Jeffery Deaver - Bloody River Blues

He stepped into the bedroom area, dropped his change and bills and wallet and keys on the bed in one big, messy pile. He thought how much he liked living alone. He pulled off his pants and stepped into the shower.

Stevie Flom decided he couldn't shoot a man who was naked. So he sat sideways in the drivers seat of the camper and looked at the worn controls. He listened to the electric-motor sound of the water. He licked his gouged hand. He was suddenly very tired and decided he needed a vacation. From Ralph Bales. From Lombro. From this piss-ant river town.

What Stevie was going to do was take his money from this job and spend two months in Las Vegas. Maybe while he was there he would check around for local work. He liked the idea of perpetual sun. He liked the idea of glossy casinos open twenty-four hours a day. Free drinks and soft flesh. And many hours away from the wife.

He thought it was funny, killing someone whose name you didn't know. He looked around the dash and found an ID card for a movie set. He learned that the beer man's name was John Pellam.

Pellam, Pettam, he repeated to himself.

The water stopped hissing.

Footsteps. The camper creaked. The door opened. He smelled shampoo. Stevie lifted the gun.

Pellam, wearing a thick brown bathrobe and socks, stepped into the hall. He blinked. "How'd you get in here? Who are you?"

Stevie Flom smiled coldly.

And he felt a sudden jolt of nausea, a burn spreading through his gut. His hands started to shake. His teeth, bared by the mad smile, were rattling. He pushed the gun closer toward Pellam, who was speaking, though Stevie couldn't hear the words. He didn't know whether the guy was yelling in anger or begging not to be killed. Stevie simply checked out to anxiety and his whole body started sweating. He pulled his right elbow in close to his body to stop the trembling. No effect. His head shook, his neck. He tilted his head sideways, as if that would let the nervousness run off him onto the floor. But he kept shaking.

Trying to calm himself, he ordered Pellam to sit. But the man just stood there, looking at him angrily, ignoring.

"Sit down," Stevie growled. The words were lost in a nervous swallow.

Pellam remained standing. His eyes began to scan the room. Stevie heard some words. "… my friend?… You were the one?… The motorcycle?…"

Stevie took the gun in his left hand and wiped the palm of his right on his pants, then gripped the pistol again. Pellam took two steps sideways and picked up an empty wine bottle like a club. "Okay," Pellam said.

Okay? What does he mean by Okay? He's got a bottle, I've got a gun. What the hell does he mean by Okay?

Stevie told himself to hold the gun out, then he realized he was already doing so. He stepped closer to Pellam. What the hell does he mean by Okay? Stevie stepped back again.

Squeeze.

Nothing happened. His finger would not respond. He looked at his hand. This did not help.

Squeeze the fucking trigger. He realized he had mouthed the words. Maybe he had actually said them.

Pellam was saying, "Put it down."

Stevie's mind suddenly went blank. He stuck the gun out in a single furious motion, pointed it right at Pellam's chest, closed his eyes, and began to pull the trigger.

The cloud of glass surrounded Stevie Flom. Bluish smoke and a thousand splinters from what had been the window of the camper enveloped him. The explosion seemed to occur a moment later, as the dust of shattered glass settled on the floor.

Stevie Flom turned toward the window, his muscles now relaxed, the trembling gone. He turned toward the window and said, "It's all right. It'll be fine. Really."

Then he dropped to the floor.

The door of the camper swung open and a man stepped inside, filling the room with his huge bulk, wearing a sport coat and jeans. Moving fast on small feet, he ignored Pellam, who stepped back out of his way.

What the hell was going on?

Shutting out lights.

"Who are-?"

"Quiet," the man barked.

"Sure," Pellam said. Bright light angled in from the kitchen and gave the room a tilted appearance, like a fun house. The man shut this light out, too. He went to the window and looked out. In the darkness Pellam said, "Are you a cop?"

"Shhh." He walked to Stevie Flom and felt his neck, pocketed his little gun, then walked to the opposite window of the camper and looked out once more for a long moment. He turned and looked at Pellam's hand, which held the apple wine bottle by the neck. "You got that for any reason?" His voice was thick but accentless.

"No. Uh-uh." Pellam put the bottle down.

"You Pellam?"

He nodded and asked, "Who are you?" "Tom Stettle. I work for a Mr. Crimmins. He-"

"Crimmins?"

"Peter Crimmins."

Pellam looked at Stevie. "He works for Crimmins…"

"Uhn, no, sir. That he doesn't," Stettle said matter-of-factly. "Mr. Crimmins hired me to keep an eye on you."

"Oh." Pellam stared at the body. "Who's he?" Stettle did not answer but bent down and started emptying Stevie's pockets.

"He was going to loll you."

"What's exactly going on?"

Without looking up from his task, Stettle said, "Mr. Crimmins knows that you didn't see him in that car the night Vince Gaudia got killed. He didn't have nothing to do with the hit. He wants to make sure you stay alive to tell everybody that. So he's had me looking out for you. You're a tough man to stay on top of, let me say."

Stevie Flom didn't seem to be bleeding. Was he really dead?

This he asked Stettle, who seemed surprised at the question. "Well, sure he is. Help me, huh? Let's get the body into my car.

I just happened to check by tonight. It was, like, lucky. I didn't figure he was here already. I figured they'd do you on the street like they did Gaudia."

"He's the one who shot the cop?"

"I dunno. Probably," Stettle said. "You have any garbage bags?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"Garbage bags? Thick ones, if you've got them."

"I've got some, sure."

Pellam went into the kitchen and drank a full glass of water. He found Stettle standing in the doorway, looking at him.

"You want some?"

"Sure."

Pellam poured another glass and held it out. Stettle took it in a huge hand. Pellam asked him, "Did you see the other guy out there?"

"What other guy?"

"There are two of them." Pellam motioned to Stevie Flom. "He's not the one I saw get out of the Lincoln."

"He isn't?" Stettle drank the water. "You mean there's somebody else?"

"Yeah. Heavy guy. Balding."

Stettle grimaced. "I'll do what I can to keep an eye out for you. But I can't be your roommate. After this-" he nodded at Stevie s body "-whoever was in the car is going to be after you in a big way. You should take a vacation. Take a year off or so."

"That's what people keep telling me."

Stettle was eager to leave. He finished the water and took a paper towel then wiped the glass off. With this same towel he wiped everything else in the camper he had touched.

"You got to get a new window," he said, and broke out the rest of it with his elbow. Pellam assumed he didn't want to leave an obvious bullet hole.

Pellam stared as the bits of glass flew outward. "I guess I should say thanks. I mean-"

Stettle was uninterested in gratitude. He soaked the paper towel that held a dozen of his fingerprints and wadded it up, slipped it into his pocket. "Garbage bags?" he asked.

"Sure." Pellam handed him some.

"Rubber gloves?"

"Gloves?"

"Playtex, you know."

Pellam found two old pairs. Stettle and he put them on. "The blood. Nowadays you can't be too careful, you know."

And for the second time in two days John Pellam was wrapping a body in green Glad bags. Three mils thick.