Bloody River Blues

live in the area?”
    “Carbondale.”
    Pellam nodded. “I just saw him an hour ago. Donnie. He looked pretty good.”
    “You on the force with him?”
    “I’m a friend.”
    Penny said, “Donnie’s mentioned you a couple times.”
    He had?
    “What do you have to pick up?”
    “Some forms for the office.”
    Penny said, “I could take them.”
    “I have to stop by the Criminal Court building. It’s pretty grim down there, Donnie said.” This was the lie that Buffett had coached him on.
    “I would, though. If he wanted me to take them there, I would.” She said this with great sincerity.
    It was then that Pellam noticed the burning candle. It was a funny thing. Red, thick, about three feet high, with charms stuck onto it. It had been burning for a long time; there was a slick puddle of wax in the black saucer the candle rested on, two burning sticks of incense angled out of the shaft. That’s what was stinking up the house. Sandalwood or something. It reminded him of high school—black lights, the Jefferson Airplane, peace symbols that meant peace and tie-dye that was fashionable, not nostalgic.
    He looked around the living room. The candle was a hint but it did not prepare him for the collection of paintings, statues, and icons. All religious, mostly crudely done. Pellam wondered if Penny had made them herself. There were pictures of native Africans,thin black men and women, with intense, euphoric gazes. There were wooden crosses, spattered with dark red paint. Posters of pentagrams and star charts and crystals. A large glass pyramid, inside of which was a shriveled-up brown and flesh-colored object. It looked like a dried apricot. Like many of these objets d’art the pyramid was covered with dust.
    “Would you like some coffee?” Ruth asked.
    “Oh, sure, coffee?” From Penny.
    “No, thanks.”
    Ruth said, “No trouble.”
    “No, really. I can’t stay long. If you could just show me Donnie’s office.”
    Penny pointed the way.
    The office was really a bedroom slowly becoming a den. It was small. On the walls were sheets of thin paneling of light-stained wormwood—with tiny black holes like miniature cigarette burns. Donnie had probably done the work himself. Half of the sheets still showed the nailheads. A six-foot piece of unstained crown molding had been mounted where the panel joined the ceiling. A half dozen other pieces of molding sat in the corner. It was going to be a long time before the work got finished, Pellam thought with sadness.
    He opened the bottom drawer of Buffett’s desk. He moved aside the box Donnie had told him about and found what he was looking for. He slipped the thick envelope into his pocket.
    As he stood he heard a woman’s voice eerily droning: “Ommmm . . .”
    Pellam returned to the living room, where sat three people whose only bond seemed to be this tragedy.Penny was in front of the candle, her voice solid and strong like a car in low gear. Nothing was going to stop it. Tears were in her eyes. She sat Japanese style, on her haunches. She hummed faster and faster.
    “Ommmm . . .”
    Ruth was sitting back on the couch, tracing the yellow herringbone pattern of the upholstery with a short, unpolished nail. Stan said to her bluntly, “Get me some coffee. And a sandwich. Watch the mayonnaise. You gave me too much last time.”
    Penny’s eyes were closed and from her lips came the melancholy drone of her prayer.
    Pellam said good-bye to no one. He opened the door and let himself out.
    He was going to wait until he got to the Yamaha to take the envelope out of his pocket. But he stopped on the walk and lifted it out. He saw what was irritating his leg. The hammer of the Smith & Wesson pistol had worn through the paper. Pellam covered it with Maddox Police Department Aided Report forms and walked to the motorcycle.
    A FLECK OF dust pedaled through the air of Gennaro’s Bakery. Philip Lombro’s eyes followed it for a long moment then turned back to Ralph Bales.
    “You’re not eating your cannoli.”
    “It’s good. I like it,” Ralph Bales said. For a stocky man, a man who loved steak and pasta and hamburgers, he had a curious dislike for desserts. He wondered why it was he always ended up sitting in restaurants eating sweets and drinking coffee and tea on deals like this. “I’m a slow eater. My wife—”
    “You’re married?” Lombro asked, surprised.
    “Was married. She’d be finished with her veal and I’d still have most of it left.