Shallow Graves

keeping the tone conversational. She continued, “I lived in Manhattan for a while. I did some fashion work. But I was too short to get good assignments. I didn’t like it anyway.” She folded her arm across her chest and looked for the door, seemed relieved that it was only six feet away. “Why are you asking me these questions?”
    “I always like to find out from the locals about locations I’m scouting. It’s—”
    “Locals?” She tromped hard on the frown, but some of it escaped.
    He said, “I get the feeling you’ve lived here long enough to give me an idea of what Cleary’s really like.”
    Meg was grimacing. Whatever was behind the visit—Pellam didn’t have a clue what that might be—wasn’t working out. On cue, she looked at her watch. “I should go. There’s someone covering for me at the office.”
    “When I get out of here—they’re paroling me tomorrow—let me buy you lunch.”
    “No, I—”
    “Not to worry,” Pellam said. “I’ll drive.”
    “Uh, I don’t think that’s a very good idea. I’ve got a lot going on. I’m very busy.”
    “People are busy in Cleary?”
    Okay, it was a little over the line with that one. He’d forgotten you have to be real careful when you hit people in their hometowns. Especially if you’re from one that’s a thousand times bigger than theirs. But come on, country folk, you gotta have a sense of humor.
    She bristled. “Yes, people are busy in Cleary. There’s more to this town than people like you’ll ever see—”
    “There, perfect,” Pellam announced.
    She frowned.
    “Keep talking. You’re giving me a feel for the place. That’s just what I’m looking for.”
    “I should go.”
    He said, “No, you shouldn’t.”
    “Anyway, I’m not a local. I’ve only lived here for—”
    “Don’t tell me, let me guess. . . .” Pellam was feeling perverse (hell, why not? She’d run him over). “Ten years.”
    Her eyes flared. “What makes you think I’ve lived here that long?”
    In for a penny, in for a pound.
    “The makeup, the hair, the clothes—”
    “What’s wrong with—?” Her voice was high, indignant.
    “Nothing. You just asked me—”
    “Never mind.” Meg unfolded her arms and walked to the door.
    Pellam asked, “So when can we get together?”
    “The word never comes to mind.” She stepped through the doorway, gripping the knob hard thenmust’ve decided she shouldn’t be slamming clinic doors and closed it silently. A second later it opened and she said to him, “And for your information, I’ve lived here for five years, not ten.”
    The door closed again, harder this time.
    Ah, she’ll be back.
    Pellam heard her low heels tapping on the linoleum, then the grind of the front door and then nothing.
    She’ll be back. She’s on her way now.
    A car started.
    She’ll be back.
    He heard a car strew gravel as it hit the road, then the whine of gears.
    Okay, maybe not.
    BZZZZT.
    Marty stuffed the moist square of the Polaroid into his pocket and squinted as he looked at a bald spot on the small mountain across a ravine. Acid rain’d eaten away at a lot of the greenery. It didn’t look good at all. By the time Marty’d gone to college, schools were offering degrees in the environment. Marty could recognize acid rain.
    He took four pictures, numbered them and slipped them into his pocket. All location scouts he knew used Polaroids, but Marty was an amateur photographer and would’ve preferred to use his old Nikkormat 35mm. The variation in the lenses—wide-angle, telephoto—would give a better idea of what the scenery and locations looked like through the Panaflex movie camera. But the studio paid his salary and the studio said ’Roids.
    So ’Roids were what they were going to get.
    Marty wanted to be a cinematographer eventually. He knew cameras. He liked the murmuring gears and heavy, oil-scented parts that fit together so well. He liked the perfectly ground disks of the Schneider lenses, set into their royal-blue velvet carrying cases. He liked the portable Arriflex 35mm cameras, which cameramen would carry around on sets like rocket launchers. He liked the robotic contraption of Steadicams.
    He figured a couple more years of location scouting, then it would be about time for his break (a unit director would call out, “Holy Mother, the director of photography’s on a bender—you, kid, get behind the Panaflex. Roll, roll, roll . . .”). Until that happened, however, being a location scout