"Speed, I think."

"And it's illegal?"

Mark scoffed. "Illegal? A class 1-A controlled substance."

"What do you suppose it's worth? What's the, what do they say on the news, what's the street value?"

"You're asking me?" Mark said, his voice high with surprise. "What difference does it make?"

"Can't arrest someone just 'cause you saw him drop it." Though when Moorhouse thought about this, he wasn't so sure. Maybe you could. He wondered where you could look that up. Cleary had a town attorney.

Mark smiled amiably and leaned toward Moorhouse in a way that he thought of as doing what he did best. "Then we'll have to think a little harder."

Moorhouse's eyes kept circling in on the packet like a mosquito over flesh. "I don't know."

The brown envelope hit the desk with a slap. Moorhouse jumped, hesitated a moment, then picked it up. He glanced up at Mark, who said, "There's three thousand dollars in there."

Moorhouse thumbed through the bills. "Take your word for it. Where'd it come from?"

"Let's say a bunch of folk took up a collection. We don't think this guy should be here any longer. Movie ain't gonna be made here. No reason for him to hang around."

"So what's this for?" Moorhouse asked, before he realized he shouldn't be asking.

"A magistrate's fee you could call it."

His eyes darted from the money to the white packet.

He slipped the envelope in his desk and poked the powder, soft as baby talcum, with the end of his Cross pen.

He had three shots of Wild Turkey-trying to convince himself that he was celebrating-and lay back in the camper, listening to Willy Nelson sing Crazy.

Pellam had this theory that made for a very optimistic life. You kept considering the worst that could happen to you and then, when it didn't, whatever did happen wasn't so bad.

Who couldn't be cheerful with that kind of philosophy?

So, close to drunk, Pellam told himself that the worst had happened. A, he'd gotten fired from a job he needed and B, that was the one job in the world-outside of being independently wealthy-that he was temperamentally suited for. C, the rumor would already be burning up Sunset Boulevard that he was personally responsible for cratering a damn fine movie. D, he still hadn't found the man who'd killed his friend. And E, the woman he was spending a lot of time thinking about was mad at him for some reason he couldn't for the life of him figure out (this would be Meg, not Janine. Or… oh, Trudie. Too late to call her today. He would tomorrow).

He heard the car pull up.

He hoped it would be Meg though he knew it wasn't. It'd be Janine. Pellam knew what had happened: the old man was balling his current old lady under a Da-Glo Hendrix poster and somebody got stood up.

Come on, Janine, please, baby. Free love. Give peace a chance. Up against the wall…

Pellam was whisky giddy, almost happy. The worst had happened. He was immune. And here was a big, horsy warm woman to bed down with.

The worst-

He swung open the door.

– had already happened.

The dirt and stones caught him square in the face before he got his hands halfway up to cover his eyes. He went blind. He inhaled a good bit of Cleary debris and started choking.

There were two of them. And one was big, a bear. He grabbed Pellam's shirt and pulled him easily out of the camper. He stumbled and, off balance, went down on his knees. Got dragged a few feet.

His eyes were burning, he was coughing loud and spitting out the bitter dirt.

"Come on, asshole, stand up," a brisk voice whispered. Arms slid under his chest. The bear tugged him up. Pellam uncoiled his legs. The top of his head collided with jaw.

"Shit, motherfucker! Cut my tongue. Shit, shit, shit!"

Pellam kicked out at the other, a smaller guy, who easily sidestepped the boot.

What he'd done-the lunging up-was just a reaction. But he knew it was a mistake. Guys like this, local tough guys, you don't play with. You just stay as clear away as you can, rolling and dodging until you get a good crack. You don't sting them; you hit them hard once or twice, really hard. Try to break their head. Make them think you're going to kill them. They'll leave, cussing you out and making it sound like you're not worth the trouble.

What happened was they'd come to have fun and Pellam had just pissed them off. Now they were mad.

The bear punched him hard on the first offered target-his shoulder, which didn't hurt much, but then he got him in a full nelson, pressed Pellam's chin down to his chest. Pellam was taller-so the bear couldn't lift him off the ground but the huge man kept him immobile. The other one came in for some low gut swings, right into the muscles, which knocked his wind out and sent blasts of nausea up through his chest. The bear said to no one, "My tongue bleeding? Shit, I think it is. Goddamn, that hurts."

Pellam opened his eyes but couldn't see a thing through the mud and tears. He gasped, "What do you want? You want money?"

The bear bent his head down further and the words got lost in a gurgle.

No, what they want is to beat the living crap out of me…

The smaller one came in close, aiming for Pellam's face, but couldn't get his fist in because the bear's fat elbows were in the way. "Hey, turn him loose for a second."

Which is when Pellam, gasped, shuddered and went completely limp.

"Shit, what happened?" The bear relaxed his grip.

"Is he dead? Fuck. What'd you do?"

"What'd I do? I didn't do nothing. I just-"

Pellam broke free, felt his shirt rip down the back as the bear grabbed for it and swung a feint with his left fist at the smaller assailant, who dodged to the side. Right into Pellam's sweeping right fist. The snap of the man's nose cartilage was real satisfying; the howl that accompanied it was even more delightful.

Pellam turned to meet the bear but the big man was already on top of him. He picked Pellam up, right off the ground. "So you want to play rough, huh?" he asked.

"I don't want to do anything! I want-"

The bear slammed him into the side of the camper. Something snapped but it sounded more like metal than bone. Pellam fell to the ground, gasping, then got to his knees. The bear was battering him wildly, connecting often enough so Pellam couldn't stand. The pain swirled through his body.

Finally he gave up, he lay still. Exhausted, gasping. "Enough. Okay."

In the distance was a siren. "Let's get out of here," the bear said.

"Oh, God, this hurts," his partner offered. "He broke my nose. He broke my fucking nose."

The bear whispered, "Shut up, will you?"

Pellam, trying to breathe, started to crawl under the camper. He felt the big hands reach down and grab him by the ankle. They pulled him back then reached into his pocket. Not his wallet pocket, which he would've expected, but his front shirt pocket. Why there? It was empty.

The siren wailed closer.

Pellam heard:

"Let's get the fuck outa here. Move it."

"My nose, man. You didn't-"

"Move it, asshole."

He heard doors slam, and the throaty, crisp sound of a motor firing up, a squeal of tires.

Pellam spit blood and tried to catch his breath. Fucking odd… He supposed it wasn't a robbery-they left his wallet and watch, ignored everything in the camper and only went through one pocket.

If they'd been here to deliver a get-out-of-town message they'd had plenty of time to deliver it but hadn't.

He coughed and made it halfway to a sitting position, lay back down.

The cop car skidded to a stop on the other side of the camper. The siren shut off and he saw the strobe of colored lights on the trees.

His hand strayed to the pocket the bear had rummaged through. He felt the present.