Bloody River Blues

EIGHTEEN

The service was in a boxy building in downtown Maddox.

Beth Israel Memorial Chapel.

Pellam hadn't known that Stile was Jewish. They had talked about many things, from women to whiskey to real estate, but religion was in that category of topics where their conversation did not go-for instance, why Stile remained in his profession and never sought to do second-unit directing, as so many stuntmen do. Or why Pellam stopped directing after Tommy Bernstein died.

Pellam had spoken to Stiles cousin in San Diego- his closest living relative-and he had learned that Stile had been raised Reform Jewish. Calls were made, and a service arranged.

The body was en route to southern California and 168 people now stood in a dark building in a shabby part of a dark

Missouri town that had long ago lost whatever allure, or novelty, it might have had for them. From the outfits, this seemed more like a fashion show than a service: No one had brought funeral clothing, of course, but this was a Hollywood crew so there was plenty of black, albeit in the form of minidresses and spandex and baggy suits. Adding to the surrealness were the yarmulkes perching on the men's heads.

The stunt coordinator, Stiles boss, was a tough sixty-five-year-old with blurred tattoos on his forearms, now covered by the sleeves of a wrinkled gray suit. He had fallen off horses at John Ford's direction and crashed through windows at Sam Peckinpahs and he was now crying like an infant. A lot of other people cried too. Nobody had disliked Stile, the man who fell from 130-foot cliffs and who walked through fire.

Pellam had no idea what to say, not to anyone. Stile had died because of him. The Yamaha had been the property of the Missouri River Blues Partnership and when Pellam had turned over the location forms and files to Stile, according to Sloans orders, Pellam had added, 'Take the Yamaha, too, if you want it. Tony's gonna make me give it back sooner or later." Stile thanked him, left the rental car at the campground for Pellam's use, and burned rubber away to the interstate. He had a date in St. Louis with Hank the lawyer about location releases for the infamous final shoot-out scene in Missouri River Blues.

What could Pellam say?

He put his arm around the shoulders of one of the young actresses and let her cry. Pellam smelled bitter hair spray and cigarette smoke. She wasn't hysterical. She trembled. Pellam didn't cry. He went to a pew and sat next to several other crew members, older men, gaffers. A rabbi-or maybe just the funeral director- walked to the front of the room. He began talking. Pellam did not pay attention to the words; they were not, for him at least, important. The purpose of the ritual had nothing to do with Stile, not now. It was not the sermon but the interval it occupied-this hour in a woody, mute room with a respectful velvet hat on your head-that was the point: a block of time reserved solely for death.

Pellam heard the drone of the speakers words, a soft baritone.

He wished he knew how to pray.

He decided he would suggest that Sloan dedicate Missouri River Blues to Stile, a film that had turned out to be not the product of artistic vision at all but simply one hell of a stuntman s movie.

No, not suggest. Whatever else there was between Sloan and him, Pellam would insist on the dedication. It was something he could do.

But it wasn't enough.

What Stevie Flom was going to say: First, you didn't describe the guy very well. Second, the guy walked out of the camper and got on the cycle. Third, you should've done it yourself…

He got as far as "First-" before Ralph Bales grabbed his Members Only black jacket by the lapels and slammed the terrified Stevie into the wall of Harry's Bar.

"Gentlemen." The bartender wagged a finger but in a lethargic way. This was a dingy, Lysol-scented place overlooking one of the less picturesque refineries in Wood River, Illinois. It was that sort of bar, where the management would let two men-two white men, not too drunk or strung-out-go at it. Up to a point.

Ralph Bales looked from the frightened eyes of Stevie Flom to the cool eyes of the bartender and let go. He had been right on the borderline but now decided not to break his partners nose. Stevie slumped and ran his fingers through his razor-cut hair. "Aw, Ralph, come on."

Ralph Bales turned and walked through the bar into the restaurant behind. He slid into one of the booths. Stevie followed him like a butt-swatted puppy and sat opposite.

Ralph Bales said, "You're an asshole."

"First, what it was, he walked out of the camper and got on the Yamaha. How was I supposed to know there'd be somebody else inside? You said he'd be riding a bike. And like, anyway, you didn't describe him."

"Shut up and listen to me. Lombro is really pissed now."

"It wasn't my fault."

"Excuse me, I mean, excuse me? When're you gonna learn that guys like this don't think about fault. What're you going to say? 'Gee, Mr. Lombro, first I shot a cop and now I killed the wrong man but I've got an excuse'?"

"Did you tell him I did it?" Stevie whispered.

To Ralph Bales's glee the kid was seriously nervous now. He let Stevie hang-in the wind for some very lengthy seconds.

"I didn't tell him your name."

"Thanks, Ralph. That was all right of you."

"I just told him a guy we hired made a mistake."

" "We hired.' Like you and me, we hired somebody else. So he won't think it was me." Stevie nodded. "That was good."

"He was pissed but he's not going to do anything about it. He's not going the whole nine yards with the bonus, because of the screwup but he'll give us something. If you do it right this time."

"Maybe what you could do is describe him better to me.

"Maybe what I could do is hold your hand and take you up and introduce you…"

"Aw, Ralph, come on…"

"Look, this thing is running away from us."

"Maybe we should just vanish."

"Without a penny? I wish you'd done the cop right."

"You could've, too." Stevie said cautiously.

Ralph Bales opened his mouth to protest then remembered his gun muzzle nestling in the cop's hair. "I could have, too. Yeah."

The waitress came by and they ordered boilermakers and hamburgers. When she left, Ralph Bales said, "Okay, well, do the witness this time and do it right."

