Forget it. Demented idea. You’d never get away with it.
Maybe I could. If I were very careful about where I went, how and when and where I spent the money … maybe I could beat the odds.
I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Prison is death, but so is Pomo, and all that cash is life. My last chance to live, really live. It was almost as if I were entitled to the money, as if it were mine already by right of custodianship. Mine, nobody else’s.
I wanted that $200,000 so badly, the hunger for it gave me an erection. Sitting there at my desk with a hard-on, wondering if I really did have the balls that went with it …
Richard Novak
THE BACKGROUND CHECK on John Faith didn’t satisfy me any more than my talk with him at the cemetery had. On the one hand, there were enough facts to provide a clearer picture of him. On the other hand, the details were sketchy and superficial and open to all sorts of interpretation.
Faith was his real name—John Charles Faith. Born in Indianapolis thirty-eight years ago, orphaned at an early age, no family other than his deceased parents. Grew up in a series of foster homes, ran away from the last one at age sixteen. Married once, for six months, a dozen years ago in Dallas; no children. No military service. Spotty employment record, mostly construction work, in a dozen midwestern, southwestern, and western states; the longest he’d held any job was sixteen months. No credit history: He’d never applied for credit cards or a home or automobile loan. Arrested seven times in seven different cities and towns for brawling, public drunkenness, public nuisance, the last more than five years ago; two convictions, thirty days’ sentence on each. Arrested once in Mesa, Arizona, on a charge of aggravated assault that was later dropped. No known criminal activities, associates, or links. No outstanding warrants of any kind.
Some citizens—Zenna Wilson, for instance—would look at that background and find plenty of fuel for ominous speculation. I looked at it and saw little to indicate he was much of a threat to the community at large. Unless he’d come here for a specific purpose, some sort of strong-arm action, maybe … but that was city stuff, L.A. stuff. What was there in Pomo to attract a ham-fisted urban tough? Who was there in Pomo to attract one? Then there was the fact that he was smarter than your average street thug. No formal education, streetwise enough, but there was a sharp intelligence behind that scarred face and bitter smile. Cunning, too? Some kind of wise-guy agenda?
Looking for peace and quiet, he’d said. He hadn’t had much of that the past two days, yet he was still here and planning to stay another night. Why?
What did he really want in or from Pomo?
Storm Carey
HARRY RICHMOND TELEPHONED, finally, at two-fifteen. “He just pulled in, Mrs. Carey.”
“I’ll be right over.”
“You want me to tell him you’re on the way?”
“No. Not unless he tries to leave again before I arrive.”
“Anything you say, Mrs. Carey.”
Anything for twenty dollars; that was what I’d paid him earlier to keep an eye out and make the call. I hung up without saying good-bye and hurried out to the BMW.
The distance from my house across the Northlake Cutoff to Harry Richmond’s resort is a little better than five miles; I drove too fast and was there in under ten minutes. Richmond was on the office stoop, waiting. He came down the steps to meet me as I stepped out of the car.
“Still here,” he said.
“Which cabin?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Leer on his fat lips and his eyes fondling my breasts. His tongue appeared like a pink slug wiggling out of a hole, flicking from side to side as if he were imagining my nipples and how they would taste. Imagine was all he would ever do. A sleazeball, Mr. Richmond. Soft-bellied, dirty-minded, and money-grubbing. The Hunger wanted nothing to do with men like him, thank God.
“I asked you which cabin, please.”
“Six. His car’s parked in front. Have fun, now.”
I took my eyes off him. The only way to deal with the Harry Richmonds of the world is to deny their existence whenever possible—and let them know you’re doing it. I detoured around him and along the side of the office building into the central courtyard. I could feel him watching me, the crawl of his gaze on my buttocks; the Hunger and I pretended his eyes were hands and that the hands belonged to John Faith.
Faith’s mode of transportation suited him perfectly: battered and scarred, powerful, a ride that would be fast and exciting and not a little dangerous. The comparison put a smile on my face as I stepped onto the tiny porch. But I wiped it off before I knocked; I wanted him to see a different Storm Carey this afternoon, serious and sober and just a touch contrite.
He was surprised when he opened the door, but it lasted for only a second or two. Then his expression reshaped into a faint upturning of his lips, lopsided and sardonic. “Well, well,” he said. “Storm, isn’t it?”
He seemed even bigger in the daylight. Bigger and uglier, with those pale eyes and facial scars. His shirt was off; hair grew in thick tufts on his chest, black flecked with gray, and underneath it muscles and sinews rippled, flowed, like a deadly undertow beneath a calm surface. Frightening and compelling at the same time. Touch him and you might be hurt, but that only made you want to touch him more.
The mouth, the nibbling lips began to move again inside me. “Yes. Storm Carey.”
“What do you want, Mrs. Carey?”
“I told you last night, I’m not married.”
“So you did.”
“Do you mind if I come in?”
“Pretty small, these cabins. Not much inside except a bed, and I don’t feel much like lying down.”
“That isn’t why I’m here,” I said.
“No?”
“No. I came to apologize. I shouldn’t have come on to you the way I did. I’m not usually so brazen.”
