Shallow Graves (26 page)

“How can you say that?” he spat out.

“It’s what I feel.”

“What happened?”

She couldn’t look into his eyes. “No. It’s run its course. I was searching for something. I—”

“You’re going back to Keith.”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re in love with that man, Pellam. Right?”

The hesitation must have seemed huge to him, though for Meg it lasted only a second. “No, I’m not.”

Ambler stepped away from her. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“I knew it,” he said bitterly. “I knew from the minute you heard there was going to be a movie in town, you were going after him. What did you want? For him to sweep you away to be a star?”

“Wex, come on. . . .”

“Don’t you remember? We were lying in bed—”

“Shhh!” She raised her palm to silence him.

“—and it was the first day they came into town, in that damn camper of theirs, and all you talked about was making a movie. How much you wanted to act.”

“Maybe I did. I want to be successful at something. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

“Meg, you can’t just go start a Hollywood career. You—”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Did he fuck you?” His voice was loud.

“Be quiet!” She whirled to face him. “You can’t come to my house and talk to me that way!”

He grabbed her arm. She winced. Then he calmed, reached forward and touched her face. Her eyes focused behind him, where a fast burst of light from the opening door would warn that Sam was on his way outside. “I love you, Meg. You don’t know how much. I want to be with you. I’m
going
to be with you.”

“Wex, it’s never been right. Not here. Cleary isn’t the kind of place for this sort of thing. I see how wrong it was.”

“You make it sound cheap. It wasn’t that.” His whisper was harsh.

“I didn’t mean it that way. I don’t regret anything. I just . . .”

He stared down at her for a moment then released her suddenly. Ambler turned and walked down the steps.

Meg felt the vacuum of his leaving. There was too much unresolved. Wex Ambler had been her only lover. Was this how affairs always ended? Punctuated more with question marks and ellipses than exclamation points? She leaned against the banister and watched him—without a glance toward her—get into his Cadillac.

He drove slowly away. She saw the flash of his brake lights as he paused at the road—paused just long enough to let the Winnebago turn up her driveway. Then Ambler hit the accelerator hard and vanished into the night.

THEY’RE WAITING FOR
me to say grace, he decided.

Meg and Sam were looking at him, expectation in their faces. Pellam cleared his throat. In front of him, on the Sunday-set table, was a veal roast that would have fed enough men to rake up all six acres of leaves on the Torrens estate in half an hour. A huge bowl of beans and one of salad. Another plate was loaded with potato pancakes. He and Meg were drinking the white wine; Sam had a glass of milk.

That’s what they’re waiting for. Grace. What do I do now?

They’d settled in their chairs, candles were lit, and their eyes turned toward him. Then, as the seconds rolled past slowly, they looked at each other.

Pellam unrolled his sleeves and buttoned his cuffs to buy time. Meg said, “Well?”

“Last time I did this must be twenty years ago. I don’t remember it too well.”

She was frowning. “Twenty years?”

“Well, I don’t say grace in the camper.”

And Meg was laughing, her wineglass in her hand rocking, spilling the blond liquid over her fingers.

“Pellam . . . No. We’re just waiting for you to carve the roast.”

“Oh.” He covered his face with his hands and laughed. Sam said, “I can say grace, Mr. Pellam. Here goes: Over the lips and past the gums, look out stomach, here it comes! Amen.”

Pellam picked up the knife and serving fork and went to work. The first couple pieces crumbled. “Can I at least pray for help in carving?”

It was an hour into the meal when the eeriness settled on him. A feeling he couldn’t pin down. It happened when he was laughing at one of Sam’s jokes, one that Pellam himself had told to death thirty years before, and he glanced up at Meg. Their eyes met, and for one moment, a pivotal moment, there was no movie, no studio, no camper, no Keith, just a universe centered around the three of them.

And the instant he thought how comfortable and natural it seemed, the moment ended and he became anxious.

Pellam surveyed his massive wedge of blueberry pie. Meg said to his protesting palm, “Pellam, you’re too skinny.”

He ate two pieces.

When they’d finished dessert Pellam helped Meg clear the table. Sam asked, “Mr. Pellam, tomorrow can you teach me to shoot
your
gun?”

“What gun’s that?” Meg asked.

Pellam told her about the Colt.

Meg said, “I’m not real crazy about pistols. But . . .” She looked at her son. “You listen to everything Mr. Pellam tells you.”

