Jeffery Deaver - Bloody River Blues

Buffett's eyes clung to the disposal box, looking heartsick. Pellam reached for the nurse call button. Buffett barked,

"I'll do it myself later."

"No trouble."

Buffett snatched the button away from him. "I said I'd do it myself."

A difficult silence arose. Nina and Pellam simultaneously asked him how he was feeling, and he answered, "Fine. I'm fine." More silence. Nina turned to the flowers, examined them and refilled several of the vases with water. Buffett seemed angered by this but he said nothing and she didn't seem to notice that he was out of sorts.

Pellam studied Buffett for a moment and decided he looked pretty good, all things considered. Apart from the red face and sweat, he seemed to be a healthy man lying in bed. The only evidence of injury: He was dressed in a white, blouselike gown speckled with small, pale blue dots.

"Something you wanted?" Buffett asked.

Pellam did not know how to respond. He wasn't expecting this constant level of hostility. He said the first thing that came into his mind. "You need anything?"

"No. I'm doing fine." When the silence filled the room again Buffett relented and made conversation. "I get kind of bored, you know. I got TV." He motioned broadly at the old set as if they couldn't spot it themselves.

Pellam said, "I guess I came by, one of the reasons, I was a little hotheaded the other day."

Buffett was being forced to apologize and he didn't want to. He watched a silent CNN news broadcast for a moment. Tankers unloading in some foreign port. Pellam was just starting to wonder if the cop would clam up and that would be that. He was glancing at Nina when Buffett said, "I started it. You were just, you know, reacting. All this… It's got me kind of shook up."

"I read in this magazine one time," Nina said. "Glamour. No, Mademoiselle, 1 think. That if you have a serious accident, it's like you're a whole different person for at least six months afterwards." She abruptly stopped speaking, perhaps worried that Buffett would think he was doomed to a half year of mental anguish.

But Buffett was laughing. "Well, it's got me a shitload of flowers. You want any, go right ahead."

Nina shook her head. "Oh, I couldn't, no."

Buffett glanced at Pellam. "And the mayor came by to visit me. Which isn't as exciting as, say, the mayor of LA.,since our guy also has the Buick dealership out on 104. He's that kind of mayor, you know." There was a manic edge to Buffett's voice. Maybe he was being cynical, maybe he was really impressed that the mayor had come to visit him. Pellam couldn't tell. Buffett broke the silence that followed this by saying, "It's just so damn boring. TV sucks, you know that?"

"I don't own one," Pellam said with more enthusiasm than he intended. "I've got a monitor, but it doesn't receive. It's just hooked up to a VCR."

Buffett sighed and began clicking the gray box of the remote control through a series of stations. An old movie came on.

He shut the set off. "I should probably get some sleep. I'm still in shock No, really. Spinal shock, it's called. Not like, ha, normal shock. Sleeping's a good thing."

The script in Pellam's mind now called for the cop to ask what he had come here to ask: Could Buffett please call up his detective buddies and ask them to stop ruining his life.

But he coulnd't ask. Pellam wondered what stopped him. He believed it was not the fact that Pellam was going to leave in a moment with a pretty woman beside him and go back to his job. Nor was it Buffett's face, which no longer looked so healthy as Pellam had thought- mouth hanging loose, eyes darting, filled with a fear that he perhaps thought he was concealing.

No, what stopped Pellam was simply that he stood and Buffett lay.

As simple as that.

"We better be going," Pellam said. "Just wanted to stop by."

"Yeah." Buffett nodded. "Good seeing you."

"What do you read?' Pellam asked. "I'll bring you a magazine next time I stop by."

"I don't read. I don't like to read." The mystery that Pellam had brought on the first visit sat prominently unopened under the bedside table.

"You got any hobbies?"

"Yeah, I got hobbies."

"What?"

Buffett looked from the square of the TV screen to the box where Pellam had pitched the hypodermic needle. "Basketball, softball, jogging, and hockey. Those're my hobbies."

At the main desk of the hospital, downstairs, Pellam remembered that he had met Nina when she was visiting her mother.

He now asked if she wanted to see the woman.

She shook her head. "I visited her this morning. Twice a day is a little much. She can be a dear, but…" They stepped outside. The day had grown overcast and chill. She asked, "Your parents both alive?"

"Just my mother. She lives in upstate New York. I don't see her that often. We run out of things to talk about after three days."

Nina took a scarf from her pocket, a long one covered with blotches of brilliant green and yellow. She began to tie it around her neck. He watched the flimsy cloth cover the pale skin at her throat.

She said, "I'm really enjoying that job you got me. Everybody's really nice."

"Making movies is fun at a certain level. You get much higher up than location work or makeup and it's a pain in the ass."

"The only yucky part is special effects. All that fake blood and those gunshot wounds." She closed her eyes and shivered.

"Why does Mr. Sloan make such violent movies?"

"Because many, many people pay money to watch them."

"Why," she asked, "are you looking around so much?"

"Am I?"

"Yeah. Its like you think somebody's following you."

"Naw. Always working. Looking for locations. In fact, that's where we're going right now. Find a big field. 1 need the help of a local."

"I'm not a local, remember. I'm from Cranston."

"You're more local than I am."

"Is that the reason you want me to come along?" A faint smile on her frosted pink lips.

"Well, scouting isn't as easy as it looks. I sense you're a natural at it."

"Me?"

"I need a big field next to the river. And a road running through it. How would you go about finding one?"

"Well, I don't know. I guess I'd just drive along a road beside the river until I found a field.

"See what I mean. You're a born location scout."

They both laughed.

"All right. But I have to be back at seven. I've got a call then. See, I can talk movie. Call. Oh, I didn't want to ask on the set but what's the difference between a gaffer and a grip?"

'The most-asked question in the movie business. Gaffer's an electrician and lighting guy. Grips are workmen who do rigging and other nonelectrical work."

They approached her car.

"Another question."

Pellam preempted her. 'The best boy is the key grip's first assistant."

"No," Nina said, tossing him the keys. "I was going to ask if you knew any casting couch stories."

Peter Crimmins was a member of the Ukrainian Social Club in St. Louis.

He could easily have afforded to join the elite Metropolitan Club or, although he was a bar-sinister Christian, the Covington Hills Country Club. Yet this was the only social organization he belonged to. The club was in a shabby, two-story building, greasy-windowed and grimy, nestled between vacant lots filled with saplings strangled by kudzu. The inside, smelling of onions and cigarette smoke and mold, was one large room, filled with broken tables and chipped chairs. The club seemed locked in a time warp dating to the year it had opened-1954.

This afternoon Crimmins was sitting at a table with Joshua, his driver and security chief. They drank tea that had been brewed in a cheap samovar. There were four or five other men in the club who would have liked to sit with Crimmins but who tended not to when Joshua was with him. The bodyguard's presence made them uncomfortable. They, of course, knew all about Crimmins. They read the Post-Dispatch as well as the Ukranian Daily News, which reported, respectively, on his criminal activities and on his social, ethnic, and professional endeavors. The latter did not interest them in the least; any fool can give away money. But a successful criminal is hot stuff. So they sat around him, basking in his dangerous presence. Crimmins gave them status. John Gotti had gone to his social club in Little Italy in New York; Peter Crimmins went here. They believed the nearby streets were safer because of him.