Bloody River Blues

probably Missouri Bureau of Investigation agents all over the place—them, plus court security guards who had never fired a piece except to get their tickets and had been waiting for years to draw first blood in the line of duty.
    World O’ Cops.
    Inside the entryway of the building were two white-shirted guards, big men, with large, square heads crowned with fade cuts. Secretaries and clerks and lawyers in running shoes over their dress socks or stockings were streaming into the office. Everyone looked young and eager.
    There were several entrances to the Federal Building but Ralph Bales was parked in front of what seemed to be the main one. He supposed there would be a service door or two. He could see a driveway that seemed reserved for garbage pickups. That would be a good place to sneak a witness in. But he had no partner—Stevie still had not shown—and all he could do was cover the main entrance.
    He had arrived early, thinking the beer man would get here well before nine-thirty for security reasons. For an hour Ralph Bales sat in the car, the engine running. He moved it only once, when a meter maid waddled by. She held her citation book out like a gun,threateningly. He did not let her get close enough to see his face. He pulled away slowly, did an around-the-block and by the time he got back—maybe three minutes later—she was gone. He parked again in front of the building.
    He watched the mist in the air, the sunlight flashing off the tall arch; he smelled the burnt metallic air laced with exhaust. The factories on the east side of the Mississippi were busy this morning. His heart fluttering . . . Maybe it was the caffeine in the coffee. He glanced down. He had left the cup in the car, the cardboard carton, blue and white, with pictures of Greek gods or Olympic athletes or something. A cup with his fingerprints all over it. Careless.
    He reached down and picked it up, crumpling the cardboard and slipping it into his pocket.
    It was then that the trash basket—one of those big, filthy orange things—went through his back window.
    Jesus Mother Holy . . .
    Not exactly through the window. Even cheap American cars had strong glass. The bottom rim of the basket pushed the window in a couple inches, and the glass turned opaque with frost from the fractures. The basket rolled off the car and onto the street.
    “Son of a—”
    When he turned back to pull the door handle up, there was a gun muzzle in his face, and the man’s other hand was shutting the engine off.
    He understood. Ralph Bales knew exactly what had happened.
    “Put your gun in the back,” the beer man said. “On the floor.”
    Ralph Bales said, “I don’t have a—”
    The man’s voice terrified him with its serenity. “Put your gun on the back floor of the car.”
    “Okay, whatever you want.”
    “Put your—”
    “I heard you,” Ralph Bales said, “I’m going to do it.”
    “Now.”
    “Okay.”
    This reminded Ralph Bales of when the cop caught him just after the Gaudia hit. Only today there’d be no Stevie Flom acting like a madman and stepping out of an alleyway to save him. With a sudden sickening feeling, he had a good idea about what had happened to Stevie Flom.
    He dropped the Colt in the back. The man opened the back door and scooped it up. He sat in the backseat and pressed the muzzle of his gun, an old one, against his ear. “Turn all your pockets inside out.”
    What if the meter maid shows up now? Christ, this guy could panic and shoot them both.
    “I don’t have anything, I mean, like a weapon or—”
    “All your pockets.”
    Ralph Bales did, dropping the contents on the seat. The beer man prodded the money and the wallet and the crumpled cup and the Swiss Army knife. “Okay, put it back in your pockets. Except the knife. Leave the knife.”
    Ralph Bales laughed. “The knife? You’re kidding.”
    He was not kidding. Ralph Bales did what he was told.
    The man put his seat belt on. “Drive to Maddox. Now.”
    “But—”
    “Drive.”
    Bales reached for the shoulder strap.
    “No belt.” He rested the gun against the back of Ralph Bales’s neck. “This is a single-action gun. You know what that means?”
    “You have to cock it before you can pull the trigger,” Ralph Bales said like a student answering a teacher’s question.
    “I have it cocked. It goes off real easy.”
    “Okay, listen. If we hit a bump . . .”
    “Then I’d drive real slow if I were you.”
    THE DREAM WAS