Bloody River Blues: A Location Scout Mystery Read Free Page B

What the hell was it? Please, dear Mother of our Lord, let me remember . . .
    He fell asleep trying to remember the Word and when he awoke a short time later he was still trying to remember it. Sitting across from him were two men in rumpled suits. When he looked at them he smiled.
    “Hey, he’s smiling.” The man who said this was blond and square-jawed.
    “Yo, Donnie,” the other man said, “I won’t ask how you’re doing, ’cause your answer’s gonna be: what a dumb-ass question—I feel like shit.” He was dark-complected, with short, slick hair. He looked at Buffett with real affection. He gripped Buffett’s hand warmly.
    “They got me from behind. There was another one behind me.”
    Bob Gianno, the dark-complected detective, continued, “The mayor’s coming down to see you. He wants to wish you luck.”
    Luck? Why do I need luck? I’ve been lucky. I don’t need luck. What I need is to get out of this bed.
    Buffett’s lips were rising and falling.
    “What’s that?” Richard Hagedorn, the blond detective, leaned forward.
    “Why can’t I . . .” He shook his head and said indignantly, “I had my body armor on.”
    “He got you below it. That’s what they said at the press conference.”
    “Oh.” Press conference? There was a press conference about me ?
    Gianno said, “We met your wife, Donnie. She’s really pretty.”
    Buffett nodded blankly.
    The detective continued, “Guess you know why we’re here. What can you tell us about the hit?”
    The periphery faded fast, dissolving again into a million black dots. Yellow light, white light. His organs seemed to shift. Floating. He felt deep pain that was all the more terrifying because it did not seem to hurt. He tried to remember the word. The Word. The WORD. The answer lies in the Word.
    “I . . .” His voice ended in a rasp. He inhaled hard.
    “Maybe we should—” Hagedorn began but Buffett wiped sweat away from his face with the blanket and said, “All I saw was one perp. Cauc, balding, dark hair. Back was to me, I didn’t make the face. Thirty-five maybe.” A pause. The air hissed in over the dry tissue of his mouth and burned like alcohol on a cut. “Make him five ten, eleven. Weighed one ninety. Wearing a dark jacket, shirt, jeans, I think. I don’t remember. Had a big gun.”
    “A .44.”
    “Forty-four,” Buffett said slowly. “The other one, the one shot me . . .”
    “You make him at all?”
    Buffett shook his head no. Then asked, “Who was the hit?”
    “Vince Gaudia and some squeeze.”
    “Man,” Buffett whispered reverently. “Gaudia.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Peterson’s gonna be pissing red.”
    Hagedorn said, “Hell with Peterson. We’re gonna get the scumbag that did you, Donnie.”
    Buffett said, “I didn’t see the third one, either.”
    “Third one?” Hagedorn asked. He and Gianno exchanged glances.
    “The guy in the Lincoln.”
    “What Lincoln?” Gianno was taking notes.
    “Dark Lincoln. It was parked across the street. I didn’t get tag numbers.” Buffett coughed. “I want some water.”
    Hagedorn went into the john and got a glass.
    He handed it to Buffett, who hesitated then said, “I might puke.”
    Gianno said, “I seen worse than cops barfing.”
    Buffett didn’t puke, though, and he handed the empty glass back to Hagedorn with triumph. “Best thing I ever had in my mouth.”
    The men laughed; there was no need to say aloud any of the three punch lines that materialized simultaneously in three different minds.
    Gianno asked, “The guy in the Lincoln. Was he getaway?”
    “No, he drove off by himself. Maybe it was somebody who had to ID the hit.”
    “Naw,” Gianno said, “everybody knows what Gaudia looks like. He’s a cover boy. Well, looked like.”
    Buffett said, “Well, maybe it was the guy who hired baldy.”
    “Some big fish? I wonder. Donnie, you got any idea who was inside?”
    “No, but I saw a guy who did.”
    “There’s a