousand splinters from what had been the window of the camper enveloped him. The explosion seemed to occur a moment later, as the dust of shattered glass settled on the floor.
Stevie Flom turned toward the window, his muscles now relaxed, the trembling gone. He turned toward the window and said, “It’s all right. It’ll be fine. Really.”
Then he dropped to the floor.
The door of the camper swung open and a man stepped inside, filling the room with his huge bulk, wearing a sport coat and jeans. Moving fast on small feet, he ignored Pellam, who stepped back out of his way.
What the hell was going on?
Shutting out lights.
“Who are—?”
“Quiet,” the man barked.
“Sure,” Pellam said. Bright light angled in from the kitchen and gave the room a tilted appearance, like a fun house. The man shut this light out, too. He went to the window and looked out. In the darkness Pellam said, “Are you a cop?”
“Shhh.” He walked to Stevie Flom and felt his neck, pocketed his little gun, then walked to the opposite window of the camper and looked out once more for a long moment. He turned and looked at Pellam’s hand, which held the apple wine bottle by the neck. “You got that for any reason?” His voice was thick but accentless.
“No. Uh-uh.” Pellam put the bottle down.
“You Pellam?”
He nodded and asked, “Who are you?”
“Tom Stettle. I work for a Mr. Crimmins. He—”
“Crimmins?”
“Peter Crimmins.”
Pellam looked at Stevie. “He works for Crimmins . . .”
“Uhn, no, sir. That he doesn’t,” Stettle said matter-of-factly. “Mr. Crimmins hired me to keep an eye on you.”
“Oh.” Pellam stared at the body. “Who’s he?”
Stettle did not answer but bent down and started emptying Stevie’s pockets. “He was going to kill you.”
“What’s exactly going on?”
Without looking up from his task, Stettle said, “Mr. Crimmins knows that you didn’t see him in that car the night Vince Gaudia got killed. He didn’t have nothing to do with the hit. He wants to make sure you stay alive to tell everybody that. So he’s had me looking out for you. You’re a tough man to stay on top of, let me say.”
Stevie Flom didn’t seem to be bleeding. Was he really dead?
This he asked Stettle, who seemed surprised at the question. “Well, sure he is. Help me, huh? Let’s get the body into my car. I just happened to check by tonight. It was, like, lucky. I didn’t figure he was here already. I figured they’d do you on the street like they did Gaudia.”
“He’s the one who shot the cop?”
“I dunno. Probably,” Stettle said. “You have any garbage bags?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Garbage bags? Thick ones, if you’ve got them.”
“I’ve got some, sure.”
Pellam went into the kitchen and drank a full glass of water. He found Stettle standing in the doorway, looking at him. “You want some?”
“Sure.”
Pellam poured another glass and held it out. Stettle took it in a huge hand. Pellam asked him, “Did you see the other guy out there?”
“What other guy?”
“There are two of them.” Pellam motioned to Stevie Flom. “He’s not the one I saw get out of the Lincoln.”
“He isn’t?” Stettle drank the water. “You mean there’s somebody else?”
“Yeah. Heavy guy. Balding.”
Stettle grimaced. “I’ll do what I can to keep an eye out for you. But I can’t be your roommate. After this—” he nodded at Stevie’s body “—whoever was in the car is going to be after you in a big way. You should take a vacation. Take a year off or so.”
“That’s what people keep telling me.”
Stettle was eager to leave. He finished the water and took a paper towel then wiped the glass off. With this same towel he wiped everything else in the camper he had touched.
“You got to get a new window,” he said, and broke out the rest of it with his elbow. Pellam assumed he didn’t want to leave an obvious bullet hole.
Pellam stared as the bits of glass flew outward. “I guess I should say thanks. I mean—”
Stettle was uninterested in gratitude. He soaked the paper towel that held a dozen of his fingerprints and wadded it up, slipped it into his pocket. “Garbage bags?” he asked.
“Sure.” Pellam handed him some.
“Rubber gloves?”
“Gloves?”
“Playtex, you know.”
Pellam found two old pairs. Stettle and he put them on. “The blood. Nowadays you can�
��t be too careful, you know.”
And for the second time in two days John Pellam was wrapping a body in green Glad bags. Three mils thick.
SHE PULLS OFF the brown dress.
This scares him, seeing the arc of the dress falling onto the chair. He smells fruity perfume.
