Shallow Graves (9 page)

“I’m not suggesting you do.”

Moorhouse held his hands up. “So. That’s it. There’s nothing more to be said.”

“I guess not.”

Moorhouse’s wattle stretched as he broke into a shallow smile. He opened his desk. “Now, we’ve got a ticket for you. . . . Ha, that’d be an
airline
ticket. Not parking.”

“Oh, I’m not leaving.”

“You’re not . . .”

“Leaving.”

“Uh-huh. I see.”

Pellam said, “Real pretty around here. The leaves and everything.”

“We do get tourists from around the world.”

Pellam said, “I can understand why.”

“So, you’re just going to look at some leaves for a while?”

“Well, see without those permits I’m out of a job. So may as well take a bit of a vacation.”

“Vacation.” The Scotch tape got chewed and the eyebrows moved a fraction of an inch closer. “That’s wonderful. I’m glad our little burg made an impression on you. Uhm, one thing I’d mention, for your benefit. You’ve got that camper of yours. Which you can’t park on the town streets two to six a.m. You’ll get yourself a ticket, you do.” The grin tightened. “That’s parking.
Not
airline. Ha.”

“And I’ll bet that’s enforced pretty well.”

“Tom and his boys do their best.”

Pellam walked to the door. He stopped. “The car?”

“Car, sir?”

Damn, gotta learn how to say that.
Sir, sir, sir, sir. . . .
It seemed very Zen. Like a mantra.

“The car Marty was in. The one that burned. You still have it in custody, don’t you?”

“Believe it’s been sold.”

“In two days?”

“Sold for scrap.”

“But how?”

“Selling a car’s easy, sir.”

“I mean, there’ll be lawsuits, won’t there? There’ll be some kind of investigation.”

“The police investigation ended with the coroner’s report. You curious, you’ll have to ask the rental place.”

“Obliged for your help. . . .” Pellam opened the door. He turned back and nodded. “Sir.”

MEG TORRENS LISTENED
to the familiar squeak of her chair as she sat back. It was the oldest chair in
an old office, a teacher’s dark oak chair with an elaborate spring mechanism underneath a carved seat that matched no posterior she’d ever seen.

“Wex,” Meg said, “I can promise you, they aren’t going to go with less than R-1. This is Cleary P&Z you’re talking about.”

Wexell Ambler sat across from her and looked unhappily at the survey in front of him.

The midmorning lull was in full swing at Dutchess Realty Company. In residential real estate evenings and Saturdays were the hectic times though that was an adjective Meg doubted could ever legitimately describe business in Cleary (No, Mr. Pellam, you are one hundred percent on point there: people
aren’t
busy in Cleary. Never have been, never will be). The small office, littered with three desks and unmatched chairs, scarred bookcases, an eclectic assortment of lamps, which were always illuminated because the window awning had been frozen in the down position for a year. The room was decorated with one yellowing ficus tree, some primitive paintings of houses one broker’s daughter had done in grade school and a huge roll-up map of Cleary and environs, which made the town look more impressive than it ever could in person.

Ambler twisted the survey several ways and studied it. None of the positions cheered him up.

Wex Ambler was a tall man—six four. Lean. In his early fifties. He was thin on top, with a few renegade tufts of fine hair going in different directions. He had a long face and he continually reminded himself to keep his chin high; otherwise his neck flesh became a small wattle. He played golf, he jogged two miles a day and was a member of the town council.
He believed (one of the few things he had in common with most of the rest of the local population) that he was the wealthiest man in Cleary. He owned Fox-wood, the one apartment complex in town, and was the most successful real estate developer in this part of the county. (Real estate and death of a rich relative being the only ways people in Cleary could come by real money.)

Meg’s co-broker of the day, a horsy, blond woman named Doris, was ticking off items on her to-do list with a tiny flick of a mechanical pencil. “Ah, huh,” she said with each accomplishment. Meg fired a look of irritation at the self-congratulations—Doris missed it completely—and she turned back to Ambler.

“They’re not . . .” Ambler searched for a word. “Progressive.”

Meg laughed, her expression saying: You just figured that out about Cleary?

She knew that Ambler had told a number of people—his ex-wife, his associates, even virtual strangers—that his life goal was not to amass a huge reservoir of money. What he loved was the entrepreneurial process itself. It didn’t matter what he did, as long as the challenge was there. The process held more intrigue and excitement than the capital gains held satisfaction.

