A Wasteland of Strangers

by Bill Pronzini

  “And this name is?”

  “Lean over and I’ll whisper it to you.”

  “Why can’t you just say it out loud?”

  “It’s more dramatic if I whisper.”

  I leaned over. He whispered—dramatically.

  Kent sat back in awe. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

  “So you see what I’m aiming at.”

  “Oyez. You’re right on target, pal.”

  “I knew you’d approve.”

  “Approve, yes. But there’s many a slip between the notion and the execution. To coin a phrase.”

  “You’re interested in theory only, then?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m considering.”

  “Consider this: All your problems would be solved.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “One, at least. Besides, it’s your last chance for a taste of fame.”

  “The old blaze of glory, eh?”

  “Well, more like a brief and tawdry spark.”

  “My, my. Such eloquence from a death stick.”

  “Guns don’t kill people, people kill people.”

  “Fook you, pal.”

  “Fook you, pal.”

  I drank. He pouted.

  Pretty soon he said persuasively, “It’s the American way, after all.”

  “It is?”

  “One hundred percent all-American. Think about it.”

  I thought about it. He was right, so right I imagined I could hear patriotic music playing: “The Star-Spangled Banner,” “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” A tear formed in my eye.

  “Are you with me, pal?”

  “I’m with you, pal.”

  The nationalistic music was still playing in the cracked and dusty corners of the Kent brain. I felt a near desire to stand up and salute the flag, which would’ve been difficult since I didn’t own a flag. I settled for hustling out to the kitchen and pouring Roscoe and me another drink to seal the bargain.

  Brian Marx

  THE PHONE RANG while I was in the kitchen making a ham sandwich. Wall unit was practically next to my ear and the sudden jangling set my nerves on edge. Damn all-night poker sessions were starting to wear on me. I’d quit at five A.M., earlier than usual, because I was having trouble concentrating. Just as well. I’d been into a bad run of cards and if I’d stuck around sure as hell I’d’ve ended up quitting losers. As it was, I’d won forty-eight bucks at stud and Texas Hold ’Em.

  I answered the phone since I was standing right there, and for a change the call was for me. My mood had been pretty good; winning at poker always gives me a lift. But when I hung up five minutes later, I was shaking my head and feeling a sag. Man, oh man, nothing much happens in Pomo for years on end and then all of a sudden everything pops at once, like somebody’d opened up Pandora’s box. I know about Pandora’s box on account of that’s the name Ed Simms gave his bar downtown and he’ll explain the whole myth or legend or whatever it is to anybody who’ll listen.

  Trisha came into the kitchen as I was opening a beer to go with my sandwich. She said, “Who was that on the phone, Daddy?”

  “Hank Maddow. He just talked to his son down at the police station.”

  “Did something happen?”

  “Whole lot of somethings. A Pandora’s boxful.”

  For starters I told her about Lori Banner blowing away that jerkoff husband of hers, no loss there. Her eyes got big as saucers.

  She said, “Did the cops arrest her? Put her in jail?”

  “No, they got her doped up in the hospital.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “That teacher of yours, Ms. Sixkiller, almost bought it last night, too. Kidnapped and nearly raped.”

  “What!”

  I told her who’d done it and I didn’t beat around the bush. A dose of hard-ass reality’s good for a kid her age who’s running a little wild. Sometimes it’s the only way you can get through to them. “I told you those Munozes were a couple of punk losers. You need another reason to steer clear of Anthony, there it is.”

  “He’s not like Mateo.”

  “How do you know he isn’t? Maybe he just ain’t shown his true colors yet.”

  “Ms. Sixkiller … is she all right?”

  “Wasn’t hurt bad. Lucky he took her where he did.”

  “Where’d he take her?”

  “The old lodge on Nucooee Point. And who do you think was hiding out there, alive after all? John Faith. You’d think he’d be the last guy to play hero, but he stepped in and belted that Mateo punk and chased him off. Cost him, too. Faith.”

  Trisha’s face was white now, white as milk. “Cost him?”

  “Chief Novak showed at the lodge this morning, nobody knows why yet, and arrested Faith. Took him to—”

  I broke off because she wasn’t there anymore; she’d turned tail and run out. Ran upstairs. I followed her up there, and she’d locked herself in the bathroom. I could hear her throwing up and sobbing in there.

  Kids. How she could get so worked up over a sleazeball like Mateo Munoz showing his true colors is beyond me.

  Audrey Sixkiller

  I WAS AT Pomo General about an hour, most of it spent waiting for Dick to drive me home. As soon as we arrived he and the two officers he’d asked for had taken John Faith upstairs to the security wing; I’d gone to the emergency room and submitted to an examination, even though it really wasn’t necessary. My vital signs were normal and there was no cartilage or other damage to my throat.

