Shallow Graves

okay?”
    “Youwant, yougot.”
    “Any chance we’ll get sued?”
    “By who?”
    “Marty’s family?”
    “I don’t know. . . . But there’s something I’ve got to tell you, Alan. It gets kind of worse.”
    “How could it get worse?”
    “The mayor of the town where it happened? Cleary? He called. Crazy man. I’m talking PMS. They won’t issue permits.”
    “Oh, Christ in a tree. Oh, Christ.”
    “It’s like a real small town. They found the stuff—”
    “What stuff?”
    “Aw, Marty had a little grass on him. They said some crack too, but I don’t think—”
    “Brother,” Lefkowitz whispered. He looked out at the huge, immaculate highway. He closed his eyes. “Why, why, why? . . .” He spun around and faced the AP. “Any chance we can buy our way in?”
    “I tried. Thousands. I practically gave him head.”
    “And?”
    The AP swallowed. “He called me a ghoul. Then he called me a prick. Then he hung up on me. It’s cratered, Alan. The whole’s project’s cratered.”
    Lefkowitz felt numb. A moment passed. Finally he asked, “Pellam’s okay, though?”
    The phone rang. Both men looked at their watches. It was three. The AP said, “Why don’t you ask him?”
    PELLAM LEANED HIS head against the glass of the phone booth. Cleary still had booths with squeaky, two-panel doors. He looked at two initials carved into the aluminum; otherwise there was no graffiti. One set of initials looked like JP. He listened to the buzz of the phone ringing. He felt the vibration of the healing skin under the bandage on his temple.
    Alan Lefkowitz came on the phone himself, something he had never done. No secretary. No AP. Just the soft voice of a tanned, fit, eccentric, multimillionaire producer.
    “John, how are you? What happened?”
    He sensed some real sympathy.
    “Fine, Lefty. I’m okay.” Pellam then told him in general terms about the accidents—Meg’s running into him, Marty’s death.
    Lefkowitz said, “The permits. What happened?”
    “Permits? What about them?” Pellam was squinting. No, it wasn’t JP written on the phone booth wall. It was JD . Below that, in marker: Tigers, they’re number one!!! One thing about the country: teenagers were literate. In Manhattan he’d seen a similar sign. Debbo and Ki there the best!
    “They’re not issuing permits. The mayor, or somebody. Didn’t anybody tell you?”
    Pellam felt the shock. He burned with a wave of sudden fever. A week’s work, wasted.
    Marty’s death, wasted.
    “I didn’t hear. Did they say why?”
    Lefkowitz said, “They found some shit on him. I don’t know, pot or something. You guys . . .”
    “Alan, Marty wasn’t smoking when he died. I don’t know what happened but it wasn’t that. I found his stash. It hadn’t been opened.”
    “Whatever. . . . You know I don’t have any choice.”
    “It wasn’t Marty’s fault.” Pellam focused outside the glass and found he was staring directly into the window of Dutchess County Realty. The awning was down and the lights inside were on. There was nobody in the office.
    “Well, I’m sorry, John. But you understand.”
    “Sure.” Then it occurred to Pellam that there were two conversations going at once. He said, “Actually, no, Alan, I don’t understand. What’re you talking about?”
    “I’ve got to let you go.”
    “Alan, what are you saying?”
    “I’m saying you’re fired, John.”
    “What?” Just like that?
    “I thought that little incident a few years ago would have taught you a lesson.”
    In a low voice Pellam said, “What the hell do you mean by that?”
    “I’m back at square one, thanks to you and Marty.”
    “I’m telling you Marty was murdered. It was a setup.”
    Lefkowitz seemed distracted. “Get the wagon to the New York office. We’ll have your check waiting for you.”
    “Just—”
    Lefkowitz said, “Sorry, John. I got no room for mistakes with this project.”
    He hung up.
    “—like that?”
    THE FIRST THING Meg Torrens did when she woke up: she put her two-carat diamond ring on her index finger then lay back in bed for fifteen minutes and tried to think about nothing.
    It was a form of meditation she’d read about somewhere. It cleared your mind, made you healthier, relaxed you, made you more creative. It didn’t always work, but even if not, the discipline required—workingwith your brain like an unruly puppy—seemed helpful. Marginally helpful. Mademoiselle helpful. Better Homes and Gardens