Bloody River Blues

had apparently steeled herself for the response. “You’ll probably find it pretty boring. I grew up in Maddox. Went to Mizzou—that’s the University of Missouri—in St. Louis, studied English lit, which gets you nowhere. I got a job in a library and didn’t like where it was going. So I got a master’s degree in psychology. Then moved over to Cranston, nice safe distance from Mom and, at the time, Dad. Hobbies? Astrology, shiatsu—”
    Massage? He thought quickly. Was it too early in their courtship to make a thigh reference? Probably. He opted for back. He said, “I have this problem in my back.” Then added, “My lower back.”
    She parried with feigned disappointment. “I don’t do lower backs.”
    “You specialize. I see.” He waited what he thought was the proper amount of time. “No boyfriend?”
    “Boyfriend.” She considered and he wondered if she was tailoring a lie. “There’s this guy I see off and on. A lot off and not much on. You know how it is. When I was younger I dated a lot but, I don’t know, something about me—I was kind of a jerk magnet. What rocks those boys crawled out from under . . .”
    “Ever been married?”
    “No. You?”
    He was a veteran, Pellam admitted.
    “See, I’d rather not get married than be married and have to go through the pain of divorce.”
    “Well,” Pellam said, “without pain, there’s no appreciation.” They both considered that while they stared at a ninety-dollar spittoon. He said, “You’re thinking that was a stupid thing to say.”
    Nina was nodding. “Uhm, yeah, I think it was.” She laughed and they paused at bins filled with old albums, selling for fifty cents each. Pellam liked the scratchy sound of LPs. He didn’t own a CD player. He sunk a lot of his listening money into records. When he got home he’d record them on cassettes for the tape deck in the Winnebago. He began going through the jazz bin. “You like music?”
    “Oh, yeah, music is the best,” she announced, and looked over his shoulder at the album cover he was reading.
    “Who’s that?” she asked.
    “Oscar Peterson.” Who’s that?
    “Sounds familiar.”
    “Oscar Peterson,” Pellam said again.
    “Uh . . . I’m kind of into soft rock, you know. Light FM. It’s relaxing.”
    Oh.
    “It’s jazz,” he said.
    “Like Stevie Wonder?” Nina asked sincerely.
    “Sort of,” Pellam said. “They use the same notes.”
    Outside, the voodoo of Tony Sloan’s paranoia caught up with Pellam. He explained that he had to get back to work. When he leaned forward to kiss her cheek, to say good-bye, she responded with firm pressure on his hands and even leaned into him. A semihug. He glanced down and got a clear vision of the plunging neckline of her sweater. He was staring at her pale skin when they separated and she caught his downward-looking eyes. He said quickly, “I was admiring those earrings. They’re interesting.”
    “A present,” she said, perhaps choosing to believe him.
    He slipped on his sunglasses and smiled. “You interested in searching for a field with me sometime?”
    Nina nodded. “Sure. I’d like that.” She touched his arm and looked serious. “But I’d like to say something.”
    The boyfriend who wasn’t a boyfriend. The girlfriend who was a girlfriend. I don’t like men with film companies. Lips that touch liquor . . .
    “Yup?”
    “I want to tell you why I picked you up.”
    “How’s that?”
    “I mean, not that I don’t like you.”
    “No.”
    “See, I heard that when the film company came to town they were hiring people. I mean, it’s not the only reason I started talking to you.”
    I see.
    “Is there any way I could get a job?”
    Well, he should have known. This was hardly the first time it had happened. She must have seen the flicker in his eyes. The Ray-Bans weren’t all that dark.
    “I’m sorry.” Her eyes went straight to the ground. “I shouldn’t have asked. It’s just—”
    “I don’t mind.”
    “It’s just that I’ve been out of work for six months. I haven’t even been able to find a job waitressing.”
    He touched the incredibly soft orange alpaca over her muscular arm. “The thing is, shooting’s almost over. All the extras have been cast and they don’t make much money anyway.”
    “No, no, no.” Her face had turned pink. “I wouldn’t want to act . I don’t even like movies. I think they’re stupid.”
    She doesn’t like movies?
    “Oh.” Everybody likes