  Afterward, I sat in the waiting room and fidgeted. The young reporter from the Advocate, Jay Dietrich, found me there and wouldn’t leave me alone until I’d reluctantly answered a few of his questions. Then Joan Garcia, who happened to be on duty in the security wing, came down briefly to see how I was doing. I asked her about John Faith’s condition and she said it was stable; no apparent infection, but as a precaution an antibiotic called Cefotan was being administered by IV. She thought that if there were no complications, he would be released for transfer to the city jail later in the day.

  Dick came down at last. The strain he’d been under was all too evident in the harsh fluorescent lighting—hunched shoulders, haggard and frayed appearance, pain etched again in his eyes. Now that John Faith was in custody, he had to stop driving himself so hard. If he didn’t stop by himself, someone—Verne Erickson, Mayor Seeley, me—would have to take steps to force him for his own good.

  Outside, as we crossed the parking lot, I asked him if John Faith had called a lawyer. He said, “No. Didn’t ask for one. He’s still not talking, not even to the doctors.” The only other thing Dick would say about him was that, to prevent another escape attempt, he was handcuffed to his bed as well as under constant guard.

  On the drive to my house Dick was mostly silent. When we arrived I expected a terse good-bye in the car, but he surprised me by walking me to the door. Then he really surprised me by gathering me close, whispering in my ear, “I’m glad you’re safe, Audrey,” and then kissing my mouth, hard.

  It was freezing inside the house, but I was warm enough. Warmer than I’d been in a long time.

  Richard Novak

  SEELEY AND THAYER were waiting for me at the station. I ushered them into my office, and as soon as the door was shut the sheriff said heatedly, “What the hell’s the idea, Novak?”

  “The idea of what?”

  “You know what. Nucooee Point Lodge is on county land. You had no right to make an arrest there without consulting me first.”

  “I didn’t know Faith was hiding out at the lodge when I went there. I didn’t even know Audrey would be there. All I had was a vague tip from Harry Richmond. Didn’t Lou Files tell you all that?”

  “He told me. But that doesn’t change the fact that it was a breach of jurisdiction. You should’ve notified me before you went in, then waited for backup. You could’ve blown it, let Faith get away again.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “But you could have.”

  “H
ave it your way. Your people find anything incriminating among the stuff at the lodge?”

  “No, and Faith’s helper didn’t show, either. If you’d waited and followed protocol—”

  “The same thing would’ve happened. Why don’t you admit the real point of this harangue, Leo?”

  “Real point?”

  “You’re pissed because my hunch was right that Faith was still alive. And because you didn’t get to arrest him yourself. No glory for Pomo County’s esteemed sheriff.”

  “Bullshit! You listen here—”

  Seeley said, “That’s enough, both of you. Cool down. The arrest part of it’s over and done with and there’s no sense arguing about it. Faith’s in custody, that’s the important thing.”

  “Not to Leo, it isn’t,” I said.

  Thayer took a step toward me. The mayor used his porcine bulk to block him off. “I said, cool down! No more infighting, and that goes double out in public. Media gets a whisper of dissension, they’ll blow it all out of proportion. We’ve had enough negative PR as it is.”

  Negative PR. That was Seeley for you. Typical small-time political boss: He didn’t give a damn about anything except the status quo and his and Pomo’s image.

  He said to me, “Dick, about this Mateo Munoz kid. I wish you’d talked to me before involving the FBI.”

  “Why? Notification is standard procedure in a kidnapping case where there’s a possibility of interstate or international flight.”

  “Yes, but I don’t like the idea of FBI agents poking around here. More fodder for the media.”

  That wasn’t the only reason. He was afraid they might stumble on something by accident that he didn’t want them to see—a little local dirty laundry, maybe. I had an urge to say that to him, put a crack or two in that smooth facade. I curbed it and said instead, “They’ll only send one agent, if they send any. Low-priority case for them. If an agent does show, I’ll see to it he stays out of our hair and in the background.”

  “You do that. One more thing about Munoz. Is there any chance he killed Storm Carey, not Faith? I mean, there are similarities between the Carey homicide and the Sixkiller kidnapping.”

  “A chance, sure. That’s all it is.”

  “You’re convinced Faith is guilty?”

  “Until I see something definite to unconvince me.”

  “Good. Then maybe we can get most of this bad business finished with tonight. When are you transferring Faith from the hospital?”

  “I’ll have to talk to the doctor in charge before I know for sure. But the last estimate was a five o’clock release time.”

  “Perfect, if it holds,” Seeley said. “When you bring him over, I want Leo in the car with you.”

  “Why?”

  “A show of solidarity.”

  “For the media’s benefit.”

  “For the benefit of every citizen of Pomo County.”

  “Whatever you say, Mayor. I don’t want a lot of attention anyway for doing my job. Let Leo have the spotlight.”