“Only when you drink too much, is that it?”
“I had too many martinis, yes. There are reasons, but I won’t bore you with them. The point is, I’m sober today. No gin on my breath, no Paris Nights perfume. Just me.”
“Just you. So why’re you here?”
“I came to apologize, as I said.”
“Why bother? Two strangers in a bar, that’s all.”
“I didn’t want to leave you with the wrong impression.”
“That matters to you? What I think?”
“Yes. I really wasn’t slumming last night. And I wasn’t after a quick lay with the first man who came along.”
“Right. But you find big men exciting.”
“Not all big men. The other thing I told you is true, too: I like your face.”
“That’s what booze does to you. Gives you hallucinations.”
“I still like it. Cold sober and in broad daylight.”
“Sure you do.” The words were skeptical, but the pale eyes had softened: He was looking at me in a new way. The way most men look at me, the way the Hunger wanted the chosen ones to look. Not quite convinced yet, holding back, but seeing me as a desirable woman for the first time. The Hunger and I can always tell when a man’s testosterone level is on the rise.
“I’m sincere,” I lied. “Why else would I be here?”
“All right, you’re sincere. I’m flattered.”
“Apology accepted, then?”
“Sure, why not. Accepted.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” I smiled. And hesitated just the right length of time before I said, “Suppose we start over in a more civilized fashion. Have dinner together tonight, get acquainted.”
“Dinner. You and me.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere you like. Gunderson’s. Or there’s a good Italian restaurant on the south end of town.”
“You wouldn’t mind being seen in public with me?”
“Why should I mind? Is it really so hard for you to believe that I find you attractive?”
“Not if I stay away from mirrors.”
>
“Oh, come now. You’ve had your share of women, I’m sure.”
“My share. Too many I wish had been somebody else’s share.”
“I could say the same thing, since my husband died.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Six years. I still miss him.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean it, I do. Were you ever married?”
A long pause before he said, “Once.”
“Did you lose her, too?”
“She lost me. She liked gin and one-night stands better than she liked having a husband.”
“And that’s why you don’t care for the smell of gin on a woman’s breath. Or casual pickups in cocktail lounges.”
“That’s why.”
“About dinner tonight,” I said. “I promise not to drink gin. Or anything else except in moderation.”
His eyes moved over my face, a harsh, visual caress that made the Hunger tremble. Then he said, “I don’t think I’m up to being stared at in any more public places. Pomo’s not the friendliest town I’ve been in.”
“No, it isn’t. But you do have a certain … presence.”
He laughed. “Presence. That’s one of the things I’ve got, all right.”
“I could fix us something,” I said.
“At your house?”
“At my house. I’m a very good cook.”
“Uh-huh.”
“If you’re reluctant because of last night …”
He shrugged; the currents under his mat of chest fur quickened. And the mouth and tongue moved again inside me, nibbling and licking downward.
“You don’t have any other plans for this evening?”
“No.”
“Nothing better to do?”
“No.”
“Come for dinner, then. Or at least for drinks—wine, beer. Or something nonalcoholic, if you prefer.”
A few moments while he considered. And then a heightening of the suspense when he said, “Tell you what. Give me your phone number and I’ll call you later, let you know if I can make it.”
“How much later?”
“By six, if I’m coming. Okay?”
“Yes, fine.” I touched his arm, gently. The feel of his skin sent the Hunger into a momentary frenzy. “Please call and please come, John. You don’t mind if I call you John?”
“It’s my name.”
“I really would enjoy your company.”
“All right, Storm.”
The use of my first name was a good sign, very good. I wrote my address and telephone number on a slip of paper from my purse. He put it into his wallet rather than his pants pocket—another good sign. “Until later,” I said, and left him quickly. I could feel his eyes on my buttocks as I walked away—the third and best sign of all.
Out front, as I was opening the BMW’s door, Harry Richmond reappeared from under his rock. “That was sure quick, Mrs. Carey.” Smarmy, with the leer to underscore the words.
I denied his existence again. I started the car and drove away, the Hunger and I thinking that John Faith would surely call, both of us looking ahead to the evening—but not too far ahead, savoring the suspense and the various possibilities.
It was in my mind to bathe, a long, hot, scented soak in the tub, as soon as I arrived home. But I was forced to delay it because I had a visitor. Doug Kent was sitting on the front porch when I drove up, a martini in one hand, a cigarette burning in the other. Another glass and a half-full pitcher were on the wrought-iron table beside him.
“I took the liberty of making us a batch of Doc Beefeater’s favorite home remedy,” he said when I came up the stairs. He winked; he was already more than a little drunk, and in one of his crafty moods. “I know where you keep your spare key.”
“I’ll have to find a new place for it. What do you want, Doug?”
“Want? The pleasure of your company, of course. My good drinking buddy, Storm.”
“Not today.”
He pretended astonishment. “You don’t want a martini?”
“No. I’m off gin for a while.”
“I didn’t hear that. Sit down and have at least one to be sociable.” He patted a folded newspaper on the table next to the pitcher. “I brought you the latest Advocate, hot off the press.”
“Really, Doug, no. I have things to do.”