She is undoing pins from her wispy hair, which tumbles down her neck. The hair is like white light. It ends just above her substantial bra. She smooths her hands along it, from her neck over her breasts down to her waist. She tosses her head. Her hair terrifies Donnie Buffett.
Not saying a word, she leans forward and lets the hair stream over his arm and face. His eyes are locked on to her hair. Terrified but unable to look away. His hand closes on it, he rubs it between his fingers, he weighs a huge handful.
No. Don’t do this to me. Please. Don’t . . .
She looks down at him, at the terror on his face.
I want to go to sleep. I want to—
But she is bending forward, a slight smile on her face. He is enveloped in her perfume, strawberry and spice, and she is kissing him, her mouth firm against his. He feels her tongue, just its tip against his lips, then through them. She is kissing him hungrily.
He is trembling.
She backs away.
She is wearing a large silver sparkly bra, garter belt and stockings, and white panties. All white, all lacy and glistening in the low light.
“Look,” Donnie Buffett says and he is sweating. “Don’t—”
“Shhhh.” She bends forward and kisses him again. He feels the pressure of her breasts under the silky cloth. She knows he feels it and rubs against him as she kisses him. Her tongue slips farther into his mouth. He doesn’t know what to do. He kisses her back.
Wondering if he’ll feel anything, if he’ll feel that twisty-warm sense, but then no, he doesn’t. And then he wants her to go away, wanting that more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life . . .
She backs off again, still smiling. He is terrified and begs her to leave. “The thing is, with this accident . . . Like I was saying. You . . .”
She turns her back to him, ignoring him. He hears her whisper, “Help me.”
His arms slump. “I’m sorry . . .”
“Please,” she whispers. “For me? I want it for me.”
Somehow this changes everything. He lifts his hands and undoes the hook of her bra and she is backing into him, forcing his hands to encircle her breasts and grip them. Her neck is inches from his mouth. He lowers his mouth to it and is caught in an avalanche of her hair. He tastes it. He smells strawberry. When she rubs against him it is as though they are underwater and their bodies are sliding past each other on the current. He turns her around in his arms and kisses her hard.
She slides off the bed and stands in front of him as she slips her panties down. He sees the blond fuzz. This hair, too, fascinates him; it is so fine you can’t really see the hair, it’s more a blur of focus where her legs come together. She begins to touch herself, running her hands over her body, taking handfuls of her head hair and spreading them around her flesh.
Then she hops up on the bed again, puts one leg on either side of his head, and bends forward, kissing his chest and stomach as she pushes the blankets aside. He is muttering no no no, but the way it is working out, his mouth being where it is, she can’t hear his words anyway and he gives up talking and all he can do is think, hell, let’s do it do it do it . . .
This—a memory, not a fantasy—was prominently in Donnie Buffett’s mind when he opened his eyes and saw John Pellam standing in the doorway of his hospital room.
Buffett blinked then he cleared his throat. “Hey, chief. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Hello, Donnie.” Pellam walked into the room. His boots made a particularly loud noise.
Oh, Christ. He knows.
“Listen, John . . .” Buffett looked up at the blank TV screen, then at the row of flowers. His face felt suddenly thick and hot, as if filled with steam. Oh, man, here’s the guy bought me beer and has treated me like a real person, he’s the first one in the whole world after the accident to tell me to go to hell, no kid gloves, no bullshit, and what do I do? I fuck his woman. Oh, man. Oh, man . . .
“John, listen, I was going to tell you.”
Pellam was grinning. This made Buffett feel a thousand times worse.
“It wasn’t like I planned it. I know I was ragging you about the casting couch thing but it’s not like I said to her, ‘Oh, poor me, I can’t get it up.’ It wasn’t a trick or anything.”
That did work, though, come to think of it.
“It’s all right, Donnie.”
“I’m not saying she came on to me. I’d never say that to avoid taking my own lumps, you know? But she was easy to talk to and I was feeling really bad. She hugged me and . . . It just sort of happened. I really was going to tell you. Really, man. But last time you were in, you were so, you know, upset about your friend . . .”
“She isn’t for me,” Pellam told him.
“No, no, she likes you. I know she does.” Wait. Would this make him feel better or worse? “What happened . . .”
“Donnie, I’ve got no claim on her.”
“I talked you up afterwards.” He said this cautiously.
Pellam was sitting down in the chair. “I wouldn’t’ve come by today if I was mad.”
