Bloody River Blues: A Location Scout Mystery (22 page)

“Bring me the Crimmins file, please.”

“All of it, Mr. Peterson?”

“No, sorry. Just the background file. The first Redweld.” He looked at Pellam. “You really don’t know who Peter Crimmins is? Well, let me tell you. Second-generation Russian. Ukrainian, I mean. I suppose we have to be careful with that nowadays. He made a lot of money in the trucking business and we know that he’s built up a huge money-laundering operation. It was some people that work for him got into a battle with a Jamaican street gang in East St. Louis.”

Pellam pictured the windup toys strolling off the edge of the desk and some young assistant attorney scurrying to retrieve them from the floor. “What exactly—”

“Twelve people were killed.” Peterson frowned but did not seem to be particularly shocked or mournful.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“‘Massacre.’ That’s what the
Post-Dispatch
said. Not exactly hyperbole. Seven of them were bystanders.”

“Tough luck in an election year.”

Peterson was immobile for a moment. He lifted a very white finger to his earlobe and stroked it absently three times. When he spoke his voice was temperate. “The office of U.S. Attorney is an appointed position.”

Pellam gazed at him skeptically.

“I have no aspirations to be mayor of this city. Or governor of the state or senator. I have yet to understand why anyone would want to be a representative.”

The secretary appeared and set a large, battered red-brown file folder on Peterson’s desk. The U.S. Attorney opened the file and pulled out a number of stacks of papers and clippings. He upended one stack on his lap and began flipping through it, squinting.

The pictures spun out, flying like Frisbees. Pellam glanced at them. He was surprised they were in color. For some reason he had assumed police photographers used black-and-white film. He was surprised at how bright the blood was. He had seen bodies before; blood in real life seemed darker.

“Those were ten-year-old boys. Though it’s hard to tell after what happened to them.”

Pellam picked up the glossy photos and tossed them back to Peterson. One fell on the floor. The U.S. Attorney picked it up and stared at it. “Two years ago, we were very close to indicting Peter Crimmins on several racketeering counts. We had a material witness. A young woman, a secretary, who could implicate Crimmins. There was a freak accident. Somehow a pot of boiling water fell off the stove. Third-degree burns on her groin and thighs. She said she was cooking.”
Peterson’s voice rose into an eerie wail. “Third-degree
burns
. Her skin was like cooked steak!” The eyes glowed. “But you know what was odd, what was very odd? The accident happened at midnight.” Peterson lifted his palms. “
My
wife doesn’t cook at midnight. Do you know
anybody
who cooks at midnight?”

Pellam was silent. Peterson’s head bobbled with rage. Slowly he calmed. He took a Kleenex and wiped his face. “The woman recanted her testimony before trial.”

“So what you’re telling me is that Crimmins is a bad man who has a track record of scaring witnesses.”

“Mr. Pellam, there is no doubt in my mind that he was the person who killed Vince Gaudia. He had the motive. He has ties to men fully capable of for-hire murder. He has ordered people threatened, beaten and killed in the past. Look what he did to your girlfriend. The fact is that the RICO charges I’ve got against Crimmins are nothing without Gaudia. He’ll get three or four years at the most.” Pellam saw more sweat on the dome of Peterson’s head. He saw the finger and thumb rubbing together compulsively, trembling.

Pellam’s voice was patient and tired. “I can’t help you.”

Peterson came back to earth. He opened another file folder and, preoccupied, dug inside.

Pellam asked, “What about protecting Nina?”

“I think she’d be safer if she left town. There isn’t much we can do.”

“I know some reporters,” Pellam said ominously. “They might be interested in this story. You refusing to protect people unless they testify for you.”

Peterson slipped an utterly good-natured smile into position on his egg-shaped face. “Oh, I don’t think that’d be a very good story.”

“You never know.”

Peterson lifted several pieces of paper out of the file. “The problem with reporters,” he said, flipping through the sheets, “is that they like the lowest denominators of any situation. This witness story of yours isn’t really a grabber.”

Pellam waved an arm in frustration and started toward the door.

“
This
story,” the U.S. Attorney said with a smile, “would be much better.”

