Triple Threat (14 page)

“They—”

“—even if they got themselves propelled there by the quote force of the impact.”

Pellam kind of liked this sheriff and—as a stranger in a lot of towns—he’d come under some scrutiny in his day.

“And your jaw? How’d that happen?”

Pellam looked him in the eye, “Boom box.”

“Rap?”

“What?”

“You were listening to rap on a boom box and you fell?”

“You can listen to anything on a boom box. I was listening to country.”

“And…?” He pointed to the bandage.

“It hit me in the face when we went off the road.”

“Okay.” Said in the way that cops always say, “Okay.” Like they don’t exactly believe you and they don’t exactly not believe you. Then he took in the driver. “You’re from Hamlin. And Billings? You Ed Billings’s wife?”

“That’s right. You know Ed?”

“Not personal. Know some folks who’ve retired to one of his developments? Paso Verde.”

“That’s a big one, yeah.” She looked at her watch. “Popular.”

“And what’s your story, sir?”

Taylor said, “I’m headed to Berkeley.”

“Colorado?”

“California. Taking a poetry course there.”

“Okay.”

“I’m hitching from Denver to Hamlin.”

Hannah said, “I was driving back from some meetings in Colorado Springs. The Ford had a flat and he fixed it for me.”

“You have business in Hamlin?” the sheriff asked.

“I’m getting the Amtrak there. To Oakland.”

“Rather than from Denver.”

“Yup.”

“You got money for the train, why’re you hitchin’?” the sheriff asked.

Pellam thought these questions, while delivered pleasantly, were a bit intrusive, directed as they were to a man who, in this particular scenario, was an innocent bystander. But Taylor was happy to talk. “The experience of it.” He gave his enthusiastic little laugh again. “I’d hitch all the way if I had time. I mean, the whole point of life is experience. Right?”

“You’re not thumbing on the interstate, are you?”

“Ramps only,” Taylor said automatically. With a grin. He’d been through this before.

The sheriff looked at Hannah, who didn’t know the drill ahead of time, but caught on. She said sourly, “I was on Fourteen when I had the flat.”

Route 14—the highway where the pickup/camper run-in occurred.

“Okay. Now, I’m not writing anybody up.”

“Thank you, officer,” Taylor said. Though, once again, Pellam had no clue what he might get written up for. He was acting so easygoing that Pellam knew his pack had to be drug free.

Hannah
didn’t
say thanks; her beautiful but severe face gave off the message: I got rear-ended in my birthday truck. Why the hell was a citation even an issue?

Licenses and registrations were redistributed. Except Pellam’s. Which the sheriff thumbed slowly. “Now you, sir.”

“The brakes went.”

“I said I’m not citing anybody. But on that, you know you have an obligation to check your equipment.”

Pellam didn’t think he’d ever looked at a brake line. He doubted he could recognize one.

“What I’m curious about is, are you making movies here?”

When the sheriff had checked the VIN on the Winnebago’s dash he must have seen the Colorado Film Board’s location permit.

“That’s right. I’m a location scout for a film company based in L.A.”

“Really?” Hannah asked, her curiosity piqued for the first time and sour attitude on hold. Pellam got this a lot. He wondered if she’d ask for a walk-on part. He had an amusing image of her as a femme fatale; she had the right look and spirit to be a really good bad girl. Sexy, too, which was another requirement. In fact, he was scouting for a film noir at the moment, an indie titled
Paradice
.

“And you’re setting it here?” she asked.

“Well, I was going to recommend it. Came across this place east of here fifteen miles or so. What’s it called? Devil’s…?”

“Playground,” Hannah said, shaking her head. “Be a good setting for a Stephen King movie, that’s about all.”

Taylor asked, “That’s near where you picked me up, right? Spooky.”

It was. The place was nestled at the base of two mountains, a huge craggy plain of pits and arroyos. Bleak as could be. But extremely photogenic.

“But I called the county supervisor this morning. He won’t issue film permits.”

“Derek Westerholm?”

“That was him.”

“Hey, Hube, you just bought some land up near there, didn’t you?” Rita, the young waitress, piped up. “Near that lake?”

Hube, Pellam reflected. Hubert. No wonder he went by a solitary H.

The sheriff didn’t answer.

“Let him make his movie on your property,” Rita continued. “And, Mister, I’m available, you need a leading lady.”

Taylor said earnestly, “
I’ll
put you in a poem.”