Stevie said, "All right, sure. You still want it to be an accident? I mean, if that's what you want…"

Ralph Bales considered this. "Do it however you want I don't care."

This relieved Stevie immensely and he said, "I just want to say one thing. First, you didn't describe him very well-"

Ralph Bales turned on him.

Stevie lifted two palms and grinned. "Joke, Ralphy. Joke. You got to keep a sense of humor about these things."

"He killed my friend," Pellam said, "and I'm going to get him."

Donnie BufFett was not interested in what Pellam was going to do. Penny had called and chanted over the phone to him for five minutes while he stared at the receiver, first in disbelief, then in disgust. He had finally hung up and left the phone off the hook. Then he had been taken downstairs and poked and probed all morning. He had been told to contract his sphincter. He had said peevishly, "My what?" And the young intern had said, "Your rectum, contract it." And Buffett had said loudly, so that patients up and down the hall could hear, "Oh, you mean my asshole?"

The rest of the exam had gone like that.

Now here was Pellam, sweating and wild-eyed and talking about getting people.

"Look, you steal my gun, you give me a lecture about things you don't know from, then you come in and you start rambling about some killing or another. What," Buffett said evenly, "do you want from me?"

Pellam leaned close. Buffett blinked at the nearness of his face, the pores he could see clearly, the way the dark hairs on the top of the man's forehead disappeared smoothly into the skin.

The look in Pellam s eyes reminded him of young cops after their first firefight. Eager and energized but also quiet-ironically calmed by death. And because of that, scary. Extremely scary.

Pellam said, "The man in the Lincoln killed my friend."

Buffett did not respond and Pellam told him about Stiles death. 'They got us mixed up. They saw him leave the camper on the bike and they killed him. They thought it was me."

"Look, Pellam, it's crazy to drive a cycle in the city. Accidents happen. I could tell you the statistics."

"Hell with statistics. I want you to tell me how to do it."

"Do what?"

"Arrest him. Can I shoot him if I have to?" The chanting and the poking and probing faded from the cop's mind. Pellam and his calm, scary eyes had Buffett's full attention. "Let me make a call." He was on the phone for ten minutes as Pellam stared out the window. Pellams lips moved silently from time to time. Into the phone, the cop asked, "Any chance it's related to the Pellam thing?… Uh-huh. Yeah, well, I know how you guys feel but I'm starting to think he's okay… Yeah, Pellam, I mean. I'm not so sure he did see the guy in the Lincoln."

Pellam's head turned.

Buffett said, "Well, do what you gotta, I understand. But take it easy on him. It was his buddy got killed."

When he hung up the cop said, "They're calling it an accident. Hit-and-run. The truck driver said the car clipped the cycle.

The tag numbers from a stolen Dodge."

"There. Stolen."

"Most hit-and-runs involve stolen cars. That's why they're hit-and-runs."

Pellam leaned forward again. "Look, I know it was the guy with the mark on his face. He must've seen me go to Peterson's office after Nina was attacked."

"I'll have Gianno and Hagedorn look into it. They-"

Pellam exploded, "Look into it? Look into it? All they do is hassle me. You don't understand. I'm going out that door in five minutes and I'm going to find the guy who killed my friend and I'm going to get him. If you won't help then the hell with you!"

"Look, Pellam, if he did it then the guy's a pro. He's not going to let you just arrest him. You, by yourself, no backup? Are you crazy? Are you ready to waste him if you have to? You ever shot anybody before?" Buffett shook his head with a condescending smile.

Pellam unzipped his jacket and pulled the Colt Peacemaker from his belt. The grin left the patrolman's mouth and his uneasy eyes followed the gun as it went back into the waistband.

"One thing you might want to remember," Pellam said quietly. "The guy with the mark on his face? He's probably the partner of the man I saw get out of the Lincoln and that makes him the one who shot you."

No, Buffett hadn't thought about that. But he did now for a long moment. He said slowly, "I'm a cop. I can't help you kill someone. I don't care who it is."

"I'm not going to kill him. I'm going to arrest him."

Buffett's tongue gingerly touched the comer of his lips. "I don't know what to tell you."

"How do I make a citizens arrest? Do I have to get him to confess? Can I just arrest him, like in the movies? Do I have to read him his rights?"

Buffett the cop considered. "Well, you don't have probable cause. The truck driver didn't get a look at the guy driving the Dodge. The procedure our guys'd use is to find a suspect, then bring him in and interview him. Not arrest him. Just talk to him. He doesn't get a lawyer for that but he can get up and walk out any time he wants."

"Just talk to him?"

"Try to find inconsistencies. Maybe he'll mention people who're supposed to be alibis, but we can squeeze them and get them to turn. It's a hell of a lot of work, Pellam. You don't just arrest somebody."

"What if I had a tape recorder with me and got him to say something in it?"

"You can tape yourself talking to somebody without a court order. That's okay. But it's a little risky, isn't it?"

"It'll be admissible and everything?"

"Probably."

Pellam shrugged. He walked to the door and stopped. "What you told them. I appreciate it."

"How do you mean?"

"What you told the detectives, about believing me."

Buffett shrugged. Pellam noticed him rub his eyes in a resigned way. He seemed as tired as the wilting flowers that littered the radiator cover of the room. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I guess. My wife came for a visit." He opened his mouth and was suddenly overwhelmed by the volume of things he wanted to say, they rushed forward. But just before he spoke, the torrent dried up instantly, and he asked, "Hand me the TV Guide, would you?" Buffett motioned across the room. "Son of a bitch orderly left it on the dresser. What good's it doing me over there? I mean, some people, they just don't think."