Bloody River Blues

the wood grip of the gun.
    When the man reached the shoulder of the road, twenty feet away, he stopped. Looking straight into Pellam’s eyes, he said, “You need any young men?”
    Pellam squinted and cocked his head.
    The man repeated, “Young men?”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “Look,” the man said stiffly, “I know you hear that a lot of folk aren’t happy to have you all in town because you’re saying things about Maddox in your movie that aren’t so nice. Well, you won’t hear that from me. I don’t feel that way at all.”
    “Uh-huh, good.”
    “Now,” the man continued his recitation, “my boy Larry’s seventeen and was most recent in a play. I mean a serious play without music. I Remember Mama. He was good—I’d say that even he wasn’t my son—but he’d be top-notch in a movie where you getto say your lines over and over again and they take the best one. I mean top-notch.”
    “Well, sir, I don’t do any casting.”
    “He’ll do it real reasonable. You know, just to get his foot in the door, so to speak. Could do manual labor, too, till an acting part comes ’round. He’s strapping.”
    Pellam shook his head.
    “He’s taking classes.”
    “Sorry.” Pellam zipped up his jacket. “I wish I could help out but I can’t.”
    The man stood, shoulders drooping and face bright red. Behind him was a decrepit house that at one time was a marvel of Victorian excess. It had been abandoned halfway through a futile make-over. He said in a stiff voice, “I’ve been out of work three years now. Was a deckhand for a inland tow company. I’m about at the end of my rope.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “I don’t want sympathy. I’d work if there was any work but there ain’t. Larry’s ’bout the only chance we’ve got for some income.”
    Pellam shook his head. “Wish it were different.”
    “Sure.” The man stood for a moment longer. “Thanks for your time.” He turned silently and walked back to his car. He looked at the camper, then started the engine. Pellam watched the car roll away, followed by the bubbling sound of a rust-shot muffler.
    He trudged back to the camper, disarmed himself and hung up his jacket. He returned to the kitchenette.
    A half hour later he was sitting at the tiny table, flipping through his Maddox location file, which wasfilled with Polaroid snapshots. As Tony Sloan had requested, he’d taken a number of shots of empty houses—nearly every other house in certain parts of town—and he had narrowed the bungalow search down to four: two of them cute and two run-down. He was checking the addresses against a tattered map of Maddox.
    That was when he heard the hesitant footsteps on the gravel walk. Pellam’s hands froze on the report.
    Had Larry’s dad returned for another audition?
    Pellam stood and walked to the rear of the camper, peering out. No, it was a different car. A dark red sedan.
    The sort the Italian and the WASP detectives would drive.
    It turned out not to be the two cops, however. Without knocking, a dark-complected man in his mid-thirties stepped inside and looked around, orienting himself. He wore a trim, double-breasted charcoal gray suit and reflective blue sunglasses.
    He said, “I know what you’re hoping for but give it up. You’re not getting out of here.” The door swung shut and he slowly pulled his sunglasses off and slipped them into his breast pocket.

Chapter 6
    PELLAM PURSED HIS lips together. He shook his head.
    “What?” the intruder asked.
    “It’s ‘I know what you’re thinking. But it’s too late . You’re not getting out of here.’ ”
    “No.” The man frowned. “I’m sure.” He propped a briefcase on the driver’s seat and opened it.
    “Anyway, I’ve decided to cut the dialogue. Do it in visuals. Want coffee? It’s instant.”
    A script appeared from the briefcase and the man began thumbing through it. “Aw, no. Pellam. Don’t cut it. It’s a great line. ‘But give it up.’ It’s very—what’s the word?—anachronistic. Oh, you’re right.” He read the script carefully. “The line’s gone.”
    “Take a pew,” Pellam said and put the kettle on the flame.
    Marty Weller easily settled his lanky frame into the dining banquette. A yoga practitioner, he possessed the sort of physique that could comfortably handle a camper environment. He had an airbrushed tan and muscles in places where only a Nautilus machine could put them. Where his trimmed eyebrowsended above his nose there appeared California