As if that needed to be said.

“Totally excellent!” the little boy squealed.

Meg said, “Next you’ll be teaching him poker.”

Pellam laughed.

The two of them sat in the living room for a while, sipping coffee, the unidentified feeling ebbing and flowing within Pellam. He couldn’t tell whether he wanted to stay, wanted to leave. One thing he knew for sure—he definitely wanted to leave before Keith came home.

The phone rang. Meg went to answer it and returned a moment later. She didn’t say who the caller was. But now she too seemed uneasy.

What the hell’re you doing here? he thought to himself. She’s married, she’s got a lover . . . You don’t need those kinds of troubles. He rose. “I better go.”

“You sure?”

No. But he said, “Better. Still have a few things to do.”

“Sunday night?”

He nodded. Then asked, “Got a favor.”

“Sure.”

“You have a bottle of whiskey I can borrow?”

“Borrow?”

“No, now you mention it, make that
have.”

“After-dinner drink?”

“Little more complicated than that.”

“Sure.” She smiled in curiosity. And dug down under a cabinet and emerged with a half-full bottle of Wild Turkey.

“That’s the cheapest you’ve got?” Pellam picked up the bottle.

“’Fraid so. Say, what’re you going to do, teach my little boy to shoot, gamble
and
drink?”

Pellam hefted the bottle, hugged her. “Thanks again, ma’am. You make a mean meal. See you tomorrow.”

“
AH, IT’S THE
gunslinger’s grandson,” said Fred, who squinted his red, retiree’s face and studied Pellam’s cuts and bruises. “Hell, what happened to you?” He ordered two Buds.

“Had an accident.”

“Another one?”

Pellam said, “I’m an unlucky guy sometimes. What can I say?”

“No fooling—you all right?” the old man asked with genuine concern.

“Fine, no problem.”

“Weekends’re rough around here. All those tourists. What’d you do, get in the way of somebody taking a picture of a leaf? Hey, how about a game?”

“Can’t tonight, Fred.”

“What’s this shit I hear about you not making a movie here?”

“Talk to the town council about it.”

“Buncha old SOBs. Shit, there goes my Hollywood career.”

Pellam asked, “Where can I find Nick?”

“The kid we were playing with th’other night?” Fred’s head was swiveling. “Was here a few minutes
ago. “Maybe he’s in the back room. That’s where they got what they call the restaurant.”

Pellam finished the beer. He lifted the bottle in thanks.

“Hey, Pellam, Burt Reynolds ain’t available, gimme a call.”

In the back room Pellam found Nick sitting at a table with another man, skinny, long hair, a couple years his junior—maybe eighteen. Nick had a bowl of soup in front of him. He hunched over it, putting slippery noodles into his mouth.

“Hi, Nick.” Pellam pulled up a chair. Nick waved then returned to the soup. It looked like Campbell’s. What else at the Cedar Tap?

Nick said, “This here’s Rebo. This’s Pellam, the guy you heard about, makes the movies.”

Rebo’s eyes went wide. He grinned. “Wow, movie man.” They shook hands.

“How you doing?” Pellam asked.

“Wow.”

Pellam turned to Nick. “Hey, Nick, why I stopped by, my studio’s looking for somebody like you.”

“Yeah?” The big man took some more sips of soup. “You still making that movie? I heard you weren’t.”

“This’s another movie. I remembered you’re into wheels.”

“I’m like sorta into wheels.”

“They need a driver, a stunt driver. But he’s got to be good.”

Rebo, chewing a wad of hamburger, said, “Oh, he’s good. Nick’s a good driver.” Rebo’s T-shirt said
Mötley Crüe 1987 Tour.

“You interested?”

A grin snuck into the fat in the boy’s cheeks. “Well, I guess.”

“The only thing is, you think you could show me what you can do? Like an audition?”

“I guess.”

“How about now?”

“It’d be Sunday night.”

“They need somebody soon. Next weekend. If I can’t get anybody we’ll have to bring in somebody from the Coast.” Pellam tossed him a bone: “You’ll get screen credit.”

“A credit?”

“And the pay’s great. A thousand bucks for one stunt.”

Rebo’s eyes were getting bigger. “Hey, man, tell him about your car.”

“Well . . .”

The Mötley Crüe boy steamed ahead. “Pontiac GT. He put in a Chevy 442 all by his lonesome.”

