“I never liked apples. I only liked candy bars.”
“Baby Ruths,” Gaudia remembered.
“Where’re we going? This is a creepy neighborhood.”
“This is a creepy town. But it’s got the best steak house in the state outside of Kansas City. Callaghan’s. You like steak?”
“Yeah, I like steak. I like surf and turf.” She added demurely, “But it’s expensive.”
“I think they’ve got surf and turf there. You want surf and turf, order it. What you want, you can have.”
RALPH BALES STOOD on the street corner, in the alcove of Missouri National Bank, watching the couple stroll under a dim streetlight, three of the four bulbs burnt out. The girl was glued on to his arm, which probably was more a plus than anything, because if Gaudia was carrying a weapon she’d tie up his shooting hand.
Philip Lombro’s dark Lincoln Town Car, boxy as an aircraft carrier, exhaust purring, sat across the street. Ralph Bales studied the perfect bodywork, the immaculate chrome. Then he looked at the silhouette of Lombro behind the wheel. That man was crazy. Ralph Bales could not understand his wanting to watch it—watching the act of the shooting itself. He knew some guys who got off on doing people, got off on it in some scary sex way. He sensed, though, that this was something Lombro felt he had to do, not something he wanted to do.
A voice fluttered over the cool air—Stevie Flom, Ralph Bales’s partner, was doing his schizoid homeless routine. “There’s what it is, I mean, there’s it! I read the papers . . . I read the papers I read them forget what you read forget what you read . . .”
Then Ralph Bales thought he heard Stevie pull the slide on the Beretta though that might have been his imagination; at moments like this you heard noises, you saw things that were otherwise silent or invisible. His nerves shook like a dragster waiting for the green light. He wished he didn’t get so nervous.
Tapping, leather soles on concrete. The sound seemed very loud. Tapping and scuffing along the wet, deserted sidewalk.
Giggling.
Tapping.
Light glinted off Gaudia’s feet. Ralph Bales knew Gaudia’s reputation for fashion and figured he would be wearing five-hundred-dollar shoes. Ralph Bales’s shoes were stamped “Man-made uppers” and the men who had made those uppers had been Taiwanese.
The footsteps, twenty feet away.
The murmur of the Lincoln’s exhaust.
The beating of Ralph Bales’s heart.
Stevie talking like a crazy drunk. Arguing with himself.
The blonde giggling.
Then Stevie said, “A quarter, mister. Please?”
And son of a bitch, if Gaudia wasn’t stopping and stepping forward with a bill.
Ralph Bales started across the street, holding the Ruger, a huge gun, barrel-heavy in his hand. Then: the woman’s shrill scream and a swing of motion, a blur, as Gaudia swung her around as a shield putting her between him and Stevie’s. One pop, then two. The blonde slumped.
Gaudia was running. Fast. Getting away.
Christonthecross . . .
Ralph Bales lifted the heavy gun and fired twice. He hit Gaudia at least once. He thought it was in the lower neck. The man stumbled onto the sidewalk, lifted a hand briefly, then lay still.
Lombro’s Lincoln started away, accelerating with a sharp, gassy roar.
Silence for a moment.
Ralph Bales took a step toward Gaudia.
“Freeze!”
The scream came from only five feet away. Bales almost vomited in shock and the way his heart surged he wondered if he was having a heart attack.
“I mean you, mister!”
Ralph Bales’s hand lowered, the gun pointed down. His breath flowed in and out in staccato bursts. He swallowed.
“Drop the weapon!” The voice crackled with a barely controlled hysteria.
“I’m dropping it.” Ralph Bales did. He squinted as the gun fell. It didn’t go off.
“Lie down on the ground!” The cop was crouching, holding his gun aimed straight at Ralph Bales’s head.
“Okay!” Ralph Bales said. “Don’t do anything. I’m lying down.”
“Now!”
“I’m doing it now! I’m lying down now!” Ralph Bales got on his knees then lay forward on his stomach. He smelled grease and dog piss.
