Bloody River Blues

Maddox.”
    “Well, a bum. They’ve got bums in Maddox,” Ralph Bales said.
    “Okay.”
    “He’s got a little Beretta, a .22. Doesn’t even need a suppressor. I’ve got the Ruger. Stevie calls him, he stops and turns. Stevie does him, up close. I’m behind, just in case. Bang, we’re in Stevie’s car, over the river, then we’re lost.”
    “I’ll be in front of the alley then,” Lombro said. “On Third.”
    Ralph Bales didn’t say anything for a moment but kept his eyes on Lombro. What he saw was this: a hook nose, kind eyes, trim suit, paisley tie . . . It wasodd but you couldn’t see more than that. You thought you could peg him easily as if the silver hair, the tasseled oxblood loafers polished to a spit-shine, and the battered Rolex were going to explain everything about Philip Lombro. But no, those were all you could come up with. The parts and the parts alone. Like a People magazine photo.
    Lombro, who was calmly looking back into Ralph Bales’s eyes, said, “Yes? Do you have a problem with that?”
    Ralph Bales decided he could win the staring contest if he wanted to and began to examine the swirl of hair on the back of his own hand. “Okay, I don’t think it’s such a good idea, you being there. But I told you that already.”
    “Yes, you did.”
    “Okay, I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”
    “I want to see him die.”
    “You’ll see pictures. The Post-Dispatch ’ll have pictures. The Reporter ’ll have pictures. In color.”
    “I’ll be there from seven-fifteen.”
    Ralph Bales was drumming his fingers on the leather seat of the Lincoln. “It’s my ass, too.”
    Lombro looked at his watch. The crystal was chipped and yellowed. Six-fifty. “I can find somebody else to do the job.”
    Ralph Bales waited a moment. “That won’t be necessary. You want to be there, that’s your business.”
    “Yes, it is my business.”
    Without response Ralph Bales swung the car door open.
    That’s when it happened.
    Sonofabitch . . .
    A thud, the sound of glass on glass, a couple of muted pops. Ralph Bales saw the man—a thin guy in a brown leather jacket—standing there, looking down, a sour smile on his face, a smile that said, I knew something like this was going to happen. Foamy beer chugged out of the bottom of the cardboard case, which rested on its end on the sidewalk.
    The man looked at Ralph Bales, then past him into the car. Ralph Bales slammed the door and walked away.
    The man with the rueful grin said, “Hey, my beer . . .”
    Ralph Bales ignored him and continued along Adams.
    “Hey, my beer!”
    Ralph Bales ignored him.
    The man was stepping toward him. “I’m talking to you. Hey!”
    Ralph Bales said, “Fuck you,” and turned the corner.
    The tall man stood staring after him for a moment, his mouth twisted and indignant, then bent down and looked into the window of the Lincoln. He cupped his hands. He tapped on the window. “Hey, your buddy . . . Hey . . .” He rapped again. Lombro put the car in gear. It pulled away quickly. The man jumped back. He watched the Lincoln vanish. He knelt down to his wounded carton, which was pumping beer into the gutter like a leaky fire hydrant.
    MADDOX POLICE DEPARTMENT Patrolman First Class Donald Buffett watched the last of the beer trickle into the street, thinking that if that had happenedin the Cabrini projects on the west side of town you’d have a dozen guys lapping it out of the gutter or knifing each other over the unbroken bottles.
    Buffett leaned against a brick wall and watched the guy—Buffett thought he looked like a cowboy—open up the case and salvage what he could, like a kid picking through his toys. The cowboy stood up and counted what looked to be maybe twelve, fifteen surviving bottles. The cardboard box was soaked and disintegrating.
    Buffett had expected him to take a swing at the man who stepped out of the Lincoln. There was a time, before the service, before the academy, when going for skin was what Buffett himself would have done. He watched the cowboy lining up all the good bottles in the shadow of a Neuman furniture warehouse, hiding them. He must have been planning to go back to the store. He dumped the box in the trash and wiped his hands on his pants.
    Buffett pushed off from the wall and walked across the street.
    “Evening, sir,” he said.
    The cowboy looked up, shaking his head. He said, “You see that? You believe it?”
    Buffett said, “I’ll keep an eye on them,