“Such as?”
“Private things.”
“Wouldn’t happen to involve Bigfoot, would they?”
“Bigfoot?”
“The strange beast in Gunderson’s last night.”
“His name is John Faith.”
“John Faith. My God.”
“Just leave everything on the table when you go. My spare key, too, if you haven’t already put it back where you found it.” I started past him to the front door.
He put out a restraining hand and said in a voice that was half irritated, half sly, “Better read my editorial, dear heart. Front page. Very edifying—one of my more provocative pieces, if I do say so myself.”
I might have gone on inside without responding; he can be exasperating at times. But he was holding the paper out toward me now and I didn’t like the expectant shine in his eyes. I took the paper and shook it open.
The editorial was at the top of the front page, under the headline STRANGERS IN OUR MIDST. “It has come to the attention of the Advocate that a new breed of visitor is on the prowl on the quiet streets and byways of Pomo. Not the benign vacationer and fisherman who are the lifeblood of our community, but a less wholesome variety of outsider—denizens of the urban jungle whose motives are at best shadowy and whose continued presence invites concern for public safety …” The rest of it was in the same inflammatory vein. And there was no mistaking the personal references toward the end, or the malicious intent behind them.
Doug was grinning at me when I finished reading. I threw the paper at him; it hit his arm and spilled some of his drink.
“You son of a bitch,” I said.
“Now, now, don’t be nasty—”
“Nasty! What’s the idea of writing crap like this?”
“To make the public aware of potential—”
“Bullshit. You did it to get back at me.”
“Why would I want to get back at you?”
“Because I won’t sleep with you. Because you think I slept with John Faith last night and you’re jealous. My God, you did everything but name him outright and brand him a homicidal maniac.”
“Well, he may be one.”
“… What are you talking about?”
“Seen following two little girls this morning. Stalking them. A pervert and a predator—”
“I don’t believe it. Who saw him? Who told you that?”
“I have my sources,” he said, but his grin had faded and so had his self-satisfied slyness. “Don’t know anything about the man, do you? Except how much of a beast he is in bed—”
“I didn’t sleep with him.”
“What?”
“I didn’t sleep with him, damn you. I tried to pick him up, but he turned me down and walked out. So you’ve played your vicious little game for nothing.”
He drained his glass, reached out to the pitcher, and slopped it full again. His hands weren’t steady.
“You’re disgusting, Doug,” I said. “A disgusting, mean-spirited, irresponsible drunk.”
My anger kindled anger in him. “You can’t talk to me that way—”
“I’ll talk to you any way I choose. That editorial gives me the right. You hate yourself and the whole world, but that’s not enough so you take it out on everybody else. Some pretty insufferable bastards live in this town, but I thought you were better than most. Kinder, at least. But you’re one of the worst. I don’t want anything more to do with you.”
“You don’t mean that, Storm.” Whining now.
“Don’t I? Get off my porch and off my property. And don’t come back, not for any reason. If you do, I’ll call the police and have you arrested f
or trespassing.”
For a few seconds he stared at me without moving. The hate in his eyes was for me now, as well as for himself. Then he guzzled his drink, lurched to his feet, and deliberately smashed the glass on the floor before brushing past me to the stairs, muttering, “Slut. Whore of Pomo.”
“That’s what it all comes down to, isn’t it?” I shut my ears to whatever else he had to say, and went inside to soak away my anger and wait for John Faith’s call.
Howard Wilson
ZENNA STARTED IN as soon as I walked in the door. Didn’t ask how the Redding trip had gone, didn’t give me even a minute of peace. Mouth like a snake’s, that woman: Half the time when she opens it, venom comes spewing out. There’s an old proverb, or maybe a curse—Buddhist or something—that says gossips and troublemakers and hatemongers are doomed to spend eternity hanging by their tongues. If it’s true, a force somewhere already has a noose ready with Zenna’s name on it.
She wasn’t like that when we first started going together. Or if she was, I didn’t see it. Too much in love in those days, or maybe too blinded by testosterone. Good-looking woman and I wanted her badly, but she wouldn’t give in, made a lot of whispered promises about how it would be after we were married, and finally I was the one who gave in. And it wasn’t worth waiting for. I may’ve thought so back then, but not anymore. Except for Stephanie … but she’d come along too quick, and when the doctor told Zenna she couldn’t have any more, that was when she changed or got worse. Poking her nose in everybody’s business, yakking about people behind their backs, hunting dirt every place she went and with everybody she dealt with. Self-righteous, holier-than-thou. The worst kind of hypocrite.
More than ten years I’ve put up with it, mostly for Stephanie’s sake. But I work hard, too hard sometimes, and I don’t ask for much or want much out of life, and when I can’t even get the little I do ask … well, every man has his limits. Is it any wonder I’ve been driven past mine?
No, it isn’t. The wonder is that it didn’t happen sooner.
“… tell you, Howard,” she was prattling on now, “that man is one of Satan’s own. Something terrible will happen if he’s allowed to run loose on our streets. You mark my words.” Shrill, that voice of hers, like a razor slicing into my eardrums.
A Wasteland of Strangers Page 9