Bloody River Blues

He sat in the saddle of the Yamaha. Stile pocketed the Polaroid and climbed on behind.
    The wind rose up in sudden chill bursts. The rain had mostly stopped but the streets were flecked with its aftermath—bits of bark and branches—and the air was very damp. A dog with fur spiked by an earlier downpour walked up to them, sniffed belligerently then fled as Pellam kicked over the engine. They sped onto the asphalt.
    “I called Hank,” Pellam shouted over the roar, referring to the card-playing attorney retained by the film company. “He said there’s nothing I can do about it.”
    “Those FBI guys, you mean?”
    “They can interview whoever they want, they can stop production, they can look at all our permits. They can go to Delaware and Sacramento and look at everything the company’s ever filed.”
    “Wooee, Tony’s gonna roast your nuts, boy.”
    “He’d just fire me is what he’d do,” Pellam said.
    “I don’t think he can fire you for not testifying. I’ll bet you can sue him if he tries.”
    “Yeah, right.”
    Pellam motioned toward the river. A mule team of barges slapped through the water beside them. The wind was up and sailors were huddled on the pushing tug. Deckhands stood on the front of the barge, wearing orange vests and speaking into walkie-talkies—presumably to the captain, who stood, three football fields behind, in the pilot house. He wore a suit and tie.
    Stile watched it and shouted, “I love riverboats, yessir. Eighteen fifty-three. The Altona made the run from St. Louis to Alton in one hour and thirty-five minutes. See the lights? That’s Alton.”
    “How do you know this stuff?” Pellam shouted back over the rattle of the engine.
    “Nobody beat that record for a while. Well, the Robert E. Lee could’ve, of course. Or the Natchez . Watch the curve there.”
    Pellam looked back at the road just in time to make the curve with a skid that didn’t even make Stile flinch. They turned off River Road and shot toward downtown. The lights were gassy and brilliant in the mist. “See,” he shouted to Stile, “glare everywhere. How could I see anything?”
    Pellam pulled into the discount package store and killed the engine.
    They walked into the green-neon-lit store, went to the cooler, and began fighting it out over Canadian or American beer. Pellam lost the toss and Stile snagged a six-pack of Bud, plunking it down into Pellam’s hands. “Gotta take a leak.”
    Pellam paid for the beer and wandered outside. He opened a can and sat on the Yamaha, sipping. He looked over at the flat black strip of the river.
    He softly whistled a few bars from “Across the Wide Missouri.”
    The siren remained silent until the car was directly behind him, then it burst into a huge electronic howl. The spotlight came on simultaneously. Pellam was so startled, he dropped the beer, spilling a good portion on his jeans. “Goddamn!” He spun around and looked at the car. The doors were opening and two men were coming toward him like G-men about to gun down Dillinger.
    The WASP detective and the Italian detective. Oh, no. . . . Them again.
    “Look what you did.” Pellam lifted an arm, showing them the drenched Levi’s.
    The Italian cop ignored the spill and grabbed Pellam’s arm. He cuffed his wrist.
    Pellam stared at the silver chain. “What—”
    The other wrist got cuffed, too.
    “—are you doing?”
    “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney.” It was the Italian detective speaking.
    “If you can’t afford one,” his partner took over, “one will be appointed for you. If you waive your right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in court.”
    “Do you understand each of these rights?”
    Pellam thought they somehow knew about the unregistered .45 that was sitting below his butt in the toolbox of the Yamaha.
    “I—”
    “Do you understand these rights?”
    “Sure, I understand them. What am I being arrested for?”
    The WASP cop said, “Sir, we take drunk driving very seriously in our community.”
    Pellam closed his eyes. He shook his head.
    “We’ll have to give you a Breathalyzer test,” the Italian detective said.
    The WASP said, “But I’m afraid we don’t have it with us.”
    The Italian said, on cue, “We better take him downtown.”
    “What’s going on here?” Stile, chewing on a piece of beef jerky, walked out of the store.
    “I’m—” Pellam began.
    “Just stay out of this,