Again, the Elvis-has-been-spotted look. Taylor’s hitchhiking-weathered face blushed.

“Okay, that’s all I need,” Werther said. “Just get those vehicles up to the law.”

“Whatta you mean?” Hannah asked.

“No brake light, no turn signals. No backup. You can’t drive without ‘em.”

“You’re kidding. It’s still daylight.”

“Still.”

“Where?” she asked, her eyes going, for some reason, to Pellam.

The sheriff answered, “Rudy’s. ‘Bout four blocks thataway. Best mechanic in town.”

“That the
only
one in town?” Pellam found himself asking.

“That’s right.” The sheriff gave him the phone number from memory.

Pellam asked, “He by any chance related to you?”

“Hah, that’s funny.” The sheriff’s smile might not have been real and Pellam reminded himself to watch it. He couldn’t afford to spend the night in jail on suspicion of fraternizing with empties in the front seat of a vehicle.

Ten minutes later Pellam and Hannah walked into the repair shop with the world’s most beautiful view.

The windows looked out over mountains to the west and north and craggy flats—salt or sand—to the east. Now, early afternoon, the peaks were lit brilliantly, the stunning light firing off the late spring snowcap. Way in the distance he noted a particularly impressive, elegant mountain. Was it Pike’s Peak? Probably not.

Hannah had driven them both here in her rear-light-challenged Ford, with an okay from Sheriff Werther. The Winnebago was gingerly towed to a spot in front of the service station and lowered to its damaged front paws.

The garage was filthy and cluttered. The owner, Rudy, came out of the bays smiling. He nodded, but from habit, didn’t shake hands. His fingers were black. He wore a Carhartt brown jacket, stained beyond saving. He smiled at them in a way that was only a bit like a cat regarding a plump mouse and started talking like they were old friends. He was rambling on about life here in Gurney, his family (one boy in the army, one girl in nursing school) and assorted relatives. “Hube’s a good man. You know, he’s got a grandkid with that autism problem. It’s pretty bad, needs special help a lot. Hube works two jobs. Sheriff and security at Preston Assembly plant. His wife, my sister—”

Pellam was content to let him go because, he figured, the more like friends and family this seemed, the less the chance of getting robbed blind. But Hannah wasn’t in the mood. She interrupted curtly, “You mind getting to those estimates? The pickup first.”

“Well now, I’ll do that.” With a crinkly-eyed look that meant he’d just added a hundred or two onto the bill.

He headed outside. So did Hannah, setting the Stetson firmly on her head, against the up-and-coming wind. She pulled her cigarettes out of her pocket but then looked at assorted open containers of liquids that might or might not be flammable. She grimaced and put the Marlboros away. She made some calls.

Pellam did, too, pulling up his antenna and finding an acceptable signal. He told the director that he’d been in an accident, which the man responded to with more or less genuine concern. When he learned that the county would not under any circumstances issue permits, the director had a more intense reaction.

“Fuckers. Why?”

“Fragile eco system.”

“Fragile? You told me it was rocks and sand.”

“Joe, that’s what they said. What they mean is that they don’t want horny actors and slutty actresses carousing around in their county.”

“We’re behind schedule, John.”

“I’ll get the camper fixed and head south tomorrow.”

A sigh. “Okay. Thanks.” The voice grew grave: “You okay, for sure?”

Concern in tone, not in spirit.

“Fine, Joe.”

He disconnected and happened to be looking at a map of the area. The Devil’s Playground area seemed to be the best locale for Paradice, the fictional town where the movie was set, as well as being the film’s title.

And Pellam laughed to himself, realizing that, damn, the indie was about a stranger coming to a small desert town, like Gurney, and getting into all sorts of trouble. There wasn’t much of a story to go with it, but sometimes—especially in noir—all you needed was a misspelled word in the title, some hunky lead and a sexy babe, and betrayal. Oh, and a fair amount of gunplay.

Hannah finished her own call, walked farther away from conflagration risks, and had a portion of a cigarette. Then she returned to the waiting room, staring out the window, too. She flopped down in a cracked fiberglass chair. “I told Ed. He wasn’t happy.”

Pellam got the impression she didn’t much care.

“Your husband, the real estate man.”

She looked at him as if asking, You heard that before. Why ask?

“Where’s Butch?” Pellam asked.

“Who?”

Oh. Right. “Taylor.”

“Headed to this little park in the middle of town. He wanted to write a poem.”

“A poem? He’s serious about that?”

