Bloody River Blues

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 ratchetingsound, 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