The cop circled around him, kicking the Ruger away and talking into his walkie-talkie. “This’s Buffett. I’m in downtown Maddox, I’ve got a 10-13. Shots fired and two down. Need an ambulance and backup at—”
The Maddox police and fire central radio dispatcher did not find out exactly where Donnie Buffett needed the backup and ambulance—at least not at that moment. The cop’s message ended abruptly when Stevie Flom stepped out of the alleyway and emptied the clip of the Beretta into his back.
Buffett grunted, dropped to his knees, and tried to reach behind him. He fell forward.
Ralph Bales climbed to his feet, picked up the Ruger. He walked over to the unconscious cop and pointed the big gun at his head. He cocked it.
Slowly the heavy blue muzzle nestled itself in the cop’s damp hair. Ralph Bales covered his eyes with his left hand. His heart beat eight times. His hand tensed. It relaxed. He stepped back and turned away from the cop, settling on one head shot for Gaudia and one for the blonde.
Then, as if they were a couple of basketball fans eager for some beers after the game, Ralph Bales and Stevie Flom walked briskly to a stolen black Trans Am with a sporty red racing stripe on the side. Stevie fired up the engine. Ralph Bales sat down in the comfortable bucket seat. He lifted his blunt index finger to his upper lip and smelled sour gunpowder and primer smoke. As they drove slowly to the river Ralph Bales watched the aura of lights rising up from St. Louis, to the south, thinking that all he would have to do now was take care of the witness—the guy with the beer—and that would be that.
Chapter 2
YELLOW LIGHT FADING in and out, going to black, black to yellow, motion, shouting, more blackness, deep deep pain, can’t breathe can’t swallow . . . The fragments of yellow light. There they go, slipping away . . . Don’t leave, don’t leave me . . .
Donnie Buffett focused for a moment on Penny’s terrified face. Pale and framed with dark hair. The sight of her terror terrified him. He reached for her hand. He passed out.
When he opened his eyes again his wife was gone and the room was dark. He had never been so exhausted.
Or so thirsty.
After a few minutes he began to understand that he had been shot. And the instant he thought that, he forgot everything—Penny, the sickening loose feelings in his back and guts, his thirst—and he concentrated on trying to remember something. One word. A short word. The one word that gave purpose to his entire life.
The Word. What is the Word? He slipped back into unconsciousness. When he woke again he saw a Filipino nurse.
“Water,” he whispered.
“Rinse and spit,” she said.
“Thirsty.”
“Rinse and spit.” She squirted water into his mouth from a plastic bottle. “Don’t swallow.”
He swallowed. He vomited.
The nurse sighed loudly and cleaned him.
“I can’t feel my legs. Did they cut my legs off?”
“No. You’re tired.”
“Oh.”
The Word. What the hell was it? Please, dear Mother of our Lord, let me remember . . .
He fell asleep trying to remember the Word and when he awoke a short time later he was still trying to remember it. Sitting across from him were two men in rumpled suits. When he looked at them he smiled.
“Hey, he’s smiling.” The man who said this was blond and square-jawed.
“Yo, Donnie,” the other man said, “I won’t ask how you’re doing, ’cause your answer’s gonna be: what a dumb-ass question—I feel like shit.” He was dark-complected, with short, slick hair. He looked at Buffett with real affection. He gripped Buffett’s hand warmly.
“They got me from behind.
There was another one behind me.”
Bob Gianno, the dark-complected detective, continued, “The mayor’s coming down to see you. He wants to wish you luck.”
Luck? Why do I need luck? I’ve been lucky. I don’t need luck. What I need is to get out of this bed.
Buffett’s lips were rising and falling.
“What’s that?” Richard Hagedorn, the blond detective, leaned forward.
“Why can’t I . . .” He shook his head and said indignantly, “I had my body armor on.”
“He got you below it. That’s what they said at the press conference.”
“Oh.” Press conference? There was a press conference about me?
Gianno said, “We met your wife, Donnie. She’s really pretty.”
Buffett nodded blankly.
The detective continued, “Guess you know why we’re here. What can you tell us about the hit?”
The periphery faded fast, dissolving again into a million black dots. Yellow light, white light. His organs seemed to shift. Floating. He felt deep pain that was all the more terrifying because it did not seem to hurt. He tried to remember the word. The Word. The WORD. The answer lies in the Word.
