Bloody River Blues Page 14

  Buffett nodded, and laughed. "I'm fine. I was, I think the doctor called it, 'resisting.' I was resisting what happened to me.

  If you go with it you feel better."

  "Good."

  "A little therapy. I'll get a wheelchair. There're a lot of laws. Wheelchair access. Go to the Cardinals games, they gotta have ramps. You can get practically anywhere."

  "I saw they have sports for… you know." Pellam was hesitating, maybe not sure whether to say "paraplegics" or "handicapped." What he said was, "Wheelchair sports. I saw it on the ESPN."

  "Yeah, basketball. Wheelchair basketball. And some guys do the marathon. I guess you can coast downhill. Man," he said, smiling, "that's me-doing a marathon sitting on my ass. Hey, you want something to eat?"

  "Thanks a ton. Hospital food?'

  "Naw, I got some good stuff here. Ruffles, dip. Cookies."

  Pellam shook his head. Buffett ate half a cookie and stared into the cellophane bag for a moment. He rolled the top of the bag tight. Set it on a tray.

  Pellam did a tour of the greenhouse by the window. He said, "So how long you been on the force?"

  "Close to seven years."

  "You say that? Force?"

  "Sure, you can say that."

  "And you walked a beat, like in the old days?"

  "Some neighborhoods aren't so good anymore. Mad-dox's really gone to the dogs. So you make movies?"

  "Not me. I just find locations."

  "How'd you get into that?"

  "Fell into it, I guess. I like to travel."

  "You meet any Hollywood honeys? You must, huh?"

  "I stay clear of the Coast. Not my scene, really."

  "Then why're you in movies?"

  "Why're you a cop?"

  Buffett shrugged.

  "Oh, I forgot." Pellam lifted the stained bag he carried. "It's beer. Can you drink it?"

  "Hell, yes, I can drink it."

  Pellam sat down on the sturdy gray chair. They opened two cans and drank them down. "You know," Buffett said, "all these guys I work with? Mean sons of bitches some of them, it's like they turn into pussies when they come to see me. They bring me flowers. They bring me magazines. Nobody's brought me any beer. A lot of guys don't come. I think they're nervous or something about seeing me, about what they're going to say."

  Pellam stood up and slipped two fresh cans in the water pitcher next to the bed. He filled it with cold water. The lid did not close completely. "If you got a spacey nurse, maybe you can get away with it."

  '"Predate it, chief."

  Pellam sipped his beer. He waited a moment, then said, "I guess I wanted to say this last time, but, well, you looked pretty upset and I held off."

  "Say what?"

  "I'm really getting hassled. Your buddies-and the FBI now-they're really on my case. They've been on the set and it's messing up the film. I'm worried about my job. I can't afford that right now."

  Buffett shrugged. "If you didn't see anything, you didn't see anything."

  "Yeah, but they don't feel that way and they're all over the place. The FBI's talking about looking into the company's tax returns and corporate documents." Pellam made a helpless gesture with his hands.

  "Oh, the feds're pricks from the git-go," Buffett said as if explaining something as basic as gravity. Then he nodded. "Ron Peterson-he's the U.S. Attorney-he's a maniac." He explained about Gaudia and Crimmins and the 60 Minutes program. "Peterson's going to get Crimmins and nothing in this world is going to stop him."

  Pellam continued, "I want to help. I don't want to be a GFY but-"

  This brought a spark to Buffett's eyes. He started to laugh.

  "What's so funny?" Pellam was irritated.

  "Somebody called you a GFY?"

  'Your friends. The detectives."

  "Gianno and Hagedorn." Buffett laughed again. "Nobody told you what that means?"

  "They told me it meant a reluctant witness."

  "Pellam, believe half of what cops tell you. It means, go fuck yourself."

  "Very funny. Very goddamn funny."

  Buffett continued to laugh.

  After a moment, Pellam's mouth curled upward and he laughed loud. "GFY. That's good, I gotta admit."

  "Listen, Pellam, I got a deal for you. I want you to do me a favor. You do it and I'll tell the department to lay off. I can't do anything with the Bureau but they'll listen to me at Maddox Police."

  "You'd do that?"

  "You got my word."

  "What's this favor?"