Nick’s grin was back, spreading like a sunrise. “Hurst shifter,” he said. “Did that myself too.”

Pellam whistled. “You sure know your hardware. How ’bout it?”

Nick shrugged. “Let’s go.”

Rebo stood up but Pellam shook his head. “Just gotta be the two of us. Insurance problems, you understand.”

Rebo nodded and dropped back into his seat as if Duane Allman himself had told him to sit.

Outside they walked to the car and Pellam looked around. The streets of Cleary were deserted. He said, “Oh, let me get something.” He disappeared into the camper for a minute and came out with the
bottle of Wild Turkey. He handed it to Nick. The boy looked at it but shook his head. “Maybe afterwards, man. Not a good idea if I’m going to be doing high-speed work.”

They walked to Nick’s black Pontiac.

High-speed work.
Like he did it every day.

Pellam unscrewed the lid of the bottle. Nick watched him, frowning.

“You don’t drink and drive?” Pellam asked. “That’s funny. You were the other night. I could smell it. On top of your aftershave. That’s what I recognized. Brut, right?”

The eyes were fishy and the grin came back. “The fuck’re you saying?”

Pellam nodded toward the car. “Heard your car this afternoon, thought it sounded familiar. Then checked it out and smelled that same drugstore aftershave inside. Didn’t your mother raise you with any class?”

“Huh?”

“How’s your friend with the broken nose? I hope he’s in a lot of pain.”

“You fucking crazy?” He’d turned solemn as a mortician.

“I know, you’re going to tell me it was nothing personal.”

“What wasn’t personal?” But the eyes disclosed all the facts. Nick paused then said, “You got me good.” He touched his jaw. “I won’t be eating solid food for a week. My tongue’s sore as a whore’s tit. Why didn’t you tell Moorhouse?”

“What good would it’ve done? He’d let you go, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So he was in on it, right?”

“In on what?”

“Paying you to beat the crap out of me and plant the drugs?”

“I don’t know what—”

The Colt appeared in a flash, pointed straight into the boy’s belly.

“Shit,” he whispered. “Oh, God, mister.”

“Who paid you—” Pellam paused. Suddenly he was curious. “How much was it?”

“A hundred bucks.”

“That’s
all?
That’s crap.”

“No, man, no. It’s totally true. I swear.”

Pellam felt insulted. “You should’ve charged more. Now tell me who?”

“We didn’t have nothing against you. We heard—”

“Who?” Pellam whispered viciously and cocked the Colt, praying that his thumb wouldn’t slip off the hammer. The gun was loaded with 130-grain, .45 caliber bullets. The boy was fat but he wouldn’t even slow up a slug that size.

Both hands in front of him, palms out. “Okay. Fine. Listen, I’m going—”

“Asked you a question,” Pellam growled.

“—to tell you. Just put that—”

“Who?”

“Mr. Ambler. Wexell Ambler. Well, was a guy works for him—name’s Mark, but I don’t know his last name, I swear I don’t. This guy Mark talked to Mayor Moorhouse and they wanted me and my friend to rough you up a bit.”

“Where’s he live? The Ambler?”

Pellam touched Nick’s chest with the Colt. A good way to get directions fast. Nick became a regular Triple A guidebook. “Barlow Mountain Road. Just off Route Nine, north. Past the Shell station. Go two hundred yards past then make a left. Really, mister, I didn’t have nothing against you.”

“Well, what’s
he
got against me?”

“I don’t know, swear to God. Please, mister, point that someplace else.”

Pellam aimed at the ground before he eased the hammer to half-cock then slowly spun the cylinder to put an empty chamber beneath the hammer, which he then lowered all the way. He held the gun in his right hand while he handed the whiskey bottle to Nick with his left.

“Take a drink.”

Nick’s voice shook as he said, “I don’t want to take a drink.”

“We both want you to.” Pellam pointed the Colt at him again.

“Oh, shit, come on—”

“Drink it down.”

Nick took a swallow.

“Come on, a couple more. Drink like a man. You hit like a girl. At least drink like a man.”

“Fuck you, Pellam,” he wheezed.

“You tried that. It didn’t work. Drink.”

When he’d gotten down five, six good mouthfuls, Pellam took the bottle and threw it, open, into the GT.

“Aw, shit, what you want to do that for?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. I’ve evened things up a bit. You’re a little bigger’n me but now you’re a little
drunker. So we’re driving out of town and I’m going to whip your ass one on one.”