Bloody River Blues

you want to get a bag or something.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Sure.”
    “Thanks.” He disappeared down the empty street.
    Ten minutes later, the cowboy returned, carrying a plastic shopping bag, which held two six-packs. He also carried a small paper bag, which he handed to Buffett.
    “I’d offer you a Labatts but they probably got rules about you being on duty. So it’s a coffee and doughnut. A couple sugars in the bag.”
    “Thank you, sir,” Buffett said formally, feeling embarrassed and wondering why he did. “Didn’t have to.”
    The cowboy started to pick up the beers and loaded them in the shopping bag. Buffet did not offer to help. Finally the cowboy stood up and said, “John Pellam.”
    “Donnie Buffett.”
    They nodded and didn’t shake hands.
    Buffett lifted the coffee into the air, like a toast, and walked off, listening to beer bottles clink as the man headed toward the river.
    AT SEVEN-TWENTY THAT evening, Vincent Gaudia looked down the low-cut white dress of his blond companion and told her, “It’s time to eat.”
    “What did you have in mind?” she asked breathily, smiling tiny crow’s-feet into the makeup that was laid on a few microns too deep.
    Gaudia was addicted to women like this. Although he viewed them as a commodity he tried not to be condescending. Some of his dates were very intelligent, some were spiritual, some spent many hours volunteering for good causes. And though he did not pursue them for their minds or souls or consciences he listened avidly as they spoke about their interests and he did so with genuine curiosity.
    On the other hand, what he wanted most from this girl was to take her to his co-op, where he would tell her to shut the hell up about spirit guides and climbonto her hands and knees, then lift her garter belt with his hands and tug on it like reins. He now eased a strategically placed elbow against her breasts and said, “For the moment, I’m talking about dinner.”
    She giggled.
    They left the Jolly Rogue then crossed River Road and walked up Third Street, toward downtown Maddox, past foreboding warehouses, storefronts filled with blotched and decaying used furniture, ground-floor offices, dingy coffee shops. The woman squeezed closer to him against the cold. The chill air reminded Gaudia of his boyhood in Cape Girardeau, when he would walk home from school shuffling leaves in front of his saddle shoes, working on a toffee apple or Halloween candy. He had pulled some crazy stunts at Halloween, and he could not smell cold fall air without being stirred by good memories. Gaudia asked, “What’d you do on Halloween? When you were a kid?”
    She blinked then concentrated on her answer. “Well, we had a lot of fun, you know. I used to dress up mostly like princesses and things like that. I was a witch one year.”
    “A witch? No way. You couldn’t be one if you tried.”
    “Sweetheart . . . And then we’d go for tons of candy. I mean, like tons. I liked Babe Ruths, no, ha ha, Baby Ruths best, and what I’d do sometimes is find a house that was giving them out and keep going back there. One Halloween I got twelve Baby Ruths. I had to be careful. I had a lot of zits when I was a kid.”
    “Kids don’t go much anymore. It’s dangerous. Did you hear about that guy who put needles in apples?”
    “I never liked apples. I only liked candy bars.”
    “Baby Ruths,” Gaudia remembered.
    “Where’re we going? This is a creepy neighborhood.”
    “This is a creepy town. But it’s got the best steak house in the state outside of Kansas City. Callaghan’s. You like steak?”
    “Yeah, I like steak. I like surf and turf.” She added demurely, “But it’s expensive.”
    “I think they’ve got surf and turf there. You want surf and turf, order it. What you want, you can have.”
    RALPH BALES STOOD on the street corner, in the alcove of Missouri National Bank, watching the couple stroll under a dim streetlight, three of the four bulbs burnt out. The girl was glued on to his arm, which probably was more a plus than anything, because if Gaudia was carrying a weapon she’d tie up his shooting hand.
    Philip Lombro’s dark Lincoln Town Car, boxy as an aircraft carrier, exhaust purring, sat across the street. Ralph Bales studied the perfect bodywork, the immaculate chrome. Then he looked at the silhouette of Lombro behind the wheel. That man was crazy. Ralph Bales could not understand his wanting to watch it—watching the act of the shooting itself. He