The bulletin left Peterson’s hand and floated down to the desk. The California bear seal was in the upper left-hand corner and in the center of the white, wrinkled sheet were two photos and several brief paragraphs.

The photos weren’t of Peter Crimmins or of live gangsters or dead bystanders but were of John Pellam himself.

He looked exhausted, puffy-eyed, unshaven. They showed him from two angles—straight on and in profile. Beneath them were words in slightly uneven lines, suggesting that they were typed by a cheap typewriter. Among these words were Pellam’s name, vital statistics, the date the photo was taken and the names of several Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department deputies. At the bottom of the bulletin was this information:
Charged with: murder, manslaughter, sale/possession of controlled substances
.

“DOES YOUR BOSS
know you did time?”

Pellam lowered his hand from the doorknob. He returned to Peterson’s desk and sat down. He stared at the picture.

Turn your head . . . We want a
profile.
Turn your head . . . Him? Yeah, he’s the one killed that actor. Yep, sure is.”

Peterson said cheerfully, “You know, I seem to remember something of surety law. Wouldn’t your film company’s bond get lifted if an ex-felon was on the payroll? Especially with a drug charge?”

“I was acquitted on the drug and murder charges.”

“Don’t quibble, Mr. Pellam. The victim died because you delivered two ounces of cocaine to him, didn’t you? This Tommy Bernstein, the young man in question.”

The best friend in question.

Pellam reached forward and touched the photo of himself.

“Put this here jumpsuit on, then we cuff you and take you downstairs. You hassle us, we hassle you and we got batons and you don’t, you know what I’m saying? Now, move.”

The reason that he had not been able to attend Tommy’s memorial service was that he was in a Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department holding cell, pending arraignment.

Pellam, staring at his own gaunt image, was long past feeling the need to explain, to shake his head with a grim, tight mouth and tell how Tommy had begged him for the stuff, crying.
Please, just this once, John, help me, help me, help me. I can’t work without it. I see the cameras, man, and I freeze. I mean, I fucking freeze. You gotta help me . . .
Tommy Bernstein, lovable madman and brilliant actor, leaning on Pellam’s shoulder, tears in thick streaks shooting down his doughy face, pathetic and looking just like the child that, in the core of his soul, he was and would always be—the child that Pellam should have recognized.

No, he wouldn’t explain this to the sour, cold man he now sat in front of. He said only, “It was a long time ago.”

Peterson regarded him coolly. “An ex-felon is an ex-felon. You can’t ever take that away.”

“No, you can’t.”

Peterson repeated, “Does your boss know?”

“No.”

“It’s purely a civil matter. I don’t have any legal duty to tell him. But I do feel a certain sense of moral obligation. He would fire you in an instant, I imagine.”

“I imagine he would. And if I say that I saw Crimmins in the car you’ll forget to mention it.”

“You’ve had some conversations with a Marty Weller in the past week.”

“Marty? How do you know about Marty?”

“Some conversations about a movie project you’re putting together?” Pellam was silent, and Peterson continued, “Following those conversations, you started looking for some money. Your bank in Sherman Oaks, some car dealer who wasn’t interested in an apparently less-than-perfect Porsche you happen to own . . .”

“You tapped my phone illegally.”

“Not at all. We talk to people. That’s all. We introduce ourselves and we ask questions. Most people usually cooperate.”

“What’s your point?”

“That you can’t afford to have all your finances frozen for six, seven months by federal court orders.”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I think.”

Anger sputtered into Pellam’s face. He stood up and leaned forward, his eyes wild and uncontrolled, his right fist balled. Papers and toys cascaded to the floor.

They remained locked in a gaze for a long moment, while Peterson mastered his fear, and Pellam, his anger. Pellam was close to hitting the man.

Peterson whispered, “Please. I say this for your sake. I don’t think you want to add to your list of woes at the moment, do you really?”

Pellam finally stood upright and walked not to the door but to the window. For a long moment, as if he were debating something furiously, he looked out over an expanse of green. St. Louis was a very verdant place, even in October. The important aspects of his life in jeopardy, Pellam noticed small details. Like the colors of foliage and the shape of trees. He nodded suddenly, but whatever decision he came to, he kept
to himself, and walked out of Peterson’s office without saying a word.

