Bloody River Blues

for death.
    Pellam heard the drone of the speaker’s words, a soft baritone.
    He wished he knew how to pray.
    He decided he would suggest that Sloan dedicate Missouri River Blues to Stile, a film that had turned out to be not the product of artistic vision at all but simply one hell of a stuntman’s movie.
    No, not suggest. Whatever else there was between Sloan and him, Pellam would insist on the dedication. It was something he could do.
    But it wasn’t enough.
    WHAT STEVIE FLOM was going to say: First, you didn’t describe the guy very well. Second, the guy walked out of the camper and got on the cycle. Third, you should’ve done it yourself . . .
    He got as far as “First—” before Ralph Bales grabbed his Members Only black jacket by the lapels and slammed the terrified Stevie into the wall of Harry’s Bar.
    “Gentlemen.” The bartender wagged a finger but in a lethargic way. This was a dingy, Lysol-scented place overlooking one of the less picturesque refineries in Wood River, Illinois. It was that sort of bar, where the management would let two men—two white men, not too drunk or strung-out—go at it. Up to a point.
    Ralph Bales looked from the frightened eyes ofStevie Flom to the cool eyes of the bartender and let go. He had been right on the borderline but now decided not to break his partner’s nose. Stevie slumped and ran his fingers through his razor-cut hair. “Aw, Ralph, come on.”
    Ralph Bales turned and walked through the bar into the restaurant behind. He slid into one of the booths. Stevie followed him like a butt-swatted puppy and sat opposite.
    Ralph Bales said, “You’re an asshole.”
    “First, what it was, he walked out of the camper and got on the Yamaha. How was I supposed to know there’d be somebody else inside? You said he’d be riding a bike. And like, anyway, you didn’t describe him.”
    “Shut up and listen to me. Lombro is really pissed now.”
    “It wasn’t my fault.”
    “Excuse me, I mean, excuse me? When’re you gonna learn that guys like this don’t think about fault. What’re you going to say? ‘Gee, Mr. Lombro, first I shot a cop and now I killed the wrong man but I’ve got an excuse’?”
    “Did you tell him I did it?” Stevie whispered.
    To Ralph Bales’s glee the kid was seriously nervous now. He let Stevie hang in the wind for some very lengthy seconds. “I didn’t tell him your name.”
    “Thanks, Ralph. That was all right of you.”
    “I just told him a guy we hired made a mistake.”
    “ ‘ We hired.’ Like you and me, we hired somebody else. So he won’t think it was me.” Stevie nodded. “That was good.”
    “He was pissed but he’s not going to do anything about it. He’s not going the whole nine yards with thebonus because of the screwup, but he’ll give us something. If you do it right this time.”
    “Maybe what you could do is describe him better to me.”
    “Maybe what I could do is hold your hand and take you up and introduce you . . .”
    “Aw, Ralph, come on . . .”
    “Look, this thing is running away from us.”
    “Maybe we should just vanish.”
    “Without a penny? I wish you’d done the cop right.”
    “You could’ve, too,” Stevie said cautiously.
    Ralph Bales opened his mouth to protest then remembered his gun muzzle nestling in the cop’s hair. “I could have, too. Yeah.”
    The waitress came by and they ordered boilermakers and hamburgers. When she left, Ralph Bales said, “Okay, well, do the witness this time and do it right.”
    Stevie said, “All right, sure. You still want it to be an accident? I mean, if that’s what you want . . .”
    Ralph Bales considered this. “Do it however you want. I don’t care.”
    This relieved Stevie immensely and he said, “I just want to say one thing. First, you didn’t describe him very well—”
    Ralph Bales turned on him.
    Stevie lifted two palms and grinned. “Joke, Ralphy. Joke. You got to keep a sense of humor about these things.”
    “HE KILLED MY friend,” Pellam said, “and I’m going to get him.”
    Donnie Buffett was not interested in what Pellam was going to do. Penny had called and chanted overthe phone to him for five minutes while he stared at the receiver, first in disbelief, then in disgust. He had finally hung up and left the phone off the hook. Then he had been taken downstairs and poked and probed all morning. He had been told to contract his sphincter. He had said peevishly, “My what? ” And the young intern