  "No big deal. There's something in my house I want you to get for me."

  "Me?"

  "If you wouldn't mind."

  "No, I guess not." Buffett saw Pellam's eyes flick to Buffett's wedding ring. He asked, "Why not have your wife bring it when she comes to visit?"

  'The thing is," Buffert said, as his determined and cheerful eyes moved from Pellam's face to the fuzzy TV screen, "it'd upset her."

  ***

  It was a small neighborhood of bungalows set on postage-stamp-size lawns five minutes from downtown Maddox. Both the dark brick houses and the grass were well tended and trim. Pleasant. Pellam believed he had cruised along this street on his quest for the perfect Tony Sloan bungalow. The traffic from a nearby expressway was an irritating sticky rush that filled the air and yellow haze from a half dozen brick smokestacks hung thick over the yards.

  Pellam climbed off the Yamaha. He paused in front of the house and checked the address. There was a white Nissan in the driveway and behind it a brown Mercury station wagon with Illinois plates.

  The small garden in front held the corpses of flowering plants. Stalks mostly. Bleak. Pellam knew nothing about gardening but if this had been his lawn, he would have added some evergreens. He walked up the winding brick path to the small porch.

  One other thing he noticed: There were no tricycles or other toys here as there were in all of the other yards.

  He pressed the bell. There was no answer. He opened the screen door and banged a large brass knocker. A moment later the door opened. He was looking at a thin brunette with a long face, cautious and nondescript. Late twenties. She had flawless skin. Every time he glanced away from her he forgot what she looked like.

  "Mrs. Buffett?"

  "Yes?" She held the door as far open as the thick brass chain would allow. A sickening sweet scent- maybe air freshener, maybe cheap perfume-flooded out.

  "I'm John Pellam."

  A blink. Then understanding. "Right right right. Donnie said you were coming by." A formal smile. She didn't offer her first name. Buffett had told him it was Penny.

  "I have to pick up a few things."

  "That's what he said."

  The door closed then opened, the chain unhooked. She motioned him inside. He saw two other people. Her parents, he guessed. The woman was what Penny would be in twenty years: thin, white-haired with beautiful skin. And very cautious. Penny's father was in his late fifties, with a businessman's paunch under his pink, short-sleeved shirt. They both stared at

  Pellam. He introduced himself.

  "Stan Brickell," the man said. "I'm Penny's father. This's my wife, Ruth." The woman nodded.

  It occurred to him that if he said, "I'm sorry" by way of general sympathy, they might think Buffett had died. He asked,

  "You live in the area?"

  "Carbondale."

  Pellam nodded. "I just saw him an hour ago. Donnie. He looked pretty good."

  "You on the force with him?"

  "I'm a friend."

  Penny said, "Donnie's mentioned you a couple times."

  He had?

  "What do you have to pick up?"

  "Some forms for the office."

  Penny said, "I could take them."

  "I have to stop by the Criminal Court building. It's pretty grim down there, Donnie said." This was the lie that Buffett had coached him on.

  "I would, though. If he wanted me to take them there, I would." She said this with great sincerity.

  It wa
s then that Pellam noticed the burning candle. It was a funny thing. Red, thick, about three feet high, with charms stuck onto it. It had been burning for a long time; there was a slick puddle of wax in the black saucer the candle rested on, two burning sticks of incense angled out of the shaft. That's what was stinking up the house. Sandalwood or something. It reminded him of high school-black lights, the Jefferson Airplane, peace symbols that meant peace and tie-dye that was fashionable, not nostalgic.

  He looked around the living room. The candle was a hint but it did not prepare him for the collection of paintings, statues, and icons. All religious, mostly crudely done. Pellam wondered if Penny had made them herself. There were pictures of native Africans, thin black men and women, with intense, euphoric gazes. There were wooden crosses, spattered with dark red paint. Posters of pentagrams and star charts and crystals. A large glass pyramid, inside of which was a shriveled-up brown and flesh-colored object. It looked like a dried apricot. Like many of these objets d'art the pyramid was covered with dust.

  "Would you like some coffee?" Ruth asked,

  "Oh, sure, coffee?" From Penny.

  "No, thanks."

  Ruth said, "No trouble."

