Bloody River Blues Read online

  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."

  Four 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 midwestem 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 Pellams 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 overbudget. 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 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.

  FOUR

  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 mornings 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 sor
t of house. You know, a bungalow maybe." Sloans 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 sound-stage. 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 Hagedom. 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 aftershave 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, who shrugged. "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 Sloans 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 Pellams 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?"

  "Description?"

  "Not too tall, stocky, balding, a beard or mustache, I think. Mid or late thirties."

  "Race?"

  "White."

  "Any scars or markings?"

  "I don't remember any."

  "What was he wearing?"

  "A jacket, I think. Jeans. Dark mostly."

  "He was alone in the Lincoln?"

  "No. There was somebody else. They drove off after a while."

  "They?"

  "Well, he."

  "Could you describe him?"

  "I didn't see him."

  The detectives didn't exactly exchange glances but their eyes swung like slow pendulums toward each other.

  Sloan called, "Pellam, you gonna get me that house, or what?"

  The Italian detective called back, "This is official police business, mister."

  Oh, brother. Pellam cocked his head helplessly at Sloan and said, 'They're just asking me a few questions."

  Sloan continued to stare for a moment, eyes no longer flitting with artistic distraction but now boring angrily into the cluster of men from the shadow of the crane.

  "The thing is, Mr. Pellam," the Italian cop continued, "the officer who was shot…"

  "He was shot a number of times in the back," his partner said.

  "God, that's awful."

  "… said he saw you talking to someone in the car. He-"

  "He was the one got shot? That policeman? Danny? What was the name?"

  "Donnie Buffett."

  That's terrible. Yeah, I was talking to him. Is he going to be okay?"

  They don't know," the Italian cop said.

  In the thick silence that followed they stared at him. Pellam felt guilty under these gazes. "I didn't see him. The driver, I mean. I looked. I looked into the car but I wasn't really talking to him. I was just saying things. It wasn't like a conversation."

  "How did you know it was a man?"

  Pellam didn't speak for a moment. That's a good question. I don't really. I just assumed it was."

  "You seem pretty sure it was a man," the WASP said. "You said him."

  "I was assuming it was a man."

  The Italian cop said, "It'd just be kind of strange, wouldn't it, you're standing a few feet from someone? not to at least see what they were wearing? What their sex was? Whether they were black or white?"

  "I don't know what's strange or not, but that's what happened. It was night-"

  "Adams is lit up like Gateway Park," the Italian cop said.

  The WASP detective looked at his partner. "All those car accidents. That's why they put in sodium vapors."

  "There was glare," Pellam said. That was one of the problems. On the windows. I was blinded."

  "So the fact it was night wasn't the problem," said the WASP. "I mean, you said it was night as if you meant it was too dark to see anything. But now what you're saying is it wasn't dark at all. It was too bright."

  "I guess," Pellam said.

  "What kind of Lincoln was it?"

  "Black."

  "What kind?"

  "How do you mean?"

  Town Car? Continental?"

  "I didn't notice. I wish I had but I only remember it being big and black."

  "You're sure it was black?"

  "Well, it was dark. Navy blue maybe."

  They asked about license plates, dents, scratches, damage, bumper stickers…

&
nbsp; Pellam couldn't help them.

  The cops fell silent.

  "Do you think I'm lying?"

  "It's just kind of strange is all we're saying."

  "What's strange?" Pellam rocked on his boot heels.

  "Being so close and all and not seeing anything," the WASP said. That's strange."

  "It was dark." Pellam tried to sound as frustrated as they were.

  "And there was a lot of glare," the Italian added. Sarcastic? Pellman couldn't tell.

  "Officer Buffett said he saw you talking to whoever was in the car."

  "I told you, I wasn't having a conversation with him… or her." Pellam saw, in the distance, the curtain in a window of Sloan's van pull aside for a moment. A black gap was visible and in that gap Pellam imagined he could see the two tiny, paranoid eyes of an impatient visionary director. He said to the WASP, who though bigger seemed more reasonable, "Look, I'm very busy just now. This is a bad time for this."

  The blond cop just repeated, "Officer Buffett said you were talking to the driver. What are we supposed to think about that?"

  Pellam sighed. "I was mad. I was just talking to let off steam. I don't remember what I said. I was muttering."

  "Why were you mad?"

  "The guy I told you about, the one who got out of the car, bumped into me and I dropped a case of beer."

  "Why did he do that?"

  "It was an accident. He didn't do it on purpose."

  "If it was an accident," the WASP asked slowly, "why were you so mad you were talking to yourself?"

  The Italian cop offered," 'Muttering,' you said."

  "Okay, that's it. I've got nothing more to say." Pellam started away, tensing his muscles, ready for another vise grip.

  Neither cop followed, but the blond said, "There's two dead people and a cop shot in the back."

  His partner offered, "People sometimes get scared. They don't want to volunteer, to be witnesses. You don't have to be worried. We can protect you."

  "I didn't see anybody get shot. All I saw was some guy who nearly knocked me on my ass."

  "We're more concerned with the person in the car. We think he's the one who ordered the hit."