Bloody River Blues

It’s healthier to eat slower. You should chew your food, each bite, I mean, fifty times. I don’t do that, but you’re supposed to.”
    The bakery was not very authentic, Ralph Bales noted. Not like the ones he grew up near. It was, for one thing, very clean, and the girls wore yellow and brown waitress uniforms, and the miniature pastries in the spotless glass cases were like the rings and necklaces in the Famous Barr jewelry department. He didn’t like it. A bakery should be dark and full of wood and the pastries should be behind dirty, cracked glass. The room should be filled with the smell of yeast and they shouldn’t charge three seventy-five for a damn piece of cannoli.
    Lombro was nodding with little interest. “My brother’s wife makes these. They’re better than this one. I think they fill these ahead of time here. You’re not supposed to do that. You were telling me you found the man who was the witness.”
    “Yes.”
    “What’s his name?”
    Ralph Bales had anticipated this question. “Peter James.” There were twenty-seven people named Peter, Pete, or P. James in the St. Louis phone book. Also, it was a name that someone might mix up. Was that James Peters? Jim Peters?
    Lombro examined his napkin and replaced it on his lap. “And you’ve talked to him?”
    “Okay. We had a long talk,” Ralph Bales said in a low voice. He recited his next line. “He was pretty damn scared when he saw me coming. But he’s agreed to play ball with us.”
    “Play ball.”
    “That means—”
    “That means he wants some money and he won’t identify me.”
    “That’s what it means, yeah.”
    Lombro sipped his coffee, sitting back, ankle on knee, looking like a Mafia don. “Do you trust him?”
    “Well—”
    Lombro said, “I mean, if he takes the money will he keep his word?”
    Ralph Bales thought for a minute and said, “You’re never sure about these things—” He had not rehearsed this but he liked the lines. “—but I got good vibes from him. He’s not a pro. He’s scared and I think he’ll keep his word.”
    “What does he do?”
    This was a question that Ralph Bales had not anticipated. He spent a long time shrugging and sipping coffee. “Works some kind of job in St. Louis. I don’t know. Computers or something.”
    “And what exactly has he got to sell?”
    “He described you. To the letter. He said he looked through the window and got a complete description.”
    Lombro touched the silvery hair at his temple as if this news gave him a headache. “Why didn’t he tell the police?”
    Another foreseen question. “He was scared, like I said.”
    “Did you threaten him?”
    Ralph Bales poked at his pastry.
    “Did you?” Lombro repeated sternly.
    “Okay. I made it clear that we weren’t happy. I toldhim we were willing to go to extremes if we had to. I was trying to, you know, negotiate it down. But I told you—I didn’t hurt him.”
    “Did it work?”
    “What’s that?”
    “Negotiating.”
    “Not much, no.”
    “How much does he want?”
    Ralph Bales stopped poking and took a bite of pastry. “Fifty thousand.”
    “Uhm.”
    Ralph Bales counted to twelve, as his script called for. Then he said earnestly, “I know you don’t want my opinion but there’s a way I’d rather handle it. The other way I mentioned.” This was to make the fifty thousand more appealing.
    “No more killing. I forbid it.”
    Forbid it. Ralph Bales tried to remember the last time he had heard someone use that word. Not his father. Maybe a priest at school. Forbid . It was a word that belonged in an old-time movie.
    “Fifty thousand. I’ll have to go to my . . . an associate.”
    “Well, that’s what he wants.”
    With one square of paper napkin, Philip Lombro wiped the flecks of pastry from his lips and when he was through doing so he took another square and wiped the heel of his shoe. Then he asked another question, one that Ralph Bales had not anticipated, though it was one of those questions that did not really need an answer. “I suppose he wants us to pay him in small bills, doesn’t he?”
    “HEY .”
    Donnie Buffett opened his eyes.
    John Pellam stood looking at him.
    Buffett inhaled slowly. “Hi, chief.”
    “You okay?” Pellam’s eyes flickered with concern.
    “Yeah. I was . . . There’s this exercise. It’s supposed to calm you down. It doesn’t work too good.”
    “Well, some beer’ll calm you down. You want another beer?”
    “Yeah, I want another