Bloody River Blues

at the sweetness of the wine—and set the bottle down on the table. He wiped his mouth with his fingers, the same fingers that picked up the Colt Peacemaker from the dining table and slipped it into his pocket. He walked forward toward where Pellam lay. He was handsome and young and he was wearing a suit.
    Pellam was surprised at only one thing. At how much the birthmark on his cheek did look exactly like the spot on Jupiter.
    He thought of many things to say. They came to him quickly. Some funny, some ominous. But he wasdrowsy and he had a serious headache; he didn’t feel like talking. Pellam opened his slurred eyes wide to help him focus and continued to stare.
    The visitor touched the rim of the wine bottle and moved his finger in a slow circle around its perimeter. Outside, water lapped on the revetment, a truck diesel chugged in the distance.
    Neither man said a word.
    Pellam swung his feet around to the floor. The intruder’s hand left the bottle and strayed toward his hip, where presumably a pistol rested. Pellam moved slowly—not in fear that he might startle the man but because of the pain in his temples.
    He yawned again.
    The man said, “You went to Peterson.”
    When he had yawned, Pellam’s eyes watered. He wiped the tears away.
    The man said, “Didn’t the girl give you the message?”
    “She told me.”
    “Mr. Crimmins isn’t real happy you went to the prosecutor. He hasn’t been arrested so he can only assume you kept your mouth shut.”
    “I don’t have anything to say about Crimmins.”
    “He knows you saw him in the Lincoln that night.”
    “What do you want?”
    The man was big—six two or three. The clothes fit tight, as if he had very good muscles. Pellam wondered if he had had an erection when he touched Nina.
    “I want to be sure you forget you saw him.”
    Oh. Was that it? Was he going to leave now? Just like that? Make sure you keep telling people you didn’t see Peter Crimmins? Have a nice night.
    The birthmark man buttoned his jacket and pulled on gloves.
    He’s leaving.
    But why the gloves? It isn’t that cold outside.
    The man stepped forward quickly. Before Pellam could lift his arm to deflect the blow, the fist caught him in the side of the head. Pellam fell backwards and landed heavily in the bunk. It had been a glancing strike but on top of an apple wine hangover, the pain howled through his head. He moaned and shook more tears from his eyes.
    “Damn,” Pellam gasped. “Why’d you do that?”
    He struggled to his feet, grasping toward a cabinet to steady himself. Then his wrist was snared, painfully, by the man’s powerful hand and he was yanked forward into the man’s right fist once again. It connected with jaw. Pellam sank down again, stunned.
    “That girlfriend of yours, her face is real pretty. The rest of her’s probably pretty nice, too.”
    Pellam stood slowly and touched blood away from his cheek. He nearly fainted from the pain. When the black dots in his eyes settled and his vision returned, he leaned against the camper wall for a moment. Then he made his way unsteadily toward the bathroom.
    He mumbled, “Excuse me,” as he walked past the man. He sounded polite.
    “Watch it.” A pistol appeared, a dark blue revolver. He showed it to Pellam in profile, opening his hand quickly and then closing the large, still-gloved fingers. He replaced it.
    Pellam leaned against the door to the bathroom. He clicked the light on, but he did not enter. He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning against the doorjamb.He heard the feet come toward him. The familiar Morse code of the camper floor creaking under the man’s weight. He smelled sweet aftershave. (Was this what Nina had smelled? Stile had smelled nothing at all, except oil and gas and asphalt and then blood, blood, blood . . .)
    “What’re you doing there?” the man asked.
    Pellam reached into the pocket of the bomber jacket, which was hanging next to the bathroom, and took from it Buffett’s pistol, the cold gun. As he turned, Pellam said, “I want you to lie down on the floor.”
    Instantly the man dropped into a crouch and yanked the pistol off his hip.
    The explosion of the gunshot was huge.
    It rattled the glass windows and spattered the walls with bits of gunpowder. Cabinet doors shook, and from behind a glass-faced poster frame, a somber Napoleon rocked under the muzzle blast.
    DONNIE BUFFETT HEARD the footsteps and opened his eyes. A shuffling along the corridor outside his room.
    He