Bloody River Blues

sleep that was cold and deep and forever.
    “HOWDY.” JOHN PELLAM stepped into the hospital room.
    He startled the cop, who dropped something on the floor. “Hell,” Buffett snapped. “You scared me.”
    “Sorry.” Pellam walked past the flowers, looking around. Dozens of bouquets, wreaths, plants. Pellam wondered if the nurses got irritated, having to water all this foliage.
    A pale, pretty face appeared in the doorway. Pellam motioned her in. “This is Nina. Donnie Buffett.”
    She said hello.
    “How you doing?” came Buffett’s muffled voice. He was contorted sideways, bending down trying to pick up something from the floor, struggling. His face was red and slick with sweat.
    “You okay?” Pellam walked around the bed. Buffett was reaching for a pen he had dropped . . . No, not a pen, a syringe.
    “Here, I’ll get it.” Pellam bent down, retrievedthe needle, and stepped over to a plastic box that said Used Syringe Disposal Only.
    “No!” Buffett shouted.
    Pellam paused, and he and Nina looked at the cop curiously.
    “I’ve got to give myself a shot.”
    “You?” she asked. “Don’t the nurses do that?”
    Buffett stared at the needle for several seconds. He cleared his throat. “I’m, you know, a diabetic. I can give them to myself.”
    Pellam shrugged. “It was on the floor. I’ll ask the nurse for a clean one.” He dropped it in the disposal box. “I don’t mind.”
    Buffett’s eyes clung to the disposal box, looking heartsick. Pellam reached for the nurse call button. Buffett barked, “I’ll do it myself later.”
    “No trouble.”
    Buffett snatched the button away from him. “I said I’d do it myself.”
    A difficult silence arose. Nina and Pellam simultaneously asked him how he was feeling, and he answered, “Fine. I’m fine.” More silence. Nina turned to the flowers, examined them and refilled several of the vases with water. Buffett seemed angered by this but he said nothing and she didn’t seem to notice that he was out of sorts.
    Pellam studied Buffett for a moment and decided he looked pretty good, all things considered. Apart from the red face and sweat, he seemed to be a healthy man lying in bed. The only evidence of injury: He was dressed in a white, blouselike gown speckled with small, pale blue dots.
    “Something you wanted?” Buffett asked.
    Pellam did not know how to respond. He wasn’t expecting this constant level of hostility. He said the first thing that came into his mind. “You need anything?”
    “No. I’m doing fine.” When the silence filled the room again Buffett relented and made conversation. “I get kind of bored, you know. I got TV.” He motioned broadly at the old set as if they couldn’t spot it themselves.
    Pellam said, “I guess I came by, one of the reasons, I was a little hotheaded the other day.”
    Buffett was being forced to apologize and he didn’t want to. He watched a silent CNN news broadcast for a moment. Tankers unloading in some foreign port. Pellam was just starting to wonder if the cop would clam up and that would be that. He was glancing at Nina when Buffett said, “I started it. You were just, you know, reacting. All this . . . It’s got me kind of shook up.”
    “I read in this magazine one time,” Nina said. “ Glamour. No, Mademoiselle, I think. That if you have a serious accident, it’s like you’re a whole different person for at least six months afterwards.” She abruptly stopped speaking, perhaps worried that Buffett would think he was doomed to a half year of mental anguish.
    But Buffett was laughing. “Well, it’s got me a shitload of flowers. You want any, go right ahead.”
    Nina shook her head. “Oh, I couldn’t, no.”
    Buffett glanced at Pellam. “And the mayor came by to visit me. Which isn’t as exciting as, say, the mayor of L.A., since our guy also has the Buick dealership out on 104. He’s that kind of mayor, youknow.” There was a manic edge to Buffett’s voice. Maybe he was being cynical, maybe he was really impressed that the mayor had come to visit him. Pellam couldn’t tell. Buffett broke the silence that followed this by saying, “It’s just so damn boring. TV sucks, you know that?”
    “I don’t own one,” Pellam said with more enthusiasm than he intended. “I’ve got a monitor, but it doesn’t receive. It’s just hooked up to a VCR.”
    Buffett sighed and began clicking the gray box of the remote control through a series of stations. An old movie came