Bloody River Blues: A Location Scout Mystery (33 page)

It was time for the whole thing to go away.

He told this to Nelson and added, “Call Crimmins’s lawyer. See if we can plead him away for a few years.”

Nelson quickly responded, “Will do,” and noted coolly that this order was tantamount to scuttling two years of work. “What about Pellam? There’s still somebody out there looking to hurt him. Should we get Bracken or Monroe on it? I mean, the guy could be in trouble.”

Peterson wound up a toy Donald Duck, which walked for ten inches, hit an indictment, then marched in place until the spring wound down. “It’s Pellam’s problem now. He’s on his own.”

SHE DROVE QUICKLY
, racing along Main Street in Maddox, past the empty storefronts, the darkened real estate brokerages, the Goodwill Store. The car spun up a wake of bleached, dull leaves.

Nina had driven from Cranston to the Federal Building in St. Louis. She hadn’t been able to find Pellam though his camper had been parked in a lot across the street. It had been empty. Where, she wondered, had he gone? She paced in panic up and down the sidewalk. She suddenly believed she knew. She had leapt into the car and sped back to Maddox.

Now, driving along deserted Main Street, she was not so sure she had guessed correctly. The emptiness seemed to laugh at her. Where the hell is he?

As she skidded around a curve beside abandoned grain elevators, images jumbled in her mind. Pellam standing in the field beside the brown Missouri, aiming his Polaroid. Nina herself applying makeup to a petite blond actress wearing a yellow sundress riddled with bullet holes. Pellam lying in bed next to Nina herself. The huge kick of the Colt automatic that jarred her arm from wrist to shoulder every time she fired it.

“YOU KNOW SOMETHING?”
Ralph Bales asked the question in a normal volume, though it echoed loudly through the empty factory, not far from the Missouri River. He looked around quickly, startled by the sound of his own words returning.

The beer man did not apparently want to know anything. Ralph Bales continued, “I don’t even know your name.”

Introductions were not, however, made. The man
prodded him farther inside with the barrel of the cowboy gun.

Despite the muzzle at his back, though, Ralph Bales did not feel in danger. Maybe it was how the man was holding the gun—without desperation, more like a bottle of beer than a weapon. Maybe it was his eyes, which were no longer as eerily serene as they had been. They seemed more purposeful, as if the man just wanted to talk.

In the rear of the warehouse was a small cul-desac beneath a balcony. It was very dark here, lit only by indirect light filtering in from the huge arched windows, covered with grime and dust. The floor was dusty, too, but much of that had been disturbed by footprints. Directly in front of a Bee Gees poster was a wood-and-canvas director’s chair.

Ralph Bales stopped. The beer man motioned him forward to the chair. “Sit down.”

He sat. “This place is pretty nifty. You shooting your film here?”

“Put these on each wrist.” The man handed him two pairs of handcuffs. “Right first, then hook it to the arm.”

“Kinky.” Ralph Bales looked at them closely.
Property of Maddox Pol. Dept.
was stamped on the side. “Where’d you get these?”

“Put them on.”

Ralph Bales relaxed further. A guy like this, an amateur, was
definitely
not going to hurt a man handcuffed to a chair. He clicked one pair of cuffs on his right wrist then to the chair. Then he locked the other cuff to his left wrist. The beer man stepped forward slowly and, with a ratcheting
sound, hooked the remaining cuff to the other arm of the chair.

He stepped back like a carpenter surveying a good flooring job. He pulled the Colt out of his belt. “Now. Who was in the Lincoln?”

So he had a tape recorder hidden somewhere, trying to get a confession. “What Lincoln would that be?”

“Who was it?”

“Okay,” Ralph Bales said with amused frustration. “This is some kind of bullshit.”

“The man in the Lincoln. Who?”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“What did you come down to the Federal Building for?”

Ralph Bales lifted his hands as far as he could. The tiny chains clinked. “I wanted to talk to you is all.”

“What did you want to say to me?”

“Okay, I was going to pay you to keep quiet about what you saw.”

“But you had a gun in your pocket, and only—” He squinted, trying to remember. “—forty bucks on you.”

“I was going to pay you a lot of money—more than I’d want to carry around—”

“Who was in the Lincoln?” the beer man recited persistently.

“I don’t know, I really don’t. Sorry.”

“I wish you’d be more cooperative,” the beer man said with disappointment, and shot Ralph Bales squarely in the center of his stomach.