Still, he told her now, “The difference to me between three-quarter acre lots and two acres . . .” He looked up, calculated. “. . . is about eight million dollars. Total. For all lots.”

“But that’s pretax,” she said seriously, frowning. She was trying to joke.

Ambler wasn’t amused. “A variance’ll take forever.”

Meg said, “It’s the best land north of the city. It’s—”

“Meg.” Doris interrupted her jotting. “There. That’s him. Didn’t squash him so bad, looks like.”

She looked up and watched a thin man in jeans walk down Main Street.

“Is that. . . ?” Meg asked.

“Yup,” Doris said.

Ambler’s eyes followed him. “Who?”

Doris turned to him with an excited face. “Didn’t you hear? The man from the movie company. Meg ran into him in her car.” She smiled at Meg and continued to tick away on her list.

But Ambler said, “I know. I heard. I heard you went to his hotel room.”

Meg blinked. Doris’s head shot up. She stopped ticking.

Ambler shook his head. “I meant his
hospital
room.”

Meg’s eyes flared. “I went to see how he was.”

Doris said, “You didn’t tell me that.”

Meg said, “Did you hear about his partner?”

“No,” Doris asked.

“The accident?” Meg continued.

“What accident?” Ambler looked at her.

“I don’t know much about it. Just that he was smoking dope and it blew up. Killed him.”

“My God,” Doris said, “the fire in the park?”

“That was it, yeah.”

Ambler said nothing. He stared out the window.

Doris said, “Tough luck, honey. You know, Mr. Ambler, last week, after those boys showed up, all Meg was talking about was trying to get an audition. . . .”

“Doris,” Meg barked.

Doris said to Ambler, “Meg did some modeling in Manhattan, you know. She was in
Vogue
and
Self
a couple times.
Woman’s Day.”

“I think I knew that,” Ambler said.

Doris continued, girlishly. “I know you were trying to get an audition, but—”

“Enough!”

“—running him over’s a hell of a way to do it.”

Meg mouthed
Bitch
at Doris, who blinked and retreated to her ticks.

Ambler’s eyes left hers and he looked out the window, staring across the street. Meg noticed this. She zeroed in on Pellam, who stood in front of Marge’s, opening a Styrofoam coffee cup.

He said, “What’s he doing here?”

Meg answered, “They were looking for places to shoot a movie. He’s a location scout.”

“No, I mean, why hasn’t he left town? If his friend died . . .”

Doris said, “Well, I talked to Danny, the guy works afternoons at Marge’s? He said he heard from Betty in Moorhouse’s office that he’s staying for a while.”

“He is?” Meg and Ambler asked simultaneously.

“That’s what Betty told Danny.”

“So they’re going to do a movie after all?” Ambler said.

Doris said, “Dunno.”

Meg stared out the window, sighting on Pellam through the reversed letters. She kept her eyes there and said, “Look, Wex, I hear what you’re saying but look at some of the features. It’s practically flat; you’re going to need zero grading. And clearing? Only
a quarter of the whole package is trees and they’re shallow-root pine. You don’t even
have
to touch that, unless you build with leaching fields toward the trees.”

“I’m not saying I don’t want those plots. I’m saying I don’t want two-acre zoning. If I had my way I’d want half-acre.”

She frowned. One of Ambler’s employees was Mayor Hank Moorhouse’s wife. He thus had connections at city hall. Meg didn’t know what he was complaining about. She said, “Why don’t you just do fifty by seventy-fives? Burn out the trees and Lefrack it? Put in cinder block.” There was irritation in her voice.

They both realized they’d been negotiating while they were looking out the window. They simultaneously turned to face each other. Ambler stood up. Meg frowned. She wondered if she’d offended him. He said, “I’ll have to think about it.”

“I’ve got another developer interested,” Doris said.

“Who?”

“Ralph Weinberg.”

“Oh. Him,” Ambler said. “You’d rather sell to a . . . to someone like him?”

“His money’s as good as anyone’s.”

Ambler was quiet for a moment. “I can’t think about it now. I’m sorry.”

