Shallow Graves (11 page)

“But then you’d get a hard-on,” Billy said, “and be all embarrassed.”

Bobby asked, “Was there anything left of it?”

“Of what?” Ned sucked his fork.

“The car?”

“Just the metal parts. They were all twisted and burnt up but—”

“So where’s that car now?” Billy asked.

Ned said, “Jimmy and me wanted to go take a look at it. It’s at Sillman’s Garage. They’re the ones that rented it to him.”

Bobby said, “What you think it’s worth?”

“Worth? It’s pretty totaled, man. It’s like nothing’s left of the back half. The engine might be okay.”

Bobby looked at his brother. “Maybe we should take a look at it.”

“Can’t hurt.”

Bobby looked at the boy’s empty plate. “Hey, you want any more?”

“They’re closed up,” Ned pointed out.

“Hell, for you, we’ll open the kitchen.”

“Well, just pancakes and sausages. I don’t want any eggs.”

“Coming right up,” Bobby said just as Billy started to say the same thing.

WEXELL AMBLER’S HOUSE
was on Barlow Mountain Road just south of Cleary. The yard ran at a shallow incline down to what was called a lake on the local maps, though it was really just a pond. A hundred years ago Samuel Bingham, the Hartford insurance magnate, wanted to surprise his wife on her fortieth birthday by giving her something she didn’t already own, which didn’t leave many possibilities. But he noticed a low-lying spot on their seventy-acre estate and an idea occurred to him. He dug out three hundred apple trees and dammed a small stream that ran through the property.

The result was a shallow, weedy ten-acre lake, now surrounded by houses of the sort Ambler owned: half-million-dollar colonials (Ambler’s was the oldest, built in 1746) and contemporaries. All two-acre-plus lots. Ambler’s ex-wife had landscaped the place; it was trim and simple. Pollen-dusty hemlocks, azaleas, rhododendrons, boxwood. She’d given up on tulips and annuals. (“The damn deer can find their own entrées,” the woman had said shrilly.)

Standing now at the edge of this pond, Ambler whipped his fishing rod back and forth, trying to drop the tiny dot of burgundy fly into the yellow plastic hoop floating thirty feet away. Each time he’d flick the willowy rod he came close to his target but there was an uneven breeze and he was having problems compensating. Although he’d hunted all his life and fished frequently with a spinning reel he’d only been fly-fishing for a year, and learning it was hard as hell. Still, he kept at it, patient, squinting at the hoop, which looked white through his yellow-lens glasses.

The footsteps came up slowly behind him. The steps were deliberately loud (and, he decided, male); someone was walking heavier than necessary to announce himself. So he wouldn’t startle Ambler.

He glanced over his shoulder at the young man. “Mark.”

“Howdy, Wex.”

The man wore blue jeans, a plaid jacket, a blue down vest, engineer boots. He was in his late twenties, heavy. His thin lips curved into a sincere smile. His sand-colored moustache was irritatingly meek. He had brush-cut hair, parted in the middle. Put him in a polyester suit and he’d be a model Kmart manager. He didn’t look like what he was: a facilitator. Ambler didn’t particularly like the young man; on the other hand, labor and accounts receivable problems at Ambler’s construction company had nearly vanished since he’d hired Mark.

The boy was chewing tobacco and Ambler hoped he’d spit ugly so he could dress him down for it. But he just kept the wad in his mouth like a New York Yankee pitcher and looked happily across the lake.

“Catching anything?” Just a salutation. Snappers, snakes and algae were the only living creatures in this lake. Everybody knew that.

“Nope.”

“I’ve asked around. Seems like it’s right. About that guy.”

“He’s staying around.”

“Yessir.”

“What for?”

“Asking questions about his friend was killed.”

“Goddamn.”

“You don’t have to worry, Wex.”

“Any chance at all that somebody saw you?”

“Where?”

“Near his car—the kid who was killed.”

“No. I’m sure.”

“How sure?”

Mark was completely patient. It was funny how calm and patient truly dangerous people could be. “No one saw me.”

“When you called the sheriff there’s no way to trace it? Maybe they could do a voice print.”

“Tom doesn’t have that kind of equipment, Wex. You know that. Anyway, he was out getting his haircut. I left the message with Gladys. She doesn’t even know my voice. Said a couple of us had seen him.”

“I shouldn’t have told Moorhouse to plow the ground over.” Ambler thought of something else. “What about fingerprints?”

