Triple Threat

found himself asking.
    “That’s right.” The sheriff gave him the phone number from memory.
    Pellam asked, “He by any chance related to you?”
    “Hah, that’s funny.” The sheriff’s smile might not have been real and Pellam reminded himself to watch it. He couldn’t afford to spend the night in jail on suspicion of fraternizing with empties in the front seat of a vehicle.
    # # #
    Ten minutes later Pellam and Hannah walked into the repair shop with the world’s most beautiful view.
    The windows looked out over mountains to the west and north and craggy flats—salt or sand—to the east. Now, early afternoon, the peaks were lit brilliantly, the stunning light firing off the late spring snowcap. Way in the distance he noted a particularly impressive, elegant mountain. Was it Pike’s Peak? Probably not.
    Hannah had driven them both here in her rear-light-challenged Ford, with an okay from Sheriff Werther. The Winnebago was gingerly towed to a spot in front of the service station and lowered to its damaged front paws.
    The garage was filthy and cluttered. The owner, Rudy, came out of the bays smiling. He nodded, but from habit, didn’t shake hands. His fingers were black. He wore a Carhartt brown jacket, stained beyond saving. He smiled at them in a way that was only a bit like a cat regarding a plump mouse and started talking like they were old friends. He was rambling on about life here in Gurney, his family (one boy in the army, one girl in nursing school) and assorted relatives. “Hube’s a good man. You know, he’s got a grandkid with that autism problem. It’s pretty bad, needs special help a lot. Hube works two jobs. Sheriff and security at Preston Assembly plant. His wife, my sister—”
    Pellam was content to let him go because, he figured, the more like friends and family this seemed, the less the chance of getting robbed blind. But Hannah wasn’t in the mood. She interrupted curtly, “You mind getting to those estimates? The pickup first.”
    “Well now, I’ll do that.” With a crinkly-eyed look that meant he’d just added a hundred or two onto the bill.
    He headed outside. So did Hannah, setting the Stetson firmly on her head, against the up-and-coming wind. She pulled her cigarettes out of her pocket but then looked at assorted open containers of liquids that might or might not be flammable. She grimaced and put the Marlboros away. She made some calls.
    Pellam did, too, pulling up his antenna and finding an acceptable signal. He told the director that he’d been in an accident, which the man responded to with more or less genuine concern. When he learned that the county would not under any circumstances issue permits, the director had a more intense reaction.
    “Fuckers. Why?”
    “Fragile eco system.”
    “Fragile? You told me it was rocks and sand.”
    “Joe, that’s what they said. What they mean is that they don’t want horny actors and slutty actresses carousing around in their county.”
    “We’re behind schedule, John.”
    “I’ll get the camper fixed and head south tomorrow.”
    A sigh. “Okay. Thanks.” The voice grew grave: “You okay, for sure?”
    Concern in tone, not in spirit.
    “Fine, Joe.”
    He disconnected and happened to be looking at a map of the area. The Devil’s Playground area seemed to be the best locale for Paradice, the fictional town where the movie was set, as well as being the film’s title.
    And Pellam laughed to himself, realizing that, damn, the indie was about a stranger coming to a small desert town, like Gurney, and getting into all sorts of trouble. There wasn’t much of a story to go with it, but sometimes—especially in noir—all you needed was a misspelled word in the title, some hunky lead and a sexy babe, and betrayal. Oh, and a fair amount of gunplay.
    Hannah finished her own call, walked farther away from conflagration risks, and had a portion of a cigarette. Then she returned to the waiting room, staring out the window, too. She flopped down in a cracked fiberglass chair. “I told Ed. He wasn’t happy.”
    Pellam got the impression she didn’t much care.
    “Your husband, the real estate man.”
    She looked at him as if asking, You heard that before. Why ask?
    “Where’s Butch?” Pellam asked.
    “Who?”
    Oh. Right. “Taylor.”
    “Headed to this little park in the middle of town. He wanted to write a poem.”
    “A poem? He’s serious about that?”
    Hannah continued, “Said he’d felt inspired by the