Bloody River Blues

finance Central Standard Time.
    She handed it to him and headed back toward a cluster of actors but got no farther than Stace Stacey, who encircled her waist and rose on tiptoe to whisper something in her ear. She giggled.
    Pellam unfolded the fax. It took a whole page of producer-babble for Marty Weller to break the news to him that Tri-Star was going to be picking up Paramount’s fallen standard and financing the terrorist script, which Weller would be producing in lieu of Central Standard Time. The Hungarians were going to Tri-Star with him. They asked Weller to say hello to Pellam, whom they felt they knew already and whom they had dubbed the American Auteur . They hoped that perhaps in the future they all might work together on a “clever-scripted, hey knock-em-dead cult film noir project.”
    Pellam folded the paper and slipped it into his back pocket. He lifted another champagne off a passing tray. He closed his eyes and rubbed the cold flute over his forehead.
    Stace returned a moment later. He was without the secretary but the expression on the arms master’s face was not that of a rejected man. He smiled agreeably and said to Pellam, “Tomorrow morning, let’s youand me go shooting, what do you say? We’ll take the Charter Arms and the Dan Wesson and shoot up some cans. Maybe they even have rattlesnakes around here.”
    Pellam opened his mouth to make excuses, but then he said, “As long as I don’t have to get up too early, Stace.”
    “Oh, no, sir. Film’s over. We’re on vacation now.”
    THE BASKETBALL COURT on Leonard Street in Maddox is closed most of the time. It’s part of a school playground but because of budget cutbacks, the Department of Education can’t afford to keep it open when school’s not in session, and the gate is locked at 5:00 P.M. Not that it matters much; the local kids have pried apart enough chain link gate to slip through for pickup games any time they want.
    The court is asphalt. There’s a lot of graffiti on the brick walls surrounding it—names of kids and gangs and some of those flashy, three-dimensional block letters and drawings that the talented punks do. But the asphalt itself is clean as black marble in a church. Nobody messes with foul lines.
    Tonight, a mild, humid night in December, two men are at the fence. The opening in the gate would be big enough for them to pass through if one of the men weren’t in a wheelchair. It’s a small chair, gunmetal blue and sporty, with wheels tilted; at the top, they’re closer together than at the bottom. The man who is standing looks around and takes a geared, carbon-tempered bolt cutter from a large, cylindrical canvas sports bag. He props one long handle on his hip and, using both hands on the other handle, severs one side of a link of chain, then the other.
    They enter the court. The man in the chair speeds forward under the thrusts of his powerful arms, which are dark with hair.
    Pellam says, “Go easy with an old man, huh?”
    It takes a while for Donnie Buffett to get used to dribbling but he’s played good offense for years and knows how to keep the ball away from his body while controlling it. He does have a problem, though, because he can only coast in for a shot: If he uses his arm to move forward, he goes in circles. What he does is, he sets the ball on his lap and speeds in for the lay-up.
    Pellam whistles loudly through his teeth and cries, “Traveling.”
    “So what’re you back in town for?” Buffett asks him after sinking the shot. “That Missouri River movie?”
    “Nope. That’s in post production now. July release date. I’m suing the director for my fee and credit.”
    “That’s a hassle.”
    “Goes with the territory. I just came back to do some scouting for another script.”
    “What’s this one called?”
    “Central Standard Time.”
    “Sounds boring. Who’s going to be in it? You should cast Geena Davis. I really like her. Or Shelley Long. You ever watch Cheers ?”
    “Nobody’s in it. Nobody’s even making it yet. When I was here I saw some locations that looked pretty good. I wanted to check them out this time of year. That’s when the story takes place. Winter.”
    “That’s pretty wild. Two movies in one year. Maybe Maddox’ll be the new Hollywood.”
    “Hollywood started out as a desert,” Pellam tells him.
    “How long you here for?”
    “A week or two. Then I’m heading on to my mother’s place, upstate New York, for the holidays.”
    Buffett usually