Buffett could think of nothing to do but extend his hand. They shook solemnly, and Pellam seemed amused by this formal gesture of apology. “I need some help, Donnie.”
“Anything. You name it. My buddies still hassling you? I’ll get them off your case, John. Don’t worry. I’ll call the mayor if I have to.”
Pellam looked over the untouched dinner tray. Donnie followed his eyes. He asked, “Break bread?”
“Haven’t eaten in a day.”
“Help yourself.”
It wasn’t bread, it was soup, rice, and red Jell-O. Pellam ate the soup, Buffett, the rice. They split the saltines and divided the Jell-O into two bowls.
“You know, don’t you,” Buffett said, “Jell-O really sucks?”
“Uh-huh.” But Pellam seemed hungry. And with milk poured over it the Jell-O was not bad, though Pellam didn’t get much milk; he had the fork and Buffett had the spoon.
One cube slipped away from Buffett and he chased it off the tray and onto the sheet and blanket. “Shit.” He cocked his middle finger against his thumb and flicked the cube into the wall. It left a pink wound on the wall and splatted on the floor. The men laughed.
Pellam told Buffett about an old record of his uncle’s, a comedy record from the fifties. Who was the guy? Del Close, he thought. It was called How to Speak Hip. There was this routine, he explained, about a man who gets hung up on Jell-O. He keeps eating these bowls of Jell-O and ordering more. Going from restaurant to restaurant. Everybody’s staring at him. What flavor was it? Strawberry, he thought. Or raspberry. “It’s to teach you the expression ‘hung up on.’ You know, like beat talk was a foreign language.” Pellam said that he had listened to the record a hundred times when he was a kid. He loved the Jell-O routine.
Buffett smiled politely, waiting for the punch line, but apparently there was none.
“You have to sort of hear it,” Pellam said. “And be in the mood.”
“No, it was funny,” Buffett said quickly. Today, at least, he was Pellam’s toady.
But Pellam seemed to have lost his taste for humor—as well as for Jell-O and for conversation. He wiped his face. He nodded to the bedside table and said, “I guess I better do it. Let me see that phone for a minute, would you?”
THE U.S. ATTORNEY was in court when the call came in.
The secretary buzzed Nelson’s office and asked, “There’s a man on three. He says it’s important. When will Mr. Peterson be back?”
“Take a message, darling,” Nelson snapped. He returned to a lengthy set of interrogatories.
“It’s a Mr. Pellam and he says—”
Click.
/> “Mr. Pellam, Mr. Pellam. How are you? This is Mr. Peterson’s assistant, Nelson Stroud. Is there something I can do for you?”
“I want to talk to Peterson.”
“Is this about the Crimmins situation?”
Pellam said that it was.
“Well, is there anything I can help you with?”
“Where is he?”
“Mr. Peterson? He’s in court. He won’t be back for several hours.”
“Oh.” There was a long silence. Nelson gripped the phone hard and believed that if he breathed too loud, he would blow away the fragile phone connection.
“You’re a lawyer?”
“Assistant U.S. Attorney for the—”
“Okay. I want a meeting.”
Bingo!
“Fine, absolutely fine. You name a time, you name a place. Whatever.”
“Your office, I’d like it to be in your office.”
“Sure, that’s fine. Tomorrow? Tomorrow morning?”
“Sure, tomorrow morning. Only . . .”
“What is it?”
“Only there’s a problem. I need some assurance from you.”
“Assurance, assurance, of course.” Nelson’s hands were vibrating. This was the big time, this was negotiating with vital witnesses, and he was terrified. “What exactly do you have in mind?”
“I want some guarantee that I won’t be prosecuted,” Pellam said.
“Why would you be prosecuted?”
There was a pause. “Because I lied when I told you I hadn’t seen Peter Crimmins in the Lincoln.”
Chapter 22
THE PRESS CONFERENCE that evening was short.
The reporters had hoped for something hot—perhaps Peterson’s announcement that he was resigning to run for the Senate or that he was handling some big corporate whistle-blower case or that the Justice Department would dish up something photogenic for the newshounds—like a good drug bust, the sort where the FBI and DEA lay out all the Uzis and Brownings in the front of the table and all the plastic bags of smack or coke in the back and declaim about the progress in the war on organized crime.
Bloody River Blues: A Location Scout Mystery Page 24
