Bloody River Blues

wincing and expecting to be kissed. She felt the heat of his breath.
    “Please,” she cried, “don’t.”
    “I have a message for your friend.”
    She did not hear this. “Please.”
    “Listen! . . . Are you listening?”
    She nodded, crying again.
    “Mr. Crimmins knows that your friend saw him in the car that night. You tell him that if he testifies, I’ll come back. You understand what I’m saying?”
    “What—?”
    “Did you hear me?”
    Nina said, “Mr. Crimmins . . .”
    “And if I come back—” he touched her cheek again “—you’re not going to like it.”
    Nina’s body was racked with sobbing.
    He said, “Don’t move for a half hour. Stay right where you are.” He stood up. She heard no footsteps, nor did she hear the rattle of the chain on the front door. Because of this she believed he was still there, watching her, perhaps hidden in the shadows only ten feet away. She stared at the distant square of greasy glass, lit by the sun and the thin auras encircling it, the rings of red light that her tears created.
    HE FOUND HER sitting curled up, outside the factory, staring down at the branch-cracked sidewalk at her feet. “Nina?”
    She did not look up. Not for a moment. When she did it was with eyes full of tears. He sensed she had been assembling herself—forcing herself to be placid.
    “John . . .” Her voice broke with sobbing. She was shivering.
    “What is it?” He crouched next to her.
    Her arms hugged him hard and she was shaking hysterically. “There was a man.”
    Pellam stiffened. He took her by the shoulders. “What happened?”
    Sobbing again. He had to wait. He wanted to shake it out of her, force her to tell him. But he waited.
    Nina pulled away and roughly wiped her ear—where the attacker’s mouth had been—as if scraping the skin clean. “He didn’t . . . do anything. He just knocked me down.”
    “Let’s call the cops.” Pellam started to stand.
    “He said . . . He told me to tell you something.”
    “Me?”
    “He said he worked for the man you saw, the man in the Lincoln. And if you tell the police he’d come back and . . . Crimmins, he said the name was.”
    His hands began to quiver in rage, then his neck. He couldn’t control it. Then his jaw and head, shaking uncontrollably. He blinked. His eyes watered with the fury. His jaw suddenly cramped and he realized his teeth were jammed together.
    “John—”
    “Let’s call the police.”
    She shook her head. “No.”
    “What? We have to.”
    “No, John. Please. He didn’t hurt me. Not really. But I’m scared of him. He said he’d come back.” She looked at him with frightened, wet, round eyes. “Please. Just take me home.”
    Pellam looked around the field and brush surrounding the factory. He thought back to the dark car that had cruised past while they were on the street. All his enemies in this town were faceless. Where were they? Pellam thought momentarily of his distant ancestor Wild Bill, who fought it out with gunfighters face-to-face and no more than a dozen feet apart (except, of course, for the last one, the one who shot him in the back).
    “This guy, what did he look like?” Pellam asked.
    She described him as best she could, the hair, the youthfulness, the pink glasses. She thought for a moment and described his pants and jacket. She could not remember his shoes or shirt.
    “There’s something else about him . . .”
    “What?” Pellam helped her to her feet.
    “He had a red mark on his cheek. Like a big birthmark. It looked like that red spot on Jupiter.” She touched her own cheek.
    “Jupiter.”
    “The planet,” Nina said. “Will you please take me home now?”
    “I DON’T NEED a goddamn appointment.”
    Pellam shoved the door open. It swung into a bookshelf. A precariously balanced volume tumbled to the bare floor with the sound of a gunshot.
    He stopped. Four people gazed at him. Three were astonished. U.S. Attorney Ronald Peterson looked calmly at Pellam as he walked farther into the room. The others, two men and a woman, were young. Their eyes danced between the intruder and Peterson. Pellam ignored them and said, “I want to talk to you. Now.”
    “Ten minutes. You mind?” Peterson asked his coterie.
    Even if they had, he was obviously their boss, and the only debate they were presented was whether it was better protocol to take their files or leave them. The papers remained where they were and the youngsters walked silently out of