Shallow Graves

was so hurt. I didn’t think they came from you but I couldn’t help but think about these.” She touched the articles hesitantly.
    She let go of his arm and Pellam walked to the back window, pulled aside the curtain. He said, “I never sold anything. The man who died was my friend. Tommy Bernstein.”
    Meg said, “He was a wonderful actor. I saw a couple of the movies he was in. They weren’t yours, I don’t think.”
    “He never worked for me. Not until that last movie. Central Standard Time. We were just friends. Best friends, I guess you’d say.” He laughed. “God, that sounds strange. Adults saying they’re best friends.” He laughed hollowly. “Well, we weren’t very adult.”
    “What happened?”
    “I was directing indies—you know, independent films. Jarmusch, Seidelman. That sort of thing. I met Tommy the first week he got to Hollywood. You’re right—he was good. But he got famous real fast, too fast—he never grew a thick skin. He got shook too easily and the only way he could work was high. We wrote Central Standard together—we went out to the desert a couple times and spent the whole day writing. Just the two of us. He was going to star. His first serious film. But the only way he could work was on coke. He wanted a lot and I gave him a lot. And more. He did too much. He had a heart attack and died. He was thirty-one.”
    Pellam looked at the refrigerator. A construction paper airplane was stuck to the door with magnets. Printed on it: Love you, Mom!!!
    “It was so strange. At first nothing happened. Nothing at all. It was like the whole incident vanished. I even got up and went to work, trying to find a new star, looking at rough cuts, seeing what we could salvage. Then, everything fell apart. Me included. I couldn’t work, I just didn’t care. The financing backed out and I didn’t have a completion bond—star insurance. So I lost my savings and my house, the equipment. I did a year for manslaughter; my assistant got suspended.”
    “But it wasn’t your fault.”
    “Yes, it was. I kept supplying him. It was in the film’s budget. Under ‘Miscellaneous Cast-related Expenses.’ ”
    “Was that when your wife left you?”
    He smiled. “No, it was a little after.”
    Meg said, “That was six years ago, Pellam. You mean nobody would let you work? I don’t mean this bluntly but it wasn’t the end of the world.”
    “Well, it’s funny what qualifies for the end of the world. A year in the Q—that’s San Quentin. That’sone way to define it. Believe me, that’s definitely a way to define the end of the world.”
    “I’m sorry, John.” She touched his arm. This was a different touch. Softer. Closer.
    His laugh was bitter. “Hell, there were publicists in L.A.’d shake my hand and say, ‘Fucking great promotion idea—you kill the star. Isn’t a newspaper in the country won’t do a story about you.’” He paused, listening to the mumble of the coffee machine. “Sure, I probably could have gotten it together after I got out. I’d lost a lot of contacts but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was I just didn’t care. I had no desire to direct anymore. So I got a job scouting locations.”
    “I don’t know what to say.”
    He walked away from her. “It’s temporary. Things’ll get better.”
    “You’ve got to watch that,” she said.
    “What?”
    “Saying that—things are only temporary. Your life could be over before you know it.”
    “I like scouting,” Pellam said.
    “You don’t think your camper’s just a place you’re hiding out?”
    “We all have places we hide out. Mine just happens to have wheels.”
    “Exactly what are you doing here, Pellam? We aren’t going to get ourselves a movie here in Cleary. You aren’t real interested in colored leaves. What do you want?”
    Pellam reached into his sock and pulled out the clear packet of drugs that the bear had planted on him last night.
    Meg glanced at it several times, her eyes flippingback and forth between the powder and his face. “What’s that?”
    “A gift to me. I think from the same place Sam got that stuff he took.” He explained to her about the attack the night before. “One of them planted it on me.”
    “No! Why?”
    “So Moorhouse could throw the book at me and have more leverage to get me out of town.” He saw her shocked look. “Oh, the mayor’s not behind it. Someone else is.”
    “Who?”
    “Whoever didn’t want the movie made here.” He looked at