Shallow Graves

until you get a good crack. You don’t sting them; you hit them hard once or twice, really hard. Try to break their head. Make them think you’re going to kill them. They’ll leave, cussing you out and making it sound like you’re not worth the trouble.
    What happened was they’d come to have fun and Pellam had just pissed them off. Now it was going to get bad.
    The bear punched him hard on the first offered target—his shoulder, which didn’t hurt much, but then he got him in a full nelson, pressed Pellam’s chin down to his chest. Pellam was taller—so the bear couldn’t lift him off the ground but the huge man kept him immobile. The other one came in for some low gut swings, right into the muscles, which knocked his wind out and sent blasts of nausea up through his chest. The bear said to no one, “My tongue bleeding? Shit, I think it is. God damn, that hurts.”
    Pellam opened his eyes but couldn’t see a thing through the mud and tears. He gasped, “What do you want? You want money?”
    The bear bent his head down further and the words got lost in a gurgle.
    No, what they want is to beat the living crap out of me . . .
    The smaller one came in close, aiming for Pellam’s face, but couldn’t get his fist in because the bear’s fat elbows were in the way. “Hey, turn him loose for a second.”
    Which is when Pellam gasped, shuddered and went completely limp.
    “Shit, what happened?” The bear relaxed his grip. “Is he dead? Fuck. What’d you do?”
    “What’d I do? I didn’t do nothing. I just—”
    Pellam broke free, felt his shirt rip down the back as the bear grabbed for it and swung a feint with hisleft fist at the smaller assailant, who dodged to the side. Right into Pellam’s sweeping right fist. The snap of the man’s nose cartilage was real satisfying; the howl that accompanied it was even more delightful.
    Pellam turned to meet the bear but the big man was already on top of him. He picked Pellam up, right off the ground. “So you want to play rough, huh?” he asked.
    “I don’t want to do anything! I want—”
    The bear slammed him into the side of the camper. Something snapped but it sounded more like metal than bone. Pellam fell to the ground, gasping, then got to his knees. The bear was battering him wildly, connecting often enough so Pellam couldn’t stand. The pain swirled through his body.
    Finally he gave up, he lay still. Exhausted, gasping. “Enough. Okay.”
    In the distance was a siren. “Let’s get out of here,” the bear said.
    “Oh, God, this hurts,” his partner offered. “He broke my nose. He broke my fucking nose.”
    The bear whispered, “Shut up, will you?”
    Pellam, trying to breathe, started to crawl under the camper. He felt the big hands reach down and grab him by the ankle. They pulled him back then reached into his pocket. Not his wallet pocket, which he would’ve expected, but his front shirt pocket. Why there? It was empty.
    The siren wailed closer.
    Pellam heard:
    “Let’s get the fuck outa here. Move it.”
    “My nose, man. You didn’t—”
    “Move it, asshole.”
    He heard doors slam, and the throaty, crisp sound of a motor firing up, a squeal of tires.
    Pellam spit blood and tried to catch his breath. Fucking odd . . . He supposed it wasn’t a robbery—they left his wallet and watch, ignored everything in the camper and only went through one pocket. If they’d been here to deliver a get-out-of-town message they’d had plenty of time to deliver it but hadn’t.
    He coughed and made it halfway to a sitting position, lay back down.
    The cop car skidded to a stop on the other side of the camper. The siren shut off and he saw the strobe of colored lights on the trees.
    His hand strayed to the pocket the bear had rummaged through. He felt the present.
    Oh, Christ, no . . .
    He pulled out the little glassine envelope. Coke or speed. A gram, easy. Oh, Lord. Felony possession. Pellam stared at the packet through muddy eyes.
    He heard their voices. “Okay, let’s find him. Search everything around the clearing.”
    Pellam started coughing again, deeply, as the cops rounded the camper. He recognized the two deputies even though neither was wearing their trademark sunglasses.
    “Well, sir,” the deputy said, “looks like you had some more of that bad luck after all.”
    No, don’t go after the thugs. Stand there and bust my chops, why don’t you? . . .
    “You all right, sir?” The other one asked.
    He helped