THE RIBBED BALL
rolled along the small grass rectangle.

“You lose,” the old man told Peter Crimmins, who smiled and nodded to the other players and then stepped over the black-painted railing. He stood in a small park in a suburb of St. Louis, squinting toward a huge complex of redbrick apartments. He wondered how much money it cost to build the place. He had never been in real estate. He considered it too Jewish. But he had lately been thinking about building something. He wanted some legacy and he thought he would like to sink some of his vast funds into something that would be named after him.

Joshua stood nearby, leaning against a lamp pole with the tough serenity of middle-aged bouncers and Secret Service agents. A broad-featured woman in a blue denim cowboy suit talked into a public phone and gestured wildly. Her fat fingers mauled a cigarette.

Crimmins, wearing dark slacks and sandals and a white dress shirt, had been playing boccie for an hour. At one time the largely Italian park would probably have been crowded on a pleasant afternoon like this, though even Crimmins, who had lived all his life near here, could not recall when. Perhaps the year of the St. Louis Exposition. An era when the town still retained some of its Confederateness. Why, there were even homeless people camped out near swing sets! Crimmins did not approve of homelessness. He thought such people should pick themselves
up and get a job as those in earlier eras would have done.

“Bootstraps” was a word Peter Crimmins used often.

He surveyed the park now. Lots of Negroes, prowling slowly on their bicycles or walking in that fast lope of theirs. Puerto Ricans. White teenagers in leather and greasy denim, with their Frisbees and skateboards and guitars. A few professional people. Women jogging while they pushed babies in strollers that had three huge, cushioned wheels.

And then there were the Chinese.

While Crimmins disliked Jews and feared Negroes and Puerto Ricans, he loathed the Chinese.

Crimmins was now looking at four or five Asian families as they picnicked. Crimmins was aware of the tide. Real estate and electronics. Shipping soon.

And money laundering not long after that.

A boy on a skateboard snapped past him in a surfer’s crouch. As if drawn by the youngster’s wake, a dark-complected man suddenly stepped up to Crimmins. “Hold up there.”

Just as suddenly, Joshua was between them, appearing from nowhere, hand inside his jacket.

“Police, big fellow,” the man said. “Unless you’re feeling yourself up, get your fucking hand out where I can see it.”

Shields and ID cards appeared.

“I’m Gianno, Maddox Police. That’s Detective Hagedorn over there.”

“Maddox,” Crimmins spat out.

Hagedorn stood nearby. His jacket was unbuttoned. Gianno said, “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Crimmins nodded to Joshua, who retreated. He stopped fifteen feet away and stood watching the three men.

“A woman was attacked not long ago.”

“Someone I know?” Crimmins was concerned.

“Well, not a friend of yours, that’s for sure. She was apparently reluctant to file a report. We got a notice of the assault from the FBI.”

Why would an assault be a federal issue? thought Crimmins, reciter of indictments and an expert in federal law. Then he understood. “I see,” he said wearily. “And you think I was behind this attack.”

“She gave us a statement that the attacker said he worked for you.”

Crimmins blinked. “Me?”

Gianno gave him a description of a young man with the birthmark.

“I don’t know anyone who looks like that. Besides, I wouldn’t threaten anyone.”

“No.” Gianno laughed. “Of course not.”

“Where have you been today?” Hagedorn piped up.

“Home, then I came here.”

“Had to make some phone calls that nobody could hear, did you?” Gianno nodded toward the public phone.

Crimmins rubbed his finger and thumb together in irritation; the thumbnail turned white under the pressure. “Are you arresting me?”

Hagedorn said, “Will you give us a list of all your employees?”

“I don’t think I have to do that.”

“We hoped you’d be cooperative,” Gianno said.

“It would look better,” his partner offered.

“I don’t really care what anything looks like. I—”

Gianno said to Hagedorn, “Let’s get out of here. This guy’s no help. We’ll follow up with Pellam—”

The blond detective wagged a subtle finger and his partner stopped speaking as if he had caught himself at a social blunder. They looked for a moment at Crimmins, who kept his face blank. The two policemen then walked away.