Triple Threat

folks who’ve retired to one of his developments? Paso Verde.”
    “That’s a big one, yeah.” She looked at her watch. “Popular.”
    “And what’s your story, sir?”
    Taylor said, “I’m headed to Berkeley.”
    “Colorado?”
    “California. Taking a poetry course there.”
    “Okay.”
    “I’m hitching from Denver to Hamlin.”
    Hannah said, “I was driving back from some meetings in Colorado Springs. The Ford had a flat and he fixed it for me.”
    “You have business in Hamlin?” the sheriff asked.
    “I’m getting the Amtrak there. To Oakland.”
    “Rather than from Denver.”
    “Yup.”
    “You got money for the train, why’re you hitchin’?” the sheriff asked.
    Pellam thought these questions, while delivered pleasantly, were a bit intrusive, directed as they were to a man who, in this particular scenario, was an innocent bystander. But Taylor was happy to talk. “The experience of it.” He gave his enthusiastic little laugh again. “I’d hitch all the way if I had time. I mean, the whole point of life is experience. Right?”
    “You’re not thumbing on the interstate, are you?”
    “Ramps only,” Taylor said automatically. With a grin. He’d been through this before.
    The sheriff looked at Hannah, who didn’t know the drill ahead of time, but caught on. She said sourly, “I was on Fourteen when I had the flat.”
    Route 14—the highway where the pickup/camper run-in occurred.
    “Okay. Now, I’m not writing anybody up.”
    “Thank you, officer,” Taylor said. Though, once again, Pellam had no clue what he might get written up for. He was acting so easygoing that Pellam knew his pack had to be drug free.
    Hannah
didn’t
say thanks; her beautiful but severe face gave off the message: I got rear-ended in my birthday truck. Why the hell was a citation even an issue?
    Licenses and registrations were redistributed. Except Pellam’s. Which the sheriff thumbed slowly. “Now you, sir.”
    “The brakes went.”
    “I said I’m not citing anybody. But on that, you know you have an obligation to check your equipment.”
    Pellam didn’t think he’d ever looked at a brake line. He doubted he could recognize one.
    “What I’m curious about is, are you making movies here?”
    When the sheriff had checked the VIN on the Winnebago’s dash he must have seen the Colorado Film Board’s location permit.
    “That’s right. I’m a location scout for a film company based in L.A.”
    “Really?” Hannah asked, her curiosity piqued for the first time and sour attitude on hold. Pellam got this a lot. He wondered if she’d ask for a walk-on part. He had an amusing image of her as a femme fatale; she had the right look and spirit to be a really good bad girl. Sexy, too, which was another requirement. In fact, he was scouting for a film noir at the moment, an indie titled
Paradice
.
    “And you’re setting it here?” she asked.
    “Well, I was going to recommend it. Came across this place east of here fifteen miles or so. What’s it called? Devil’s…?”
    “Playground,” Hannah said, shaking her head. “Be a good setting for a Stephen King movie, that’s about all.”
    Taylor asked, “That’s near where you picked me up, right? Spooky.”
    It was. The place was nestled at the base of two mountains, a huge craggy plain of pits and arroyos. Bleak as could be. But extremely photogenic.
    “But I called the county supervisor this morning. He won’t issue film permits.”
    “Derek Westerholm?”
    “That was him.”
    “Hey, Hube, you just bought some land up near there, didn’t you?” Rita, the young waitress, piped up. “Near that lake?”
    Hube, Pellam reflected. Hubert. No wonder he went by a solitary H.
    The sheriff didn’t answer.
    “Let him make his movie on your property,” Rita continued. “And, Mister, I’m available, you need a leading lady.”
    Taylor said earnestly, “
I’ll
put you in a poem.”
    Again, the Elvis-has-been-spotted look. Taylor’s hitchhiking-weathered face blushed.
    “Okay, that’s all I need,” Werther said. “Just get those vehicles up to the law.”
    “Whatta you mean?” Hannah asked.
    “No brake light, no turn signals. No backup. You can’t drive without ‘em.”
    “You’re kidding. It’s still daylight.”
    “Still.”
    “Where?” she asked, her eyes going, for some reason, to Pellam.
    The sheriff answered, “Rudy’s. ‘Bout four blocks thataway. Best mechanic in town.”
    “That the
only
one in town?” Pellam