Shallow Graves

shoot a movie. He’s a location scout.”
    “No, I mean, why hasn’t he left town? If his friend died . . .”
    Doris said, “Well, I talked to Danny, the guy works afternoons at Marge’s? He said he heard from Betty in Moorhouse’s office that he’s staying for a while.”
    “He is?” Meg and Ambler asked simultaneously.
    “That’s what Betty told Danny.”
    “So they’re going to do a movie after all?” Ambler said.
    Doris said, “Dunno.”
    Meg stared out the window, sighting on Pellam through the reversed letters. She kept her eyes there and said, “Look, Wex, I hear what you’re saying but look at some of the features. It’s practically flat; you’re going to need zero grading. And clearing? Onlya quarter of the whole package is trees and they’re shallow-root pine. You don’t even have to touch that, unless you build with leaching fields toward the trees.”
    “I’m not saying I don’t want those plots. I’m saying I don’t want two-acre zoning. If I had my way I’d want half-acre.”
    She frowned. One of Ambler’s employees was Mayor Hank Moorhouse’s wife. He thus had connections at city hall. Meg didn’t know what he was complaining about. She said, “Why don’t you just do fifty by seventy-fives? Burn out the trees and Lefrack it? Put in cinder block.” There was irritation in her voice.
    They both realized they’d been negotiating while they were looking out the window. They simultaneously turned to face each other. Ambler stood up. Meg frowned. She wondered if she’d offended him. He said, “I’ll have to think about it.”
    “I’ve got another developer interested,” Doris said.
    “Who?”
    “Ralph Weinberg.”
    “Oh. Him,” Ambler said. “You’d rather sell to a . . . to someone like him?”
    “His money’s as good as anyone’s.”
    Ambler was quiet for a moment. “I can’t think about it now. I’m sorry.”
    TO SLEEP IN A SHALLOW GRAVE/
BIG MOUNTAIN STUDIOS
    FADE IN:
    EXTERIOR DAY, GRAVEYARD, BOLT’S CROSSING, NEW YORK
    CREDITS ROLL, as we see VARIOUS ANGLES on the cemetery. Uneven tombstones of granite, chipped and broken, thumbed down by the weather. The grass is anemic, the lighting bland, ghostly, like the bones buried here.
    Pellam tossed back the bourbon and bent over his typewriter.
    He had stopped by the funeral home to pay for shipping Marty’s casket back to L.A. but had found the charges had already been taken care of, courtesy of Alan Lefkowitz. He’d spent a few silent minutes alone with Marty in the back room of the funeral home that had arranged for the shipment. A loading dock, really. He’d wanted to say something. But could think of absolutely no words. He found a Bible in a small chapel near the room where the casket rested. He looked for three or four minutes to find a passage that he liked. Nothing applied. He put the Bible back, touched the smooth, heavy coffin, and returned to the Winnebago.
    Outside, it was a windy night, and the camper rocked slightly, reminding him of a boat, though he’d only been on water once or twice in his life. Subterranean noises rose from his stomach. The dinner of ham with fruit sauce he’d eaten at the Cedar Tap wasn’t sitting well.
    He returned to his typewriter, a small German portable. He hammered away.
    . . . the graveyard is on a plateau. One hill eases down to the cemetery from the crest of the piney woods. On the other side the land glides down to the river. From that point of stability you gointo the town itself. An old cannon is small and overpainted, just like the park benches. The storefronts are bleached out and full of antiques no one wants, hardware that no one needs. The town has managed something remarkable—absorbed fatigue and turned it into a fuel that runs a thousand small-town dreams.
    ANGLE: A flagpole rung by its windblown rope like a bell.
    ANGLE: A roaring 4x4 with exhaust bubbling driven by a YOUNG MAN, who grins at a TEENAGE GIRL. He’s your perfect citizen of Cleary: snotty, confident, comforting as long as you share his race and ancestry. We FOLLOW the truck to—
    LONG ANGLE: A motorcycle coming toward us, a man in his thirties driving slowly. There’s something ominous about him. He—
    The car door outside the Winnebago startled him. He’d seen the lights through the curtain, but, absorbed in writing, hadn’t noticed they weren’t continuing around the curve and disappearing.
    “Hey, Pellam, you in there? I saw the light.” A woman’s