JOHN PELLAM WALKED
through the cloud of sulfury smoke and looked down. “Not bleeding badly,” he announced.

Ralph Bales stared in terror at the wound. His mouth was open. “Why . . . ?” he whispered. “You shot me. . . . God, that hurts.”

“Who was in the car?”

“Why’d you do that for, why’d you
do
that?”

“Who,” Pellam asked evenly, “was in the Lincoln?”

“My God,” Ralph Bales whispered, gazing with shocked bewilderment at Pellam. “I’m going to die.”

“If you don’t tell me I’m going to shoot you again.”

“I don’t—”

Pellam shot him again.

A huge explosion. The bullet hit a few inches to the left of the first wound.

“No, no, man . . . Stop! I’ll tell you.” Ralph Bales jerked his head to flick sweat out of his eyes. “Okay! Philip Lombro! Now call a doctor!”

“Who’s he?”

Ralph Bales did not hear. “Please! I’m going to bleed to death. Please . . .”

“Philip?”

“Lombro! Lombro!”

“Who’s he?”

“Oh, man, I’m going to faint.”

Pellam cocked the gun.
“Who is he?”

“No, no, don’t, man, not again! He’s some real estate guy. Don’t do it again.”

“Spell it.”

“Spell what? Oh, man . . .”

“His name.”

“L-O-M-B-R-O.”

“Why did he want Gaudia dead?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I’m going to faint. Oh,
shit. Some personal thing. I swear to God. He hired me to do it. I’m bleeding to death.”

“Where does he live?”

“I don’t know. Man, believe me. I don’t know. In Maddox somewhere. His office is on Main, that’s all I know. He’s in the phone book. What do you want from me? For Christsake, call a doctor.” With tearful sincerity he said, “I’m a good Catholic.”

Pellam did not move for a minute. He smiled.

“No, man, no. Don’t do it. You’re just going to leave me, aren’t you? Don’t let me die! I told you what you wanted. Call the cops. Turn me in. But for God’s sake, get me to a doctor!”

“Would you testify against this Lombro?”

“Absolutely. Oh, man, you want it, you got it.”

Pellam repeated the word softly. “Absolutely.” He rubbed the gun with his left hand. Ralph Bales was crying. This irritated Pellam. He said, “They’re wax bullets.”

Ralph Bales kept sobbing.

Pellam said again petulantly, “Would you stop crying? They’re not real bullets.”

“What?”

“I wish you’d stop that,” Pellam said, referring to the crying.

Ralph Bales slowly caught his breath. He frowned. He looked down at his gut—at the two large splats of bright red blood. As far as the handcuffs allowed, he pulled his shirt apart. There were huge reddish welts where the bullets had struck him but the skin was not broken. Fragments of white wax were bonded to the cloth which was stained with dark but fake blood.

Ralph Bales began to cry again, but they were tears from hysterical laughter. “You son of a bitch, you goddamn . . .”

That was when a shadow appeared on the floor beside the men.

The heads of both the men snapped sideways. They saw sensible pumps, a woman’s pants, a denim jacket. Nina Sassower’s pale, pretty face.

And the gun in her hand.

“Nina!” Pellam called.

Ralph Bales began to relax.

Pellam said, “What are you doing here?”

Her voice was distant, as if she were speaking through layers of silk or gauze. “I thought you’d come here.” It was the same factory they’d found earlier, where she’d been attacked by the birthmark man.

“You should leave. What’s that gun for? This’s got nothing to do with you.”

She stepped closer, looking gaunt and pale. Her skin was matte and her eyes were two dark dots. She looked at them both and her eyes quickly settled on Ralph Bales’s wounds. “Oh, God, Pellam . . .”

He told her they were fake bullets, then squinted as he noticed her concerned eyes gazing at the man in the chair. “Do you know him?” he asked.

She turned to him. “I’m sorry, Pellam.”

“What do you—?” He started toward her.

She quickly lifted the big Colt toward his chest. “No. Stay where you are.”

“Nina!”

“Put it on the floor. Your gun, put it down.”

Pellam did. Then he laughed bitterly. “It was all planned, wasn’t it?”

“It was all planned,” she whispered.

“You picked me up at the hospital, you had me get you a job so you’d be close by . . . Who are you working for? Lombro? Or Crimmins? Peterson? Who?”

“I’m sorry, Pellam. I’m so sorry.”