Mark didn’t say anything, just stared at the band of colorful trees across the pond.

Ambler said, “I’m sorry. I’m sure you thought of that. I just thought Pellam would have left. It’s upsetting.”

The fly went wide and caught in some reeds. “Damn,” Ambler said. He pulled out his complicated fishing knife, with a hook remover and scaler on it. He was going to cut his line but then thought maybe a Canada goose might get tangled. Ambler was wearing two-hundred-dollar L.L. Bean shoes. He had no idea where his wading boots were. He sighed and started walking into the lake to free the line. He felt soft muck under his shoes. Bubbles of sour air rose around his legs.

Mark said, “You want me to do that?”

Ambler said, “No.”

He walked unsteadily to the weeds, unhooked the fly then returned slowly to the shore.

“I know the kind of man he is.”

“Who?”

“The man from the movie company. He’s not leaving till he gets some answers.” Ambler sighed.

“You know him?”

“I know his
kind,
” he said impatiently.

The young man looked out over the lake, squinting at a phalanx of geese coming in for a landing. It was a wistful look—as if he wished he were sighting down the barrel of a long ten-gauge shotgun, leading a bird by ten feet. “You want me to keep an eye on him?”

“Yes, I do.”

A moment passed. A swan floated past. Ambler knew that however beautiful they were they were also mean sons of bitches.

Finally Mark said, “You want me to do anything else?”

Ambler glanced at him then dropped to his knees and began to undo the tangled fishing line.

“
YOU’RE THE PLACE
rents cars?” Pellam asked the young man.

The kid wore dungarees and stood under a yellow Monte Carlo, which was head high on a lift. The garage had two bays and a small office, the whole place stinking of grease and gasoline and burnt coffee. Pellam’s eyes watered from fumes.

“Yessir.” He was changing the oil and apart from his fingernails there didn’t seem to be a fleck of grime on his body anywhere.

“That’s a good trick, staying that clean.”

“I don’t work that hard.”

Pellam yawned. He was tired. Winnebago beds are small and Janine was a big girl. Also, she was an energetic lover. A bit desperate too. It unnerved him the way she kept promising him how much she liked sex with him, how good he was. He didn’t believe women were capable of that many orgasms in a two-hour period. At least not in a Winnebago bunk.

He woke up once in the middle of the night and found her crying. He’d asked her what the matter was. She said angrily he wouldn’t understand. He sensed he was supposed to pry an explanation out of her but he fell asleep and woke at seven to find her foraging in the small fridge and making a huge omelette she ate out of hunger and he downed from politeness.

Pellam now asked the well-kempt garage man, “You Sillman?”

“Nosir, just work here is all.”

“Is there a Sillman?”

“Yessir, but he’s down in Florida.”

Pellam walked to the front of the bay and looked
again for the wreck. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see it. It didn’t matter because, although he saw a lot of decrepit cars, he didn’t see any burnt wrecks.

“I understand you rented that car that got burnt up. The one the other day?”

“Oh, yeah. That was terrible, wasn’t it?”

“You know what happened to the car?”

“Was here yesterday. Out back. Then she got sold.”

“Sold?”

“That’s right, sir. For scrap.”

That
sir
again . . . Pellam asked, “Didn’t anybody from the insurance company tell you not to?”

“Me?”

“Well, somebody.”

“I don’t know, sir. Nobody told me not to do anything. I heard that Mr. Sillman settled with the boy’s family. Paid ’em some good money. I heard a hundred thousand.”

Man, for a town where nobody seemed in a hurry, some things got done real fast.

“Why would Sillman settle? Everybody’s saying it’s the boy’s own fault.”

“I’m not a lawyer, sir. Just a mechanic.”

Pellam asked, “You know who bought it?”

“Nope.”

“Who would?”

“Sillman. He’s the one who sold her.”

“I thought he was in Florida.”

“Clearwater.”

“But you said—”

“Oh, he left at noon.”

“And that’s all you know about it?”

“That’s about it, sir.”

“And Sillman’ll be back when?”

“Probably next month.”

“It’s a stupid question but I don’t suppose you know where I could reach him?”

“Clearwater’s a big town.”

“Stupid, like I said. A month, hm? He always take a vacation that long?”

“Oftentimes he does.”

Pellam said, “This garage business . . . must do pretty well, a man can take a month off.”

“You’d be surprised, sir. By the way, that’s a nice camper you got yourself. You wanta fill?”

