Bloody River Blues

that could have gotten him sprung instantly and on the way to the meeting with Marty Weller and their potential partner—the description of the driver of the Lincoln.
    How far away was the Sheraton? Pellam wondered. How long would it take to get there? Forty minutes, he seemed to recall. Not that it would matter at this point. The time was now nine-thirty.
    He sat in a small room in the Maddox police department. Across an unsteady table were the two detectives. This tiny room, like the rest of the office, stank of age: old wood, Lysol, mold, sour paint. The walls were sickly green, and shaded incandescent bulbs hung down from the cloudy, grimy ceiling on black wires. In the main office of the station were a dozen desks. Only two of them were occupied, and only three others showed any signs that they were used.
    The drive to police headquarters seemed to take forever. Pellam now decided he shouldn’t have told them about his meeting; he was sure the cops had intentionally driven ten miles out of their way to take him to the station and make sure he’d be late.
    When he’d been led in, cuffed and scowling, the four cops in the room looked up with eight resentful eyes. The Italian detective had crouched down in front of a cabinet, opened the doors and begun pulling things out, a Sears catalog, empty flowerpots, a shotgun in a plastic bag, stacks of memos. “Nope. Can’t find it. Charlie, where’s that Breathalyzer got to?”
    “Dunno.”
    They had searched for a few minutes more, but it was a halfhearted exploration and they couldn’t locate the machine. “We’re going to have to get one from the Highway Patrol. Shouldn’t take more’n an hour. You’ll have to wait here till we do.”
    When they’d said that, the time had been 8:05.
    “It is absolutely vital I get to my meeting,” Pellam had growled.
    “Well, when people get arrested they don’t always get what they want.”
    “I. Am. Not. Drunk. Book me or release me.”
    This had prompted them to take Pellam into the tiny canister of a room where he now sat. They asked, as long as they had some time, what did he remember about the Gaudia hit. They told him he could make a phone call if he’d give them one fact—just one—about the man in the Lincoln.
    “This is a setup.”
    “Well, whatever you want to call it, it’s all completely legal,” the WASP said indifferently. “So why don’t you just put on your thinking cap?”
    He gave them the story one more time and then said, “I want to see my lawyer.”
    “That’s it? That’s what you told us before.”
    “My lawyer,” he said.
    “You aren’t being charged with anything. We can’t charge you with anything until you take the Breathalyzer test. You just—”
    “I want a lawyer.”
    “You just’ll have to wait.” The Italian cop was angry at Pellam’s impatience.
    The WASP cop looked like he had an idea. “Maybe as long as he’s here, he could do that picture.”
    “I don’t know,” Pellam offered. “I’m probably too drunk.”
    “Ha. Give it a shot, why don’t you?”
    He tried to do an Identikit composite of the man who had knocked into him. As he spoke, he gazed blankly at the words on the Suspect Description form. Hair, kinky, afro, fade, cornrows, caesar, processed, scar, tattoo words only, tattoo unknown type, limp, pimpled, pocked, harelip, left-handed, bushy eyebrows,muscular, stocking cap, cowboy hat, applejack, turban . . .
    No one was impressed with his composite drawing and the cops decided he was still being recalcitrant.
    The H cop said, “You know, nobody’s come forward. You’re the only one who can help.”
    Pellam was trying to remember their names. Who was the H cop? Hilbert, Hanson, Hearst?
    “. . . we’ve done a tag check—”
    “Tag?” Pellam asked.
    The Italian cop, the G cop, said, “License plates on other cars in the vicinity that night.”
    “Oh. Your supervisor? I want to see him right now.”
    The WASP continued, “. . . and it came up zip. We’ve got no other witnesses.”
    Hellman, Harrison?
    The G cop asked somberly if Pellam knew how many people were killed annually by drunk drivers. Pellam didn’t know if he was supposed to answer or not.
    Hagedorn! That was it. Now he just had the G cop to worry about. Giovanni?
    Pellam said wearily, “Let me talk to my lawyer.”
    “You can’t talk to a lawyer,” the G cop said.
    “I have a right. It’s in the Constitution. Confront my accusers.” Which Pellam regretted