Nick said, "Bet five."

Janine, of course. It had to be Janine. "See you," Pellam said. "Raise five."

Pete said, "Hey, I saw that film. Who was in it? Jimmy Stewart? I don't remember. He was one of the best shots in the west, Wild Bill. He was your classic gunfighter. He shot… who was it? I don't remember. Maybe Billy the Kid. Just… it was incredible. See your ten. He got shot in the back… Oh, hey, sorry, Pellam." He looked down, blushing at his faux pas.

"Christ, Pete, I never knew the man."

"Well, you know."

Fred said, "Dealer sees your ten. Shot in the back. Hey, Pellan, that why you're sitting facing the door?"

He laughed and said, "No." He didn't tell him that the reason he'd picked this chair was so that he could look across the street into the window of Dutchess Realty Company, where Meg Torrens sat, her white blouse ill-defined but evident in the dimness of the office. He'd decided a real estate broker could give him a good run-down on the cast of characters in Cleary-and who might not want a movie made here.

"Shot in the back? Man, fucking cheap shot," said Nick, and tossed in more chips. "Call you."

They played for nearly an hour, Pellam steadily losing fifty bucks, most of it to Fred.

Pete was still staring at him in an irritatingly eager way when Fred said, "Ha, Pellam, you're a poker player. You ever get a deadman's hand?" Then turned to Nick. "You know what that is?"

"What's that? Like so awesome it blows everybody away, a royal flush?"

"That's what Wild Bill had when he got shot. Full house of aces and eights. You ever get that, Pellam?" Fred stacked up his ample inventory of battered chips.

"Not that I can recall."

Nick got up to hit the John and Pellam asked Fred and Pete, "Got a question. Say somebody had a wrecked car. Where'd they sell it for scrap around here?"

"She run at all?" Fred asked.

"Nope, just for steel."

The local men looked at each other. Pete said, "Couple places. I'd go to Stan Grodsky's yard, out on Nine."

Fred said, "He's a Polack and he'll rob you."

Pete blushed again. "He asked who'd buy wrecks. Stan buys wrecks."

Fred said to Pellam, "He'll rob you."

Pete said, "I got a good deal there one time."

"Says you."

"Yeah? I got me a hundred bags of Sakreet at three dollars per."

Fred said, "They were forty pounders, not sixties, and how much was solid on the bottom?"

"Not much at all."

Fred scoffed.

As Pellam wrote down the name, Fred grimaced. "There are a couple others. Bill Shecker's Army & Navy, over on 106, about three miles north of here."

Pete was thinking furiously. "Oh, there's also R &W. They're out on Nine too. That's Nine also, I mean. Not Ninety-two."

Fred nodded. "Yeah, forgot about them."

Nick returned. The table was stacked with bottles, a forest of glossy brown. The bartender cleared some away and the game resumed. Pellam watched the cards flying out from under Nick's thick hands.

They played for another twenty minutes. Then Pellam saw motion across the street. Hard to say, vague in the dusk, but it might have been a pretty blonde in a white blouse wearing too much pancake makeup and fleshy pantyhose, locking up a small-town real estate office at dusk. He looked at the three jacks in his hand and folded. He stood up.

Everyone at the table looked at him.

"I'm beat."

Fred said, "Tough work losing money."

Nick frowned. It was too early to leave. Pellam was breaking gambler protocol. "Suit yourself."

"Maybe sit in tomorrow."

Pete said, "Come by sometime. Anytime. I'd like to get your opinion on what we were talking about before. You know."

Pellam had no clue. "Sure thing. Evening, gentlemen."

By the time he got to the sidewalk Meg had finished locking the door and was moving toward her car.

He felt a presence at his side. It startled him. Someone took his arm.

Janine kissed his neck. "It's Cecil B." She squeezed his biceps into her breast, "I just closed up shop and was going to stop by your camper and say hi. How are you, darling?"

"Doing good," Pellam said, forcing himself not to look toward Meg's receding form.

She squeezed his thigh, mindful of the bruise, and said, "You don't look as sore as last night." A sly grin. "I was thinking, love, you still haven't seen my house. Come by and I'll make you dinner. I'll even cook meat, you want."

"How about a rain check? I've got to send a package off to my studio. I'll be working all night."

"I've got an awareness group tomorrow and women's crisis intervention the day after. Maybe I can… Oh, hell, then my old man's coming by. He's bringing his new cycle over to show me…" She stood back and examined his face. "Hey, you're not jealous, are you?"

"Not a bit."

"That's a good boy." She held his eyes in a vice grip, then leaned forward suddenly and kissed his mouth. Hers was partly open. He recoiled for an instant in surprise, then returned the kiss.

Janine said, "Then the apple festival's on Saturday and I'm working a booth. How would Sunday be?"

"Sure. Good."

Where was Meg? He'd lost her. Goddamn, why'd she worn a black jacket? He couldn't see her. He looked back at Janine, who was saying, "You better not get cramps anywhere but in your writing hand." She punched him playfully on the jaw, though bone connected with bone and he blinked. She said, "And you better not stand me up. Mama doesn't like to be stood up."

"Yes, dear." He smiled and stood hard on the sarcasm.

Not far away Meg's Toyota fired up. He heard the bubble of the exhaust and saw the gray car back out of its stall. He said, "Well, much as I hate it, better go do some work. Sunday, then?"

"I close the shop at four. Why don't I come by the camper after? We'll drive home together. How's that?"

"Sounds great."

He kissed her cheek, broke away. As he started toward the Toyota he saw the little car speed away. The brake lights flashed as it made a fast turn and then was gone.

"Damn."

Pellam slowed his walk. Stopped and headed back toward the camper.

Thinking about junkyards.

He walked to the end of the deserted block and turned the corner onto the side street where the Winnebago was parked.

Thinking about getting something to eat.

Thinking about-

He nearly walked into the car. The little gray Toyota, idling at the curbside.

When he put his hands on the roof and bent down to the window, where she sat holding the wheel in both hands, staring straight ahead, she said, "You're alone."

"Nope. I'm with you."

"I thought you maybe had a date."

"Date?"

"Weren't you walking with…" She debated and the catty side won. "… Ms 1969?"

"Business," he said.

"Ah. Business."

Pellam asked, "How about a drink?"

He knew she was going to say no but he was curious what form it would take. There were a thousand different ways a woman says no to a man and they all have different meaning.

"I can't. I'm going out with the girls tonight. Bridge."

"How about poker? I can get us into a game up the street."

She laughed. A moment passed. "I wanted to say I was sorry about your friend. I heard about the accident."

"Thank you."

"I also wanted to apologize."

He cocked an eyebrow toward her, and she added. "For the other day. In the hospital."

"Naw. I was out of line," Pellam said. "I hate hospitals. They put me in a bad mood."

"No…" She studied the tachometer. "I was rude."

A hotrod car went past, exhaust popping as it slowed for a stop sign, then took off again.

She said, "There's something else."

He smiled. "Is there?"

Meg swallowed and tried to put up a shield against the flirt.

"It's kind of last minute. But you interested in coming over for dinner?"