"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."

19

"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 backroom. 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 backroom 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 Motley 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 Motley 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 everyday.

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.