TO SLEEP IN A SHALLOW GRAVE/
BIG MOUNTAIN STUDIOS

FADE IN:

EXTERIOR DAY, GRAVEYARD, BOLT’S CROSSING, NEW YORK

CREDITS ROLL, as we see VARIOUS ANGLES on the cemetery. Uneven tombstones of granite, chipped and broken, thumbed down by the weather. The grass is anemic, the lighting bland, ghostly, like the bones buried here.

Pellam tossed back the bourbon and bent over his typewriter.

He had stopped by the funeral home to pay for shipping Marty’s casket back to L.A. but had found the charges had already been taken care of, courtesy of Alan Lefkowitz. He’d spent a few silent minutes alone with Marty in the back room of the funeral home that had arranged for the shipment. A loading dock, really. He’d wanted to say something. But could think of absolutely no words. He found a Bible in a small chapel near the room where the casket rested. He looked for three or four minutes to find a passage that he liked. Nothing applied. He put the Bible back, touched the smooth, heavy coffin, and returned to the Winnebago.

Outside, it was a windy night, and the camper rocked slightly, reminding him of a boat, though he’d only been on water once or twice in his life. Subterranean noises rose from his stomach. The dinner of ham with fruit sauce he’d eaten at the Cedar Tap wasn’t sitting well.

He returned to his typewriter, a small German portable. He hammered away.

. . . the graveyard is on a plateau. One hill eases down to the cemetery from the crest of the piney woods. On the other side the land glides down to the river. From that point of stability you go
into the town itself. An old cannon is small and overpainted, just like the park benches. The storefronts are bleached out and full of antiques no one wants, hardware that no one needs. The town has managed something remarkable—absorbed fatigue and turned it into a fuel that runs a thousand small-town dreams.

ANGLE: A flagpole rung by its windblown rope like a bell.

ANGLE: A roaring 4x4 with exhaust bubbling driven by a YOUNG MAN, who grins at a TEENAGE GIRL. He’s your perfect citizen of Cleary: snotty, confident, comforting as long as you share his race and ancestry. We FOLLOW the truck to—

LONG ANGLE: A motorcycle coming toward us, a man in his thirties driving slowly. There’s something ominous about him. He—

The car door outside the Winnebago startled him. He’d seen the lights through the curtain, but, absorbed in writing, hadn’t noticed they weren’t continuing around the curve and disappearing.

“Hey, Pellam, you in there? I saw the light.” A woman’s voice.

He opened the door.

“Hi there,” he said and let Janine in.

“I was just passing by . . . You know.” She laughed and set a shopping bag on the table. She surveyed the rooms. “Reminds me of, know what? An airplane.”

What was that smell? It entered with her. He thought of newly mown grass. He looked outside then shut the door and locked it.

“This is luxury,” he said. “At the studio they call these honey wagons.”

“Why’s that?”

“There are several theories,” he said. “None of which I really ought to go into.”

“Look, I heard about your friend. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“What happened?”

Pellam believed that grief, like joy, was best explained simply. “Car accident.”

“That’s so sad. Terrible.” She looked like she meant it and he wondered if she was going to start crying. He really hoped she wouldn’t. She said, “What I was saying the other day, about Cleary? You read about car crashes every week in the
Leader.
” She surveyed him and nodded toward his thigh (scary about these small-town rumors—man, they spread fast). “How’re
you
 ?”

“Right muscle. Wrong leg. I’ll be okay.”

The sorrow in her voice was gone; he was grateful that she’d expressed it but hadn’t overdone the emotion.

“I’ll give it a massage. I studied Rolfing.”

“Maybe later. It’s a bit tender right now.”

She studied the camper carefully. Her eyes lingered on the one decoration: A New York Film Festival poster of Abel Gance’s
Napoleon.
She kept giving faint little laughs, as each new thing she noticed surprised her.

“I heard they aren’t going to do the movie here.”

“True.”

“But you’re staying?”

“True also. I got fired.”

“No! Why?”

“It’s Hollywood.”

“What a downer.” She didn’t look real down, though. She touched his arm. “I’m sorry about the movie but I’m glad about you.”

He didn’t respond.

She waited a few seconds then let go and looked around again. “Don’t you get claustrophobic?”

“It’s not bad.”

“I’m not disturbing you?” Though as she said it she was sitting down in the small dining alcove, making herself at home.

There are times to say, Yes, you are, and times to say, No, when asked that question.