“I . . .” His voice ended in a rasp. He inhaled hard.
“Maybe we should—” Hagedorn began but Buffett wiped sweat away from his face with the blanket and said, “All I saw was one perp. Cauc, balding, dark hair. Back was to me, I didn’t make the face. Thirty-five maybe.” A pause. The air hissed in over the dry tissue of his mouth and burned like alcohol on a cut. “Make him five ten, eleven. Weighed one ninety. Wearing a dark jacket, shirt, jeans, I think. I don’t remember. Had a big gun.”
“A .44.”
“Forty-four,” Buffett said slowly. “The other one, the one shot me . . .”
“You make him at all?”
Buffett shook his head no. Then asked, “Who was the hit?”
“Vince Gaudia and some squeeze.”
“Man,” Buffett whispered reverently. “Gaudia.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Peterson’s gonna be pissing red.”
Hagedorn said, “Hell with Peterson. We’re gonna get the scumbag that did you, Donnie.”
Buffett said, “I didn’t see the third one, either.”
“Third one?” Hagedorn asked. He and Gianno exchanged glances.
“The guy in the Lincoln.”
“What Lincoln?” Gianno was taking notes.
“Dark Lincoln. It was parked across the street. I didn’t get tag numbers.” Buffett coughed. “I want some water.”
Hagedorn went into the john and got a glass.
He handed it to Buffett, who hesitated then said, “I might puke.”
Gianno said, “I seen worse than cops barfing.”
Buffett didn’t puke, though, and he handed the empty glass back to Hagedorn with triumph. “Best thing I ever had in my mouth.”
The men laughed; there was no need to say aloud any of the three punch lines that materialized simultaneously in three different minds.
Gianno asked, “The guy in the Lincoln. Was he getaway?”
“No, he drove off by himself. Maybe it was somebody who had to ID the hit.”
“Naw,” Gianno said, “everybody knows what Gaudia looks like. He’s a cover boy. Well, looked like.”
Buffett said, “Well, maybe it was the guy who hired baldy.”
“Some big fish? I wonder. Donnie, you got any idea who was inside?”
“No, but I saw a guy who did.”
“There’s a witness?”
Buffett told them about the beer incident. “This guy was talking to the driver, saying something.”
“Fantastic.” Hagedorn smiled.
Gianno turned to a blank page in his notebook. “What’s he look like?”
Buffett was about to give them a description, and that’s what did it. The Word came back to him. The magic Word.
Buffett beamed. He whispered, “Pellam.”
“Tell him?” Gianno asked and looked at Hagedorn with a frown.
“His name’s Pellam.” The smile on Buffett’s face glistened and grew.
“You got his name?” Gianno nodded enthusiastically. “He live around there?”
“Dunno.” Buffett shrugged, which sent a stab of pain through his neck. He remained very still for a moment, frozen as the pain slowly receded.
“We’ll find him,” Gianno said reverently.
The smile slipped off Buffett’s face as he tried to shift his leg and found he was unable to. The sheet, he guessed, was tucked in too tightly. He absently pulled at the bedclothes and smacked his thigh. “Gotta get the circulation going. I’ve been on my butt too long.”
“We’re gonna go find this guy, Donnie.” Gianno slapped his notebook shut.
“One thing,” Buffett said, “you know witnesses. When it’s a hit like this? He’s gonna get amnesia. Bet you any money.”
Gianno snorted. “Oh, he’ll talk, Donnie. Don’t you worry about that.”
APPARENTLY SOME TROUBLE with the chili.
The beer and whiskey were gone completely, but the whole pot of chili was pretty much untouched.
Danny and Stile remained behind in the camper after the other poker players had left and they helped Pellam clean up. Danny, with his thick nose, twenty-nine-year-old’s smooth complexion, and shoulder-length black hair, resembled a Navajo warrior.
“What’d you do to the chili?” Danny said to Pellam, crinkling his nose, then emptied some ashtrays into a trash bag. Although he often said blunt things to people they rarely took offense.
The chili?