Ralph Bales said, “Did Phil send you? Oh, man . . .” He moaned in relief. “Come on, honey. Get me out of here.”

Nina squinted, almost closing her eyes. Pellam knew what this meant. He leapt to the floor as the three jarring explosions from Nina’s automatic filled the room. Windows rattled, and dust from the tin ceiling floated down around the three of them like gray snow. The shadows of startled pigeons zipped across the windows.

PELLAM SLOWLY STOOD
, dizzy from both the fall and the pounding to his ears from the gunshots.

Reluctantly he looked across the room.

Ralph Bales had taken all three rounds in the chest. The chair had not toppled backwards but had turned forty-five degrees sideways under the impact. The man sat motionless, head down, facing the windows as if he were dozing in the weak sunlight.

Nina carefully unchambered the next round and extracted the clip. The empty gun, the slide locked back, went into her purse. She then stooped and began to collect the spent cartridges from the floor with impatient but fastidious care as if she were picking up socks from her bedroom carpet before vacuuming.

Pellam quickly uncuffed Ralph Bales’s wrists, pocketed the cuffs, and wiped the chair free from fingerprints. He then hurried Nina outside and into the car. His fear of impending police was unwarranted, however; the gunshots had not been heard or, if so, had perhaps been attributed to the final scenes of
Missouri River Blues.
They drove to a nearby park on the riverbank.

“You know where I got the gun?” Nina whispered. “My father kept it in his upstairs desk drawer of our house.” She wiped her tearful eyes.

“Oh, you should have seen that desk,” Nina continued. “It was a rolltop. Oak, I guess. Dark, with those thin yellow streaks in it. You unlocked it with a brass key that always needed polishing. There was such a wonderful sound when the lock turned. Then you’d lift up the top and there were dozens of these little compartments, lined with green felt. Some of the compartments had . . . Some of them had . . .”

She cried for a moment. Pellam made no gesture of comforting her.

“Some of the pigeonholes had little doors with knobs on them. We would go searching for secret compartments. We looked up under drawers, we tapped the back with hammers, listening for hollow spots. We found the gun when we were children, but we didn’t think much of it. It had been years since I thought of the desk. Then last week I remembered it. I remembered the gun and I went over to my mother’s and got it. I’ve been practicing since then. That brought back so many memories. The two of us looking through the desk. As little girls. Looking for toys, for paper clips, for—” The tears were strong now. “My sister and me . . .”

“Your sister,” Pellam said, and finally he understood. “She was the woman with Vincent Gaudia, the one who was killed that night.”

Nina said, “All the papers talked about was the cop who was shot and about Gaudia. Nobody said anything about Sally Ann. Nobody cared about her. The day after she was killed I stayed up all night trying
to figure out how to find the man who’d done it. I thought I’d wait until the police caught him and then at the trial I’d shoot him. But that might take months and maybe by then I wouldn’t have the courage to do it. So I decided to meet Donnie. I saw his wedding picture in the paper and it said he was in Maddox General. I planned to get to know him and see if he could tell me the killer’s name.”

“And you met me instead. Your mother wasn’t really in the hospital?”

“No. My sister was my only family. She was the relative who died I told you about in the camper, the funeral—when we were looking for that field. Not my aunt. That’s why I started to cry.”

“You overheard Donnie arguing with me. You heard him say I knew who the killer was.”

She nodded. “I’m sorry, Pellam.” There was sadness in her voice. But contrition? None at all.

“Why the job with the film company?”

“I knew he’d be looking for you. I thought sooner or later he’d find you.”

“You had that gun with you all the while?”

“Some of the time.”

That was why she had been so upset when she was attacked at the factory, she explained. She hadn’t had the gun with her then; she regretted missing the chance.

The chance to shoot an FBI agent.
Pellam didn’t tell her this. “But her name wasn’t the same as yours. Your sister’s, I mean.”

“No. Sally Ann’s name was Moore. It’s her married name. She was divorced a few years ago. John, was I wrong? I mean, think about it—the policeman was
doing his job and he got hurt. And Gaudia was a terrible man and he got killed but all my sister did was go to dinner with him. She was innocent.”

Pellam doubted whether going out with Vince Gaudia qualified you as a totally innocent human being. But he didn’t think Nina was wrong at all to do what she’d done. Why, he himself had been wandering the barren streets of Maddox with a gun for the same reason—to get revenge for Stile’s death.