  "No, really. I can't stay long. If you could just show me Donnie's office."

  Penny pointed the way.

  The office was really a bedroom slowly becoming a den. It was small. On the walls were sheets of thin paneling of light- stained wormwood-with tiny black holes like miniature cigarette burns. Donnie had probably done the work himself. Half of the sheets still showed the nailheads. A six-foot piece of unstained crown molding had been mounted where the panel joined the ceiling. A half dozen other pieces of molding sat in the corner. It was going to be a long time before the work got finished, Pellam thought with sadness.

  He opened the bottom drawer of Buffett's desk. He moved aside the box Donnie had told him about and found what he was looking for. He slipped the thick envelope into his pocket.

  As he stood he heard a woman's voice eerily droning: "Ommmm…"

  Pellam returned to the living room, where sat three people whose only bond seemed to be this tragedy. Penny was in front of the candle, her voice solid and strong like a car in low gear. Nothing was going to stop it. Tears were in her eyes. She sat Japanese style, on her haunches. She hummed faster and faster.

  "Ommmm…"

  Ruth was sitting back on the couch, tracing the yellow herringbone pattern of the upholstery with a short, unpolished nail.

  Stan said to her bluntly, "Get me some coffee. And a sandwich. Watch the mayonnaise. You gave me too much last time."

  Penny's eyes were closed and from her lips came the melancholy drone of her prayer.

  Pellam said good-bye to no one. He opened the door and let himself out.

  He was going to wait until he got to the Yamaha to take the envelope out of his pocket. But he stopped on the walk and lifted it out. He saw what was irritating his leg. The hammer of the Smith & Wesson pistol had worn through the paper.

  Pellam covered it with Maddox Police Department Aided Report forms and walked to the motorcycle.

  ***

  A fleck of dust pedaled through the air of Gennaros Bakery. Philip Lombros eyes followed it for a long moment then turned back.to Ralph Bales.

  "You're not eating your cannoli."

  "It's good. I like it," Ralph Bales said. For a stocky man, a man who loved steak and pasta and hamburgers, he had a curious dislike for desserts. He wondered why it was he was always ended up sitting in restaurants eating sweets and drinking coffee and tea on deals like this. "I'm a slow eater. My wife-"

  "You're married?" Lombro asked, surprised.

  "Was married. She'd be finished with her veal and I'd still have most of it left. It's healthier to eat slower. You should chew your food, each bite, I mean, fifty times. I don't do that, but you're supposed to."

  The bakery was not very authentic, Ralph Bales noted. Not like the ones he grew up near. It was, for one thing, very clean, and the girls wore yellow and brown waitress uniforms, and the miniature pastries in the spotless glass cases were like the rings and necklaces in the Famous Barr jewelry department. He didn't like it. A bakery should be dark and full of wood and the pastries should be behind dirty, cracked glass. The room should be filled with the smell of yeast and they shouldn't charge three seventy-five for a damn piece of cannoli.

  Lombro was nodding with little interest. "My brothers wife makes these. They're better than this one. I think they fill these ahead of time here. You're not supposed to do that. You were telling me you found the man who was the witness."

  "Yes."

  "What's his name?'

  Ralph Bales had anticipated this question. "Peter James." There were twenty-seven people named Peter, Pete, or P. James in the St. Louis phone book. Also, it was a name that someone might mix up. Was that James Peters? Jim Peters?

  Lombro examined his napkin and replaced it on his lap. "And you've talked to him?"

  "Okay. We had a long talk," Ralph Bales said in a low voice. He recited his next line. "He was pretty damn scared when he saw me coming. But he's agreed to play ball with us."

  "Play ball."

  'That means-"

  "That means he wants some money and he won't identify me."

  'That's what it means, yeah."

  Lombro sipped his coffee, sitting back, ankle on knee, looking like a Mafia don. "Do you trust him?"

  "Well-"

  Lombro said, "I mean, if he takes the money will he keep his word?'

  Ralph Bales thought for a minute and said, "You're never sure about these things-" He had not rehearsed this but he liked the lines. "-but I got good vibes from him. He's not a pro. He's scared and I think he'll keep his word."

  "What does he do?'

