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 his left 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 Pellam to his feet. He was coughing, choking. "Water, please, some water."
"Sure, no problem." The first deputy stepped into the camper and came back with a cup of water. Pellam took it and swallowed the whole thing down. Breathing desperately, his chest heaving, like a nearly drowned man on land once again.
"Can you stand up, sir?"
Pellam was frowning, watching the other deputy going over the clearing with his flashlight, inch by inch.
"Yeah, I can."
"Good." The deputy smiled. "Because you're under arrest." He glanced at his friend. "Read him his rights. And search him."
16
"And you didn't find anything?" Moorhouse asked the sheriff.
The mayor squinted against the brilliant sunlight streaming into his office early on Sunday morning.
"Nothing. My deputies searched like you told us. But they didn't find anything."
"You're sure? No drugs? All these movie people do drugs all the time," Moorhouse said.
Which Tom knew because he and the wife read People. But he also knew they'd searched like a son of a bitch and found zip.
"He was out when they found him?"
"Nosir. But he was down, lying under the camper. He couldn't have thrown anything far enough so's we'd miss it. We combed the ground. And I mean combed."
Moorhouse warily asked, "Any idea who he was mixing it up with?"
"Nope. You want, I can ask around."
Moorhouse shook his head. "No. Pellam probably started the fight." He motioned with his head toward the Sheriff's Department, with its small lock-up. "Can't blame some local kid for getting tough with an asshole from the Coast thinks he owns the place. Any evidence of the, you know, the gas bomb in the clinic?"
"Nope."
"Had to've been him though."
"You'd think," the sheriff said. But uncertainly. He kept looking at Moorhouse curiously, playing with the big hammer of his chrome-plated.357.
The mayor grimaced. Now I got an envelope of LSD or PVC or whatever the hell it is out loose somewhere in town. Where was it? What if some kid gets a hold of it? Christ.
"What about Pellam?" he asked the sheriff. "He okay?"
"Seems to be. Brought him in last night, blood all over him. He went into the John at the station and puked his guts out. I thought maybe we oughta get him to the hospital, but-"
"The hospital that he tried to fucking burn down."
"Uh," Tom said noncommittally. "He seems okay now."
"We better have a little talk with him," Moorhouse said. "Bring him in."
Handcuffed.
Standing in front of this small-town shine, who was wearing his favorite baby-blue suit.
And handcuffed, for Christsake.
"Mr Pellam, let me say how sorry we are about what happened. Things like this you don't usually see here, Cleary's a peaceful place."
"Surprising," said the sheriff. "That it happened, I mean." Pellam nodded to him and squinted against the cold, brutal sun that poured in through the smeared windows. The worst pain was in his right hand-the knuckles-where he'd hit bone. "Why'd I spend the night in jail?"
"Oh." Moorhouse swivelled back in his green leatherette chair. "You were arrested for D &D. Didn't the deputy read you your rights?"
"Sure he did, Mayor," the sheriff offered. Pellam asked, "D &D?"
"Drunk and disorderly conduct. How do you plead?" April fool. Had to be a joke. Pellam even gave them a short laugh. "I got jumped by two assholes knocked on my door, dragged me out and beat the hell out of me. That's not D &D."
Moorhouse smiled patiently. "Guilty or not guilty."
"Not guilty. Have you found the two assholes?"
The sheriff's turn: "Seems the other perpetrators-"
"Other perpetrators?" Pellam laughed. "-escaped. We searched for evidence but didn't find any." He turned to Pellam. "You weren't real helpful when it came to the description, sir."
Pellam raised his hands. The chrome bracelets jangled with a dull sound. "Somebody threw a truckload of dirt in my face before they started working on me."
Moorhouse said, "Well, under the law, of course, we don't need the others. We can prosecute the one we caught. And that's you. Now, I'm taking off my mayor's hat and putting on my magistrate's." He consulted an empty wall calendar. "I'm setting trial for one week. About bail-"
"What do you mean, one week?"
