"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. 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 qther 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 over painted, 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 wind-blown 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 Ganz'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.

He said, "No, not at all."

"I brought you some dessert."

"Dessert?"

"I remember you liked dessert. The cake at Marge's? When you picked me up? On Monday?" Her eyebrows raised with every sentence.

"I remember, yeah."

Picked her up?

"Terrible cake," he added.

"Could've warned you. My desserts aren't terrible."

She unloaded the bag. Carefully wrapped in foil was a small package. Next came a thermos, two mugs, a jar of honey.

"Tea. Herbal tea. Rosehips and lemon grass. It's very relaxing." She opened the foil. "And brownies."

"Ah, brownies." Pellam looked at them closely. Then he grinned. "Wait. Are those…? They aren't really, are they?"