Shallow Graves

stared at the package as if it were from the melted core at Chernobyl.
    “I saw him drop it,” Mark said. “Pellam.”
    Moorhouse leaned forward carefully. He didn’t want to touch the plastic. “We don’t get much of this stuff around here. Christ, I worry about my boys—” He nodded toward the dining room. “—drinking beer. They tell me they’ve never tried pot and I believe ’em. But this . . . What exactly is it, Mark? Cocaine, huh?”
    “Speed, I think.”
    “What do you suppose it’s worth? What’s the, what do they say on the news, what’s the street value?”
    “You’re asking me?” Mark said, his voice high with surprise. “What difference does it make?”
    “Can’t arrest someone just ’cause you saw him drop it.” Though when Moorhouse thought about this, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe you could. He wondered where you could look that up. Cleary had a town attorney.
    Mark smiled amiably and leaned toward Moor-house in a way that he thought of as doing what he did best. “Then we’ll have to think a little harder.”
    Moorhouse’s eyes kept circling in on the packet like a mosquito over flesh. “I don’t know.”
    The brown envelope hit the desk with a slap. Moorhouse jumped, hesitated a moment, then picked it up. He glanced up at Mark, who said, “There’s three thousand dollars in there.”
    Moorhouse thumbed through the bills. “Take your word for it. Where’d it come from?”
    “Let’s say a bunch of folk took up a collection. We don’t think this guy should be here any longer. Movie ain’t gonna be made here. No reason for him to hang around.”
    “So what’s this for?” Moorhouse asked, before he realized he shouldn’t be asking.
    “A magistrate’s fee you could call it.”
    His eyes darted from the money to the white packet.
    He slipped the envelope in his desk and poked the powder, soft as baby talcum, with the end of his Cross pen.
    HE HAD THREE shots of Wild Turkey—trying to convince himself that he was celebrating—and lay back in the camper, listening to Willy Nelson sing “Crazy.”
    Pellam had this theory that made for a very optimistic life. You kept considering the worst that could happen to you and then, when it didn’t, whatever did happen wasn’t so bad.
    Who couldn’t be cheerful with that kind of philosophy?
    So, close to drunk, Pellam told himself that the worst had happened. A, he’d gotten fired from a job he needed and B, that was the one job in the world—outside of being independently wealthy—that he was temperamentally suited for. C, the rumor would already be burning up Sunset Boulevard that he was personally responsible for cratering a damn fine movie. D, he still hadn’t found the man who’d killed his friend. And E, the woman he was spending a lot of time thinking about was mad at him for some reason he couldn’t for the life of him figure out (this would be Meg, not Janine. Or . . . oh, Trudie. Too late to call her today. He would tomorrow).
    He heard the car pull up.
    He hoped it would be Meg though he knew it wasn’t. It’d be Janine. Pellam knew what had happened: the old man was balling his current old lady under a DayGlo Hendrix poster and somebody got stood up.
    Come on, Janine, please, baby. Free love. Give peace a chance. Up against the wall. . . .
    Pellam was whiskey giddy, almost happy. Theworst had happened. He was immune. And here was a big, horsy warm woman to bed down with.
    The worst—
    He swung open the door.
    —had already happened.
    The dirt and stones caught him square in the face before he got his hands halfway up to cover his eyes. He went blind. He inhaled a good bit of Cleary debris and started choking.
    There were two of them. And one was big, a bear. He grabbed Pellam’s shirt and pulled him easily out of the camper. He stumbled and, off balance, went down on his knees. Got dragged a few feet.
    His eyes were burning, he was coughing loud and spitting out the bitter dirt.
    “Come on, asshole, stand up,” a brisk voice whispered. Arms slid under his chest. The bear tugged him up. Pellam uncoiled his legs. The top of his head collided with jaw.
    “Shit, motherfucker! Cut my tongue. Shit, shit, shit!”
    Pellam kicked out at the other, a smaller guy, who easily sidestepped the boot.
    What he’d done—the lunging up—was just a reaction. But he knew it was a mistake. Guys like this, local tough guys, you don’t play with. You just stay as clear away as you can, rolling and dodging