Hannah continued, “Said he’d felt inspired by the experience of being out here. In a small western town.” She shook her head, meaning: I don’t get it. “There’s nothing to experience. Not here. Dust maybe, rednecks, losers, coyotes. Hamlin’s got a mall.”

Pellam wondered if the shopping center comment was delivered with the irony that seemed warranted. Apparently not.

A few minutes later the huge, bearded mechanic lumbered into the office, rearranging the grease on his fingers with a filthy rag.

“Damn shame ‘bout that pickup. Needin’ bodywork when you can still smell the new leather. That’s always the way, ain’t it? Now, miss, I got two options. First’ll get you home sooner: I can remove the old bulbs—that’s tricky since they’re busted—and then screw in new bulbs and mount the lenses. That’ll be four hundred eighty dollars. Number two, which I’d recommend, would include all that, plus the body work and replacing the hitch. You don’t want to tow nothing with it in that present condition. Paint, too.”

“And how much is that?”

“Twenty-eight fifty.”

Hannah squinted. “Really? I can have my guy in Hamlin do the bodywork for a thousand. The hitch is fine, I’ll buff off the scratches myself. And why’s that even an option? Didn’t your brother-in-law tell you I was in a hurry?”

“I—”

“So, we’re down to option one. And let’s think it through.”

“How’s that?”

She continued patiently. “You can get bulbs for six bucks a pop at NAPA, cheaper at Wal-Mart. I need four of them. The lenses? Let’s be generous. Fifty bucks each. Just need two. That’s a grand total of one twenty-four in parts. Labor? Now, the bulbs
aren’t
screw-mount, like you said. They’re bayonet.”

Rudy’s face had gone red beneath the smudges. “Well, I meant ‘screw,’ you know, in a like general sense.”

“I’m sure you did,” Hannah muttered. Which was really a very funny line, even if she didn’t seem to realize it. “You put a glove on. Right? Stick your finger into the broken base and push and twist. You can do all four in a minute or two. Takes you another five minutes to mount the new ones. So you’re basically charging me four hundred dollars for twenty minutes’ work. That’s a thousand dollars an hour. My lawyer doesn’t charge that. Does yours?” A look at Pellam.

“I don’t have a lawyer.” He did but he wasn’t going to get involved in this. He was enjoying himself too much.

Silence for a moment.

“I have overhead” was the only defense Rudy could mount.

From beneath her dark, silken eyebrows, she gazed unflinchingly into his evasive eyes.

“Two fifty,” he muttered.

“One fifty.”

“Two fifty.”

“One fifty,” Hannah said firmly.

“Cash?” came the uneasy riposte.

“Cash.”

“Okay. Jesus.” The mechanic sullenly retreated into his garage to fetch the tools.

Pellam glanced at the Winnebago. He had no talent whatsoever when it came to motor vehicles, except for the uncanny ability to attract state troopers when he was speeding. Rudy was going to hose him. Maybe he should have Hannah go over the estimate.

He walked to the vending machine and bought a Moon Pie. Pellam noted the “complimentary” coffee and thought about making a joke that it
better
say nice things about you because it looked like sludge. But Hannah just didn’t seem to be the sort to share clever comments with. He bought a vending machine instant coffee. Which wasn’t terrible, with the double milk powder.

“You really picked that fellow up?” Pellam asked her after a moment. “I clock a hundred thousand miles a year but I never pick up hitchers.”

“Even pretty women?”

“Especially them. Though I’ve been tempted.” A glance into her pale eyes. Then he grazed her tan.

She chose not to flirt back. “I normally wouldn’t’ve, but he did help me out. And I mean, really, a poet or grad student? He’s about as harmless as they come.”

“Still could be pretty dangerous,” Pellam said gravely.

She looked at him with consideration.

“What if he started reciting poetry at you?”

A blink. “Actually, he did. And it sucks.”

“You ever been to Berkeley?”

“No. I don’t travel much. Not out of the state.”

Pellam had scouted for a film there. The movie was about the regents at a fictional school, which happened to look a lot like UC-B, tear-gassing protesting students in the sixties, and the rise of the counterculture. All very politically correct. The critics liked it. Unfortunately most of the people who went to see it, which was not very many, did not. Pellam thought the concept had potential but the director had ignored his suggestions—because he was JTLC. And even though he’d been a successful director himself years ago, anyone who was Just-the-Location-Scout, like Just-the-Grip or even Just-the-Screenwriter, was bound to be ignored by God.