Shallow Graves

table. Sam asked, “Mr. Pellam, tomorrow can you teach me to shoot your gun?”
    “What gun’s that?” Meg asked.
    Pellam told her about the Colt.
    Meg said, “I’m not real crazy about pistols. But . . .” She looked at her son. “You listen to everything Mr. Pellam tells you.”
    As if that needed to be said.
    “Totally excellent!” the little boy squealed.
    Meg said, “Next you’ll be teaching him poker.”
    Pellam laughed.
    The two of them sat in the living room for a while, sipping coffee, the unidentified feeling ebbing and flowing within Pellam. He couldn’t tell whether he wanted to stay, wanted to leave. One thing he knew for sure—he definitely wanted to leave before Keith came home.
    The phone rang. Meg went to answer it and returned a moment later. She didn’t say who the caller was. But now she too seemed uneasy.
    What the hell’re you doing here? he thought to himself. She’s married, she’s got a lover . . . You don’t need those kinds of troubles. He rose. “I better go.”
    “You sure?”
    No. But he said, “Better. Still have a few things to do.”
    “Sunday night?”
    He nodded. Then asked, “Got a favor.”
    “Sure.”
    “You have a bottle of whiskey I can borrow?”
    “Borrow?”
    “No, now you mention it, make that have.”
    “After-dinner drink?”
    “Little more complicated than that.”
    “Sure.” She smiled in curiosity. And dug down under a cabinet and emerged with a half-full bottle of Wild Turkey.
    “That’s the cheapest you’ve got?” Pellam picked up the bottle.
    “’Fraid so. Say, what’re you going to do, teach my little boy to shoot, gamble and drink?”
    Pellam hefted the bottle, hugged her. “Thanks again, ma’am. You make a mean meal. See you tomorrow.”

Chapter 19
    “ AH, IT’S THE gunslinger’s grandson,” said Fred, who squinted his red, retiree’s face and studied Pellam’s cuts and bruises. “Hell, what happened to you?” He ordered two Buds.
    “Had an accident.”
    “Another one?”
    Pellam said, “I’m an unlucky guy sometimes. What can I say?”
    “No fooling—you all right?” the old man asked with genuine concern.
    “Fine, no problem.”
    “Weekends’re rough around here. All those tourists. What’d you do, get in the way of somebody taking a picture of a leaf? Hey, how about a game?”
    “Can’t tonight, Fred.”
    “What’s this shit I hear about you not making a movie here?”
    “Talk to the town council about it.”
    “Buncha old SOBs. Shit, there goes my Hollywood career.”
    Pellam asked, “Where can I find Nick?”
    “The kid we were playing with th’other night?” Fred’s head was swiveling. “Was here a few minutesago. “Maybe he’s in the back room. That’s where they got what they call the restaurant.”
    Pellam finished the beer. He lifted the bottle in thanks.
    “Hey, Pellam, Burt Reynolds ain’t available, gimme a call.”
    In the back room Pellam found Nick sitting at a table with another man, skinny, long hair, a couple years his junior—maybe eighteen. Nick had a bowl of soup in front of him. He hunched over it, putting slippery noodles into his mouth.
    “Hi, Nick.” Pellam pulled up a chair. Nick waved then returned to the soup. It looked like Campbell’s. What else at the Cedar Tap?
    Nick said, “This here’s Rebo. This’s Pellam, the guy you heard about, makes the movies.”
    Rebo’s eyes went wide. He grinned. “Wow, movie man.” They shook hands.
    “How you doing?” Pellam asked.
    “Wow.”
    Pellam turned to Nick. “Hey, Nick, why I stopped by, my studio’s looking for somebody like you.”
    “Yeah?” The big man took some more sips of soup. “You still making that movie? I heard you weren’t.”
    “This’s another movie. I remembered you’re into wheels.”
    “I’m like sorta into wheels.”
    “They need a driver, a stunt driver. But he’s got to be good.”
    Rebo, chewing a wad of hamburger, said, “Oh, he’s good. Nick’s a good driver.” Rebo’s T-shirt said Mötley Crüe 1987 Tour.
    “You interested?”
    A grin snuck into the fat in the boy’s cheeks. “Well, I guess.”
    “The only thing is, you think you could show me what you can do? Like an audition?”
    “I guess.”
    “How about now?”
    “It’d be Sunday night.”
    “They need somebody soon. Next weekend. If I can’t get anybody we’ll have to bring in somebody from the Coast.” Pellam tossed him a bone: “You’ll get screen credit.”
    “A credit?”
    “And