Bloody River Blues

weapons? I have, haven’t I?”
    Sloan had calmed down. There was a cryptic tone in the conversation reminiscent of what one heard in offices and restaurants throughout Beverly Hills and West Hollywood. It was very Zen—to speak while not speaking. “Pellam?”
    “Why don’t you talk to him, Mr. Sloan. Just talk to him. See if he can remember anything about what happened that night of the Gaudia murder.” He looked at Stace. “You talk about Uzis in San Francisco. Well, Mr. Pellam can help us put away a man who’s been doing a lot worse than that. But without his help that man’s going to go free and a lot more people are going to get hurt.”
    Sloan said, “I understand Pellam claims he didn’t see anything.”
    “ ‘Claims.’ Well, I know he claims he didn’t see anything.”
    “Why is he holding out?” the director wondered.
    “Maybe he’s afraid—although I’ve assured him we can protect him. Maybe he’s being paid . . . No, don’t protest too fast. You’d be surprised what people will do for money. He is, after all, an ex-convict.”
    “What?” Sloan whispered.
    “San Quentin. Served almost a year. I assumed you knew.”
    Stace folded his hands in his lap. He stared directly into Peterson’s eyes. “John Pellam is a good man. He had some trouble. We’ve all had trouble at times.”
    “You knew about it,” Sloan shouted to the arms master, “and you didn’t goddamn tell me?”
    Stace Stacey was not an employee of Missouri River Partnership and Tony Sloan was only one of nearly thirty directors who regularly hired him. Sloanwas also, among these clients, the largest pain in the ass. He now easily won a staredown with the director and smiled sadly, as if embarrassed at the man’s childishness.
    “Manslaughter,” Peterson said, pleased that Sloan had lost yet another round at this meeting.
    Stace said, “He did his time. He got out. He was a good director then, he’s a good location scout now.”
    “Pellam directed? Why didn’t I know this?”
    “You were probably making running-shoe commercials in New York at the time,” Stace offered, without a hint of discernible irony.
    Peterson jotted a note. “I’ll check out what you’ve told me about your guns, Mr. Stacey, and if you’re correct you can pick them up first thing on Tuesday morning and the state charges will be dropped.”
    Stace said, “I am correct, sir, and I’d advise you to release them to me right now.”
    “Tuesday?” Sloan blurted. “I can’t wait three days. We’re already overbudget. We’re—”
    “But unfortunately,” Peterson explained, “it’s Saturday. There’s no one in the Washington office, of course. Tomorrow’s Sunday. And Monday—”
    “Columbus Day.” Sloan closed his eyes. “Christ. Why did you wait until this morning? You’ve known we had the guns for two, three days.”
    His eyes were on Sloan. “Do you think we’re reaching an understanding? Do you?”
    Sloan’s anger was diminishing. “Maybe. Possibly.”
    Stace began to speak. “What you seem to be suggesting is—”
    It was Sloan who silenced him with a wave of the hand.
    Peterson said, “Then if there’s nothing else, gentlemen . . . Oh, as a show of good faith, I’ll talk to those city detectives. I’ll recommend you’re released on your own recognizance.”
    “I appreciate that. You seem like a reasonable man.”
    “One more thing, Mr. Sloan.” Peterson slid a piece of paper toward the director. “Any chance of an autograph? You know, for the boys?”
    THE FBI AGAIN ?
    The severe rapping on the camper door sounded just like that of federal agents. But Pellam was running up a long list of potentially hostile visitors, so who could tell? When he opened the door he held the Colt Peacemaker hidden beneath his black Comme des Garcons sports jacket.
    Tony Sloan nodded a greeting as he walked inside without waiting for an invitation. Pellam thought about making a wisecrack like “Waking the dead?” referring both to the pounding and to the deceased Ross and Dehlia. But Tony Sloan’s expression was far too grim for jokes and all Pellam said was “Come on in” after Sloan already was.
    Sloan walked directly to the counter, where sat a bottle of bourbon. He poured two glasses. “You were at the shoot?”
    “Got there late. But I heard. Some problem with the guns?”
    Sloan gave him a brief account of the events that culminated in his handcuffing.
    “My God,” Pellam whispered. “Stace is a