Bloody River Blues

a pillow for the tissue and cried some more. Gradually the tears ceased.
    “Can I get you anything?” Weiser asked.
    He shook his head, gasping.
    He didn’t want her to see him this way. The beautiful, breezy doctor with the spaghetti-strap bikini and the twenty-foot sailboat. The doctor with the boyfriend and her twelve-year-old daughter. But he was out of control, gasping for breath and crying like a swatted newborn.
    She asked if he wanted to be by himself and he shook his head and threw his arm over his face. After a few minutes he began laughing softly. “I’m a nut case,” he wheezed.
    “You don’t have any idea the kind of stress you’re going through.”
    Buffett felt no Terror and no Depression but instead a roaring mania. “I don’t know why I’m crying, I don’t know why,” he whispered as the sobbing began again. “I don’t know why . . .”
    Weiser did not offer any explanation. She sat for a moment, watching him, then stood, opened the window, and lit another cigarette.
    AFTERNOON IN MADDOX , Missouri.
    Pellam had spent hours wandering around again, playing bait. He walked through antique stores, up and down the streets, had a beer at each of three interchangeable taverns, walked some more, looking from behind his Ray-Bans for the man who was looking for him .
    As he walked, he stayed apart from the crowd, he wandered slowly, he put his back toward several alleys and many cruising cars.
    Pellam decided he had gotten very good at making himself a target.
    At 5:00, after eight hours on his feet, he found himself in the crowded farmers’ market off River Road. The dusty parking lot was filled with stalls where farmers—traditional ones as well as past and present hippies—from Missouri and southern Illinois sold cheese and veggies and muffins and apples and—sure enough—northern watermelon. Pellam looked at the bleak gaiety of the place with its faded banners and a doleful clown tying balloon animals for a small crowd of children with soiled hands and cheeks. Heheard twangy country western music vibrating out of cheap speakers.
    A half hour later, Pellam decided it was time to return to the camper. He bought a bottle of wine, some cheese, crunchy Dutch pretzels, and two plums.
    He clumsily discarded his boots and jacket when he entered the Winnebago. He washed his face and sat in the back bunk, eating the cold supper. Pellam did not care for apples but the only liquor for sale at the market had been apple wine. He bought it reluctantly, hoping that alcohol would be more prominent than the apple taste. This was somewhat true though it was overwhelmingly sweet. He drank half of it down, three straight glasses, and shivered hard at the sugar hitting his bloodstream.
    He had an urge to see Nina but he dared not, for fear of imperiling her again. This happened so often in his life—wanting, then pursuing, regardless of the danger. Oh, John Pellam did not like this aspect of himself—how he welcomed risks. This nature had led him to be a stuntman for a time, had prodded him to make movies that critics may have loved but that lost big money for many people. He easily forgot that others might get hurt because of him. John Pellam believed in his darker moments that he carried in his heart more of his gunfighting ancestor than was good for him. And for those around him.
    He rose, poured another glass of wine and, carrying the bottle, returned to the bunk. Apple wine. Disgusting. He looked at the label, a picture of attractive, thirtyish farmers, a husband and wife couple, hefting a bushel of apples onto a flatbed. He decidedhe detested these particular farmers and their natural, no-preservative, rosy cheeks.
    He put on a Patsy Cline tape.
    No. Too sappy.
    He put on a Michael Nyman. Better. He noticed a magazine on the floor. It had fallen open to the horoscope page. He tried to read his and lost interest. He lay back onto the bunk.
    Taurus. April 22–May 21. A bad time for investments. Career plans may go awry. Control your temper and don’t wander the streets of small cities with a loaded pistol.
    When Pellam woke an hour later he couldn’t find the wine bottle. Because of the intense throbbing in his temples, he assumed with some remorse that he had finished it.
    But he was wrong.
    The man who stood in the middle of the camper was holding the bottle to his lips, taking a long drink. His head tilted back as he gulped, but his calm eyes studied Pellam curiously.
    The man winced—maybe