Bloody River Blues: A Location Scout Mystery (2 page)

Lombro, who was calmly looking back into Ralph Bales’s eyes, said, “Yes? Do you have a problem with that?”

Ralph Bales decided he could win the staring contest if he wanted to and began to examine the swirl of hair on the back of his own hand. “Okay, I don’t think it’s such a good idea, you being there. But I told you that already.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Okay, I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I want to see him die.”

“You’ll see pictures. The
Post-Dispatch
’ll have pictures. The
Reporter
’ll have pictures. In color.”

“I’ll be there from seven-fifteen.”

Ralph Bales was drumming his fingers on the leather seat of the Lincoln. “It’s my ass, too.”

Lombro looked at his watch. The crystal was chipped and yellowed. Six-fifty. “I can find somebody else to do the job.”

Ralph Bales waited a moment. “That won’t be necessary. You want to be there, that’s your business.”

“Yes, it is my business.”

Without response Ralph Bales swung the car door open.

That’s when it happened.

Sonofabitch . . .

A thud, the sound of glass on glass, a couple of muted pops. Ralph Bales saw the man—a thin guy in a brown leather jacket—standing there, looking down, a sour smile on his face, a smile that said,
I knew something like this was going to happen.
Foamy beer chugged out of the bottom of the cardboard case, which rested on its end on the sidewalk.

The man looked at Ralph Bales, then past him into the car. Ralph Bales slammed the door and walked away.

The man with the rueful grin said, “Hey, my beer . . .”

Ralph Bales ignored him and continued along Adams.

“Hey, my beer!”

Ralph Bales ignored him.

The man was stepping toward him. “I’m talking to you. Hey!”

Ralph Bales said, “Fuck you,” and turned the corner.

The tall man stood staring after him for a moment, his mouth twisted and indignant, then bent down and looked into the window of the Lincoln. He cupped his hands. He tapped on the window. “Hey, your buddy . . . Hey . . .” He rapped again. Lombro put the car in gear. It pulled away quickly. The man jumped back. He watched the Lincoln vanish. He knelt down to his wounded carton, which was pumping beer into the gutter like a leaky fire hydrant.

MADDOX POLICE DEPARTMENT
Patrolman First Class Donald Buffett watched the last of the beer trickle into the street, thinking that if that had happened
in the Cabrini projects on the west side of town you’d have a dozen guys lapping it out of the gutter or knifing each other over the unbroken bottles.

Buffett leaned against a brick wall and watched the guy—Buffett thought he looked like a cowboy—open up the case and salvage what he could, like a kid picking through his toys. The cowboy stood up and counted what looked to be maybe twelve, fifteen surviving bottles. The cardboard box was soaked and disintegrating.

Buffett had expected him to take a swing at the man who stepped out of the Lincoln. There was a time, before the service, before the academy, when going for skin was what Buffett himself would have done. He watched the cowboy lining up all the good bottles in the shadow of a Neuman furniture warehouse, hiding them. He must have been planning to go back to the store. He dumped the box in the trash and wiped his hands on his pants.

Buffett pushed off from the wall and walked across the street.

“Evening, sir,” he said.

The cowboy looked up, shaking his head. He said, “You see that? You believe it?”

Buffett said, “I’ll keep an eye on them, you want to get a bag or something.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.” He disappeared down the empty street.

Ten minutes later, the cowboy returned, carrying a plastic shopping bag, which held two six-packs. He also carried a small paper bag, which he handed to Buffett.

“I’d offer you a Labatts but they probably got rules about you being on duty. So it’s a coffee and doughnut. A couple sugars in the bag.”

“Thank you, sir,” Buffett said formally, feeling embarrassed and wondering why he did. “Didn’t have to.”

The cowboy started to pick up the beers and loaded them in the shopping bag. Buffet did not offer to help. Finally the cowboy stood up and said, “John Pellam.”

“Donnie Buffett.”

They nodded and didn’t shake hands.

Buffett lifted the coffee into the air, like a toast, and walked off, listening to beer bottles clink as the man headed toward the river.

AT SEVEN-TWENTY THAT
evening, Vincent Gaudia looked down the low-cut white dress of his blond companion and told her, “It’s time to eat.”

“What did you have in mind?” she asked breathily, smiling tiny crow’s-feet into the makeup that was laid on a few microns too deep.

Gaudia was addicted to women like this. Although he viewed them as a commodity he tried not to be condescending. Some of his dates were very intelligent, some were spiritual, some spent many hours volunteering for good causes. And though he did not pursue them for their minds or souls or consciences he listened avidly as they spoke about their interests and he did so with genuine curiosity.

On the other hand, what he wanted most from this girl was to take her to his co-op, where he would tell her to shut the hell up about spirit guides and climb
onto her hands and knees, then lift her garter belt with his hands and tug on it like reins. He now eased a strategically placed elbow against her breasts and said, “For the moment, I’m talking about dinner.”

She giggled.

They left the Jolly Rogue then crossed River Road and walked up Third Street, toward downtown Maddox, past foreboding warehouses, storefronts filled with blotched and decaying used furniture, ground-floor offices, dingy coffee shops. The woman squeezed closer to him against the cold. The chill air reminded Gaudia of his boyhood in Cape Girardeau, when he would walk home from school shuffling leaves in front of his saddle shoes, working on a toffee apple or Halloween candy. He had pulled some crazy stunts at Halloween, and he could not smell cold fall air without being stirred by good memories. Gaudia asked, “What’d you do on Halloween? When you were a kid?”

She blinked then concentrated on her answer. “Well, we had a lot of fun, you know. I used to dress up mostly like princesses and things like that. I was a witch one year.”

“A witch? No way. You couldn’t be one if you tried.”

“Sweetheart . . . And then we’d go for tons of candy. I mean, like tons. I liked Babe Ruths, no, ha ha,
Baby
Ruths best, and what I’d do sometimes is find a house that was giving them out and keep going back there. One Halloween I got twelve Baby Ruths. I had to be careful. I had a lot of zits when I was a kid.”

“Kids don’t go much anymore. It’s dangerous. Did you hear about that guy who put needles in apples?”

“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.

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.”