“Not today,” he said.

PELLAM WALKED OVER
to the three men playing poker, sitting in the back of the Hudson Inn’s sour-mash- and beer-scented bar. “Mind if I sit in?”

A little uncomfortable at first, this crew. He bought a round of Bud, in the tall bottles. Then he bought another and things loosened up. Fred was the easiest to talk to. Close to seventy, with a red, leathery face. He hadn’t been a farmer, which would have been the safest guess, but had worked railroads all his life, retiring early from Amtrak ten years before. Pete—in his midforties—ran an insurance agency from his split-level a mile outside of town. Before the first hand was dealt, Pete started hanging on everything Pellam said. Agreeing too often, nodding broadly. He’d say, “Wait!” a lot and have Pellam repeat himself, to make sure he understood what was said. The other of the foursome was Nick. Twenty-one and as blasé as anything Cleary had ever produced. He’d roll his eyes, saying, “Shee-it!”
and offered a sneer of a smile that Pellam came to decide wasn’t as mean as it appeared. It was just part of the topography of his face. Pellam pegged him as a searcher. A successful high school linebacker going to fat as he cast about for a career.

Fred told the others that Pellam was descended from a famous gunfighter. “Wild Bill Hickok.”

Pellam closed his eyes for a moment. “Now where the hell’d you hear that?”

Fred shrugged. Pete’s eyes widened another few millimeters and he said, “Holy Moly.” Nick said, “Bet five.”

Janine, of course. It had to be Janine. “See you,” Pellam said. “Raise five.”

Pete said, “Hey, I saw that film. Who was in it? Jimmy Stewart? I don’t remember. He was one of the best shots in the West, Wild Bill. He was your classic gunfighter. He shot . . . who was it? I don’t remember. Maybe Billy the Kid. Just . . . it was incredible. See your ten. He got shot in the back . . . Oh, hey, sorry, Pellam.” He looked down, blushing at his faux pas.

“Christ, Pete, I never knew the man.”

“Well, you know.”

Fred said, “Dealer sees your ten. Shot in the back. Hey, Pellam, that why you’re sitting facing the door?”

He laughed and said, “No.” He didn’t tell him that the reason he’d picked this chair was so that he could look across the street into the window of Dutchess Realty Company, where Meg Torrens sat, her white blouse ill-defined but evident in the dimness of the office. He’d decided a real estate broker could give him a good rundown on the cast of characters
in Cleary—and who among them might
not
want a movie made here.

“Shot in the back? Man, fucking cheap shot,” said Nick, and tossed in more chips. “Call you.”

They played for nearly an hour, Pellam steadily losing fifty bucks, most of it to Fred.

Pete was still staring at him in an irritatingly eager way when Fred said, “Ha, Pellam, you’re a poker player. You ever get a deadman’s hand?” Then turned to Nick. “You know what that is?”

“What’s that? Like so awesome it blows everybody away, a royal flush?”

“That’s what Wild Bill had when he got shot. Full house of aces and eights. You ever get that, Pellam?” Fred stacked up his ample inventory of battered chips.

“Not that I can recall.”

Nick got up to hit the john and Pellam asked Fred and Pete, “Got a question. Say somebody had a wrecked car. Where’d they sell it for scrap around here?”

“She run at all?” Fred asked.

“Nope, just for steel.”

The local men looked at each other. Pete said, “Couple places. I’d go to Stan Grodsky’s yard, out on Nine.”

Fred said, “He’s a Polack and he’ll rob you.”

Pete blushed again. “He asked who’d buy wrecks. Stan buys wrecks.”

Fred said to Pellam, “He’ll rob you.”

Pete said,
“I
got a good deal there one time.”

“Says you.”

“Yeah? I got me a hundred bags of Sakrete, at three dollars per.”

Fred said, “They were forty pounders, not sixties, and how much was solid on the bottom?”

“Not much at all.”

Fred scoffed.

As Pellam wrote down the name, Fred grimaced. “There are a couple others. Bill Shecker’s Army & Navy, over on 106, about three miles north of here.”

Pete was thinking furiously. “Oh, there’s also R&W. They’re out on Nine too. That’s Nine also, I mean. Not Ninety-two.”

Fred nodded. “Yeah, forgot about them.”

Nick returned. The table was stacked with bottles, a forest of glossy brown. The bartender cleared some away and the game resumed. Pellam watched the cards flying out from under Nick’s thick hands.