  This was a question that Ralph Bales had not anticipated. He spent a long time shrugging and sipping coffee. "Works some kind of job in St. Louis. I don't know. Computers or something."

  "And what exactly has he got to sell?'

  "He described you. To the letter. He said he looked through the window and got a complete description."

  Lombro touched the silvery hair at his temple as if this news gave him a headache. "Why didn't he tell the police?'

  Another foreseen question. "He was scared like I said."

  "Did you threaten him?'

  Ralph Bales poked at his pastry.

  "Did you?' Lombro repeated sternly.

  "Okay. I made it clear that we weren't happy. I told him we were willing to go to extremes if we had to. I was trying to, you know, negotiate it down. But I told you-I didn't hurt him."

  "Did it work?'

  "What's that?"

  "Negotiating."

  "Not much, no."

  "How much does he want?'

  Ralph Bales stopped poking and took a bite of pastry. "Fifty thousand."

  "Uhm."

  Ralph Bales counted to twelve, as his script called for. Then he said earnestly, "I know you don't want my opinion but there's a way I'd rather handle it." This was to make the fifty thousand more appealing.

  "No more killing. I forbid it."

  Forbid it. Ralph Bales tried to remember the last time he had heard someone use that word. Not his father. Maybe a priest at school. Forbid. It was a word that belonged in an old-time movie.

  "I'm just telling you your options."

  'That's not an option."

  With one square of paper napkin, Philip Lombro wiped the flecks of pastry from his lips and when he was through doing so he took another square and wiped the heel of his shoe. Then he asked another question, one that Ralph Bales had not anticipated, though it was one of those questions that did not really need an answer. "I suppose he wants us to pay him in small bills, doesn't he?"

  ***

  "Hey."

  Donnie Buffett opened his eyes.

  John Pellam stood looking at him.

  Buffett inhaled slowly. "Hi, chief."

  "You okay?" Pellam's eyes
flickered with concern.

  "Yeah. I was… There's this exercise. It's supposed to calm you down. It doesn't work too good."

  "Well, some beer'll calm you down. You want another beer?"

  "Yeah, I want another beer."

  In addition to a damp paper bag Pellam was holding a thick white envelope. Buffett looked at it first and the bag second.

  Pellam closed the door. Buffett said, 'They got a rule against that."

  "Yeah? What're you, a cop?" He opened two pint Fosters.

  Buffet looked at the blue and red logo. "Oh, yes! That stuff really gives me a buzz. Is that a kangaroo on there?"

  "It's not going to hurt you, is it? I mean, like with medicine you're taking?"

  Buffett drank down three good swallows. "Oooo," he said slowly. "Jubilation."

  Pellam sat down in the chair. He held the envelope in one hand. Buffett stared at it.

  "Donnie… Uh, your wife?"

  "She say anything about that?" He nodded toward the envelope.

  "She didn't see it."

  Buffett drank more of the ale. He wasn't looking at Pellam.

  "She was kind of chanting when I left."

  The cop studied his beer. "Yeah, she does that some. It's like a, you know, hobby."

  "We get a lot of that out in California."

  "She's real sweet. Good kid. And a cook. You want to talk pasta? Penny's the best. She cooks all kinds. She makes white clam sauce. You know anybody else who's ever made white clam sauce?"

  "I met Stan and Ruth."

  "Yeah. They're all right." Buffett looked around the room. "We don't have a whole lot to talk about. Stan's a good guy."

  "Seems that way. Your wife okay, Donnie?"

  "What do you mean okay?"

  "It wasn't just the chanting. She had this candle burning…"

  Buffett laughed-though he guessed his eyes did not join in. He said, "She's kind of superstitious. Like with Reagan, remember? Nancy had an astrologer. A lot of people are into that kind of stuff now. Crystals." He reached over to the table and lifted up a clear green stone. "Green's supposed to make you well again. Penny got it for me." His voice caught and he swallowed. "I'm supposed to wear it. But I figured my Blue Cross goes out the window if they find out I'm getting treated by spirit guides." He laughed again. The sound turned into a shallow cough. "I'm supposed to keep turning. Otherwise, all this shit settles in my lungs." His face went dark and still. "I'm working out, too." He nodded to the jump rope. "I'll be back in shape in no time."