Chapter One
All he wanted was a case of beer.
And it looked like he was going to have to get it himself.
The way Stile explained it, "I can't hardly get a case of Labatts on the back of
a Yamaha."
"That's okay," Pellam said into the cellular phone.
"You want a six-pack, I can handle that. But the rack's a little loose. Which I
guess I owe you. The rack, I mean. Sorry."
The motorcycle was the film company's but had been issued to Pellam, who had in
turn loaned it to Stile. Stile was a stuntman. Pellam chose not to speculate on
what he had been doing when the rack got broken.
"That's okay," Pellam said again. "I'll pick up a case."
He hung up the phone. He got his brown bomber jacket from the front closet of
the Winnebago, trying to remember where he'd seen the discount beverage store.
The Riverfront Deli was not far away but the date of his next expense check was
and Pellam did not feel inclined to pay $26.50 for a case even if it had
been imported all the way from Canada.
He stepped into the kitchenette of the camper, stirred the chili and put the
cornbread in the small oven to heat. He had thought about cooking something else
for a change. Nobody seemed to notice that whenever Pell ... read full excerpt from: Bloody River Blues ebook