"I'm a very busy man."
"Good. Let me go. I'll be one less burden for you."
Moorhouse looked him up and down-the shirt stained with dirt and ruddy-black dots of blood, the blotched jeans, the hair upended from a night on a stiff pillow.
"To be honest with you, sir, we aren't inclined to keep you around here for any length of time ourselves."
Sir sir sir…
The sheriff rocked on his thick heels; a board creaked.
The light was painful as a dull razor. Pellam's eyes were watering. He waited. Moorhouse was trying to tell him something. Something he was supposed to be picking up on. Something that was not quite right for the town magistrate to be asking-even this town magistrate.
Pellam sniffed and blinked the tears.
"You got a cold, sir?"
"That truckload of dirt I was mentioning."
"Ah." Moorhouse looked at the sheriff. "Tom, why don't you leave us be for a minute."
"Sure, Mayor." The lean man pivoted on his heels and walked out of the room in as near to a march as a man could get without Sousa playing in the background.
"Pellam, your presence here's been, what's the word? Disruptive."
"No more disruptive than two assholes driving around town beating up people who're minding their own business."
"Ha, there you go." Moorhouse shook his head. "Did you know that the clinic near to burned down last night?"
Pellam blinked. Trying to make the connection, how this figured in his case. He asked, "What, exactly-"
"You know what was destroyed in the fire?"
Oh. Interesting. He said, "Those drugs the Torrens boy had."
"Yes, sir." Moorhouse raising an eyebrow.
"Oh, come on, you charging me with arson too? You've got no probable cause for that."
Moorhouse's other eyebrow joined the first and they seemed to be asking: How come you're so familiar with words like "probable cause"? How come, sir?
"Mr Pellam, you're the kind of outside influence isn't good for our community."
"Outside influence might be just the ticket," Pellam said, "you being the inside influence."
Moorhouse, smiling, sucked air in through his white teeth. "I may have to add contempt to your growing list of infractions, you aren't careful-"
Pellam put his hands, balled into fists, on the desk, and leaned forward. Light shot off the cuffs. "I want bail set and I don't care if you're busy fixing DWI tickets for the sons of your clients-I want a trial tomorrow. I'm calling my lawyer in Manhattan and getting him up here today with a habeas corpus writ and you fuck around anymore with me and I'll sue your ass for abuse of judicial process and failure to get an injured prisoner adequate medical attention-"
"Now, just let's calm down here. Let's-"
"You tell me," Pellam said between angry jaws, "how easy your town treasury'll afford a judgment of two-, three-hundred thousand?"
Moorhouse kept the false smile. His face reddened and he faked a cough to swallow. His eyes strayed to the phone. Pellam could see he was furious. Somebody'd put him in this tough position. "My, my, you are a touchy one. I'll tell you what. You just leave our town, and I'll drop all the charges."
Pellam said softly. "What's bail?"
The smile twisted and became lopsided. "Bail is set at five thousand dollars."
The door behind Pellam squealed open. A broad trapezoid of light fell into the room. He hardly heard it. He snapped, "How much? Where am I going to get that kind of money on Sunday?"
A woman's voice said, "From me. A check'll be okay, won't it, Hank?"
He frowned. "Morning, Meg. What're you doing here?"
She walked up to the desk. "A check?" She was already writing it out.
"You don't have to-" Pellam began. She glanced at his face, which must've been in worse shape than he'd thought since her eyes flashed wide for a second.
Moorhouse was peeling a piece of tape off the dispenser and rolling it up. He chewed on it absently. "Meg, this isn't a good idea."
She finished writing out the check. Pellam said to her, "How did you know?"
She ignored him.
"Meg," Moorhouse tried again. "It really isn't a good idea."
Meg dropped the check onto his desk. "A receipt. I'd like a receipt."
He couldn't find one and had to write one out by hand on a yellow pad.
