Bloody River Blues

up his clothes with dramatic swipes. And, he now recalled, there was that other boyfriend of hers. On again, off again. Not so off at all, Pellam guessed. “I better be going.”
    “Don’t hate me, John. I’m sorry.”
    She had started to cry.
    “I don’t hate you.”
    “I just saw him lying there so sad . . .”
    “You did a good thing for him. I know how depressed he’s been . . .” Pellam had spoken with reassurance and in a kind voice; on the other hand, he was dressed in three minutes and out the door in five.
    Naw, he now reflected, should’ve left. Glad I did.
    Pulling his shirt off as he walked into the Winnebago’s tiny bathroom, smelling her perfume on the cloth. He turned the shower water on. The hookup was not very good, the pressure was low and the water was full of minerals, which meant that the soap would not lather; it scummed.
    He stepped into the bedroom area, dropped his change and bills and wallet and keys on the bed in one big, messy pile. He thought how much he liked living alone. He pulled off his pants and stepped into the shower.
    STEVIE FLOM DECIDED he couldn’t shoot a man who was naked. So he sat sideways in the driver’s seat of the camper and looked at the worn controls. He listened to the electric-motor sound of the water. He licked his gouged hand. He was suddenly very tired and decided he needed a vacation. From Ralph Bales. From Lombro. From this piss-ant river town. What Stevie was going to do was take his money from this job and spend two months in Las Vegas. Maybe while he was there he would check around for local work. He liked the idea of perpetual sun. He liked the idea of glossy casinos open twenty-four hours a day. Free drinks and soft flesh. And many hours away from the wife.
    He thought it was funny, killing someone whose name you didn’t know. He looked around the dash and found an ID card for a movie set. He learned that the beer man’s name was John Pellam.
    Pellam, Pellam, he repeated to himself.
    The water stopped hissing.
    Footsteps. The camper creaked. The door opened. He smelled shampoo.
    Stevie lifted the gun.
    Pellam, wearing a thick brown bathrobe and socks, stepped into the hall. He blinked. “How’d you get in here? Who are you?”
    Stevie Flom smiled coldly.
    And he felt a sudden jolt of nausea, a burn spreading through his gut. His hands started to shake. His teeth, bared by the mad smile, were rattling. He pushed the gun closer toward Pellam, who was speaking, though Stevie couldn’t hear the words. He didn’t know whether the guy was yelling in anger or begging not to be killed. Stevie simply checked out to anxiety and his whole body started sweating. He pulled his right elbow in close to his body to stop the trembling. No effect. His head shook, his neck. He tilted his head sideways, as if that would let the nervousness run off him onto the floor. But he kept shaking.
    Trying to calm himself, he ordered Pellam to sit. But the man just stood there, looking at him angrily, ignoring.
    “Sit down, ” Stevie growled. The words were lost in a nervous swallow.
    Pellam remained standing. His eyes began to scan the room. Stevie heard some words. “. . . my friend? . . . You were the one? . . . The motorcycle? . . .”
    Stevie took the gun in his left hand and wiped the palm of his right on his pants, then gripped the pistol again. Pellam took two steps sideways and picked up an empty wine bottle like a club. “Okay,” Pellam said.
    Okay? What does he mean by Okay? He’s got a bottle, I’ve got a gun. What the hell does he mean by Okay? Stevie told himself to hold the gun out, then he realized he was already doing so. He stepped closer to Pellam. What the hell does he mean by Okay? Stevie stepped back again.
    Squeeze.
    Nothing happened. His finger would not respond. He looked at his hand. This did not help.
    Squeeze the fucking trigger. He realized he had mouthed the words. Maybe he had actually said them.
    Pellam was saying, “Put it down.”
    Stevie’s mind suddenly went blank. He stuck the gun out in a single furious motion, pointed it right at Pellam’s chest, closed his eyes, and began to pull the trigger.
    The cloud of glass surrounded Stevie Flom. Bluish smoke and a thousand splinters from what had been the window of the camper enveloped him. The explosion seemed to occur a moment later, as the dust of shattered glass settled on the floor.
    Stevie Flom turned toward the window, his muscles now relaxed, the