Stile slipped Labatt’s bottles into another bag and twirled his bushy mustache. Although Pellam was descended—so the family story went—from a real gunslinger, Pellam thought Stile was a dead ringer for the ancestor in question, Wild Bill Hickok. Stile was lanky and had a droopy Vietnam vet mustache the shade of his dark blond hair. He reflected, “I remember this western I worked on one time . . . I forget whose. I was falling off a cliff. I think it was an eighty-foot cliff . . . and the compressor broke, so they couldn’t inflate the air bag as much as the unit director wanted to.”
“Hm,” Pellam muttered, and stepped into the kitchenette to look at the chili. He’d eaten two bowls, piled with onions and slices of American cheese. Seemed okay to him.
“No,” Stile reflected. “It was a hundred-and-thirty-foot cliff.”
Bored again, Danny said, “Got the point.” An Oscar-nominated scriptwriter, Danny sat in deluxe hotel suites in front of an NEC laptop computer and wrote scenes that sent people like Stile off hundred-and-thirty-foot cliffs; he was not impressed.
Stile: “Man, there we were in the middle of this desert, in a very Native American frame of mind, you know what I’m saying?”
What’s wrong with the chili?
Pellam tried another spoonful. Yup, burned. It reminded him of Scotch, the smokiness. But there wasn’t anything wrong with it. It could have been intended, as if he had tried a new recipe. If it tasted like mesquite, for instance, nobody would have said anything, except maybe “Damn good chili, Pellam.”
He piled dishes in the tiny sink, rinsed some of them in the dribble of the water from the faucet.
“Anyway, when I landed I went down so far, my belt loops made an impression in the mud beneath the bag.”
“Uh. That happens sometimes,” Danny said lethargically.
To air out the camper Pellam opened the front door. Chili smoke was only part of it. The lawyer from St. Louis had been lighting one cigarette after another. Pellam had noticed that midwesterners did not seem to know this habit was bad for you.
Danny and Stile argued about who had the riskier job—Stile falling off high cliffs or Danny having to pitch his stories to producers and development people. Stile said that was an old joke, and tried to convince Danny to go base-jumping with him sometime.
“To Live and Die in L.A.,” Stile whispered reverently. “Awesome scene. The jump from the bridge.”
<
br /> Pellam, still at the front door, squinted. He saw a large, boxy shadow in the grass not far from where the camper was parked. What was it? He squinted, which didn’t help. He remembered seeing that area in the daylight—it was a field full of crabgrass and weeds. What would be sitting in the middle of a lousy field this time of night? Funny, the shadow looked just like . . .
The shadow began to murmur.
. . . a car.
It accelerated fast, spraying dirt and stones, nosing quickly out of the grass, grinding the undercarriage as it went over the sharp drop to the highway.
Probably lovers, Pellam thought. Necking. He could not remember the last time he necked. Did people still do it? Probably in the Midwest they did. Pellam lived in Los Angeles and nobody he’d ever dated there necked.
It was only when he turned back to the camper that he realized that the car had not turned on its lights until it was far down River Road; because of this, the license plate was not illuminated until it was too far away to be read. Odd . . .
“Wish I’d seen it,” Danny said emphatically.
“Was just a car,” Pellam muttered, glancing toward the disappearing taillights.
The other two stared at him.
“I meant,” Danny said, “the base jump off that bridge.”
“Oh.”
Danny thanked Pellam for the game and the company but not the chili. After he left, Stile stepped into the kitchenette and began doing the dishes.
“You don’t have to.”
“Not a problem.”
He washed everything but the chili pot.
“Man, black-bottom chili. You’re on your own there, buddy.”
“I got diverted on my way back from the store.”
Stile asked, “How long you in this hellhole of a town for?”
“Till shooting’s done. Tony’s reshooting every other scene.”
“He does that, yup. Well, if we’re here next week, come over to the Quality Inn for a game. I’ve got a hotplate there and I’ll whip up Philly cheese steaks. With onions. By the by, I’m getting the Hertz tomorrow. You can have your bike back then.”
Stile had been in town three weeks and had already burned out the transmission of his rental car. Rental companies should ask for occupation and not rent their vehicles to stuntmen.
Bloody River Blues: A Location Scout Mystery Page 2