Meg pushed through the door. Pellam, frowning, looked after her. Moorhouse spit the tape out of his mouth and said, "Trial is set for Monday morning. I know a local lawyer, you want."
Pellam pushed his fists out toward the man's chest. "What I want is the cuffs off. They're a little disruptive."
Pellam sat in the passenger seat as Meg pushed the little car up through the gears and shot out of town.
He casually slipped the seatbelt and shoulder harness on. He noticed the knob on the manual transmission gearshift was twisted and worn from heavy use, the gear position symbol upside down. As if to show him why, she downshifted on a gentle curve and brought the speed back up to about seventy.
It was a forty zone.
Over the roar of the engine, he said, "Thanks. I-"
Meg shook her head.
He didn't know what she meant: that she didn't want him to talk or that she couldn't hear him. The tach was almost redlined.
Pellam looked around. The streets were empty. The parking lot next to a church was full of small trucks and cars. It was classic American religion-a sweeping white steeple and red brick, symmetrical, unchallenging, simple. He wondered what denomination it was, then decided it didn't really matter; religion in Cleary would be pretty much the same whatever church you happened to be in.
"Where's Sam?"
"Sunday school."
"Where's Keith?"
"Some errand then he was going to the factory."
"Oh."
They drove in silence to the house. To her house. In her car.
With her flinty eyes and taut mouth.
When they got there, she left four-foot skid marks in the gravel and climbed out, slamming the thin door with a crash. She walked up on the porch, leaving Pellam in the passenger seat.
She disappeared inside.
He sat.
She reappeared a minute later and said, "You coming inside or not?"
"Well, I guess I-" he said to her receding back.
The house was quiet. A funny thing, an old house like this-huge and warm with a woody-smelling heat coming up from parquet floors-being quiet. A house that ought to have a dozen kids running around in it, raising all kinds of hell, adults doing their weekend tasks. But it was still, completely still.
He followed her into the kitchen. She was setting up a Mr Coffee. She put rolls in the oven. He crossed his arms. She didn't say anything. He leaned against the counter. He unfolded his arms and sat down. He said, "I-"
She slammed the coffee can down, spun to face him. "I've only got one question."
"You got me out of jail to ask me a question?"
"Did Sam get that shit from you?"
He didn't answer.
She looked at him.
Pellam stood up. "If you think that then I'm just going to walk back to your lockup, thanks."
Meg walked over to him and stood inches away. "I want you to say it. I want you to tell me."
"I didn't give him any drugs."
She turned away.
He said, "I thought you knew me… I thought we knew each other better than that."
Then she was digging in her purse, pulling out sheets of paper.
He squinted. His right eye blurred. A renegade bit of dirt from the night before shifted. He wiped tears. Then he was focusing on the sheets of paper, the kind with the holes in the side. She'd printed something out of a computer.
Pellam frowned and leaned forward.
So that was it.
He cleared his throat. Even here. Cleary, New York, population 5800. Even here.
Pellam said softly, "So you know."
Meg pushed the printouts toward him. They were dirty and well read.
Honing in on his eyes, she said, "I thought I'd heard your name. When I was a model in New York I got interested in movies. I used to buy some of the film magazines, the high-brow ones. I knew your name was familiar."
He lifted several of the articles, glancing at newspaper headlines he could recite in his sleep.
Pellam's "Time Out of Mind"
-L.A. Film Critics Top Pick for Independents, New Director Pellam Captures Cannes, Sundance. New York Film Festival Must: Pellam's "Sandra's Apartment."
Then the others, with words that often did come to him in his sleep: Film Director Indicted in Drug Death of Star. Pellam Trial Revelation: Drugs "Flowed" on Set. Director, Associate Indicted in Star's OD Death. Death Movie "Central Standard Time" Shelved as Backers Drop Out.
He dropped them on the table. He stood up. "Better be going."
17
Meg stepped between him and the door. Took his arm, and held it hard.
"No, please. I don't want you to go. I was so scared about Sam. I 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."
Shallow Graves Page 17