  Thayer wasn’t mollified. He’d been sulking behind one of his fifty-cent panatelas; he took it out of his mouth and aimed it in my direction. “Damnit,” he said, “it isn’t glory I care about. It’s doing things by the book. Protocol, jurisdiction—”

  “You’ve made your point,” Seeley told him. “Dick won’t step on your toes again. Will you, Dick?”

  I shrugged. “No. It won’t happen again.”

  “Now the two of you shake hands.”

  We shook hands like the good little flunkies we were.

  Seeley said, “So it’ll be the two of you who bring Faith over. That’s settled. I’ll make sure the media stays here with their cameras and microphones, everyone in one place. Once the prisoner’s been booked and locked up, you’ll both come out and join Joe Proctor and me and we’ll answer questions. As many as we can for as long as it takes. Agreed?”

  “If that’s the way you want it,” Thayer said.

  “That’s the way it’s best. For everyone.”

  Except me, I thought. But I didn’t say that, either.

  They went away pretty soon and left me alone with my throbbing face and nose. One of the codeine capsules would probably make me fuzzy-headed, so I ate half a dozen aspirin instead. After a while I went out front for coffee and to ask Lou to order me a sandwich from Nelson’s Diner; I hadn’t eaten all day and the aspirin were like acid in my empty belly. Through the glass entrance doors I could see a white van angled to the curb in front, a man and a woman from it heading into the station, and two more men unloading camera equipment from the rear.

  The vultures were already starting to circle.

  George Petrie

  IT WAS ALMOST six when I finally rolled into dark, rainy Pomo. I’d left Fallon late. Very little sleep last night, yet prying myself out of the motel bed had taken a tremendous effort of will. Delaying the inevitable. I’d driven at a constant fifty all the way; the last things I could afford now were an accident or the attention of the highway patrol. I’d avoided both. The interminable four-hundred-mile trip across Nevada, through the Sierras, across half a dozen California counties had been uneventful.

  And now, here I was. Home. George Petrie, failed embezzler, slinking home in the dark. I was depressed and dog-tired, but some of yesterday’s utter despair had left me. Maybe, after all, things aren’t quite as hopeless as they seemed, sitting out there in the middle of nowhere. Maybe I can still salvage something out of the rest of my life, even if circumstances force me to spend my last twenty or thirty years in this backwater town. There have to be ways and means. I might not have the guts to pull off a really bold scheme, but I’m intelligent, shrewd enough; I ought to be able to come up with some way of lightening my load, some way to keep from dying by inches.

  But first I’ve got to replace the $209,840 in the bank vault tomorrow morning. That’s paramount. Then I have to cover the $7,000 shortage, even if it means going begging to Charley Horne. Then I can relax, retrench, make new plans. Maybe even convince Storm to give me another tumble in her bed. No more begging with her, though. No, by God. I’m not the same George Petrie who sat with her in the bank on Thursday, the one she accused of currying a pity fuck. You don’t go through what I just had without learning a few things, changing, becoming more of a man. She’ll see it in me once I’m back on my feet. I’ll damn well make her see it.

  Another thing I have to do, before very long, is dump Ramona. If I have to live with her, sleep with her, listen to her goddamn screeching and squawking for the duration, I might as well throw in the towel; I’d never get out of the trap. California’s a no-fault state, so I don’t need grounds to file for divorce. Just go ahead and do it. She’d demand support, but in turn I’d demand half of what her Indian Head Bay land brought when it finally sold. Even if I came out on the short end financially, I’d manage to recoup somehow; and in every other way I’d come out on the long end. I’d be able to breathe again.

  She was home; the lights were on in the house. As soon as I pulled the Buick into the driveway and saw her waiting in the kitchen doorway, I felt another letdown. Her coming out to meet me, making a pass at kissing my cheek as if she were glad I was back, made it even worse. I pushed her away. “Don’t, Ramona. I’m exhausted and I need a drink.”

  “The real-estate deal—?”

  “Another dud. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I’m sorry but my God what’s happened around here while you were gone I can hardly believe it.” All in one breath. “You must have heard about it in Santa Rosa?”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Oh, well, then you’re in for—”

  “Not now,” I said, “for Christ’s sake, not now.”

  I brushed past her, went through the kitchen and into the living room to the wet bar. Wonder of wonders, the screeching parrot didn’t fly in after me. The first scotch went down quick and hot, like swallowing fire. I coughed and poured another and sank into my chair to drin
k it more slowly. The glass was half empty when I heard Ramona moving around in the kitchen, then bumping through the door into the living room.

  “George.”

  The way she said my name made me look up. And all the skin on my back, my neck, my scalp seemed to curl upward. The glass fell out of my hand, splashing scotch over my lap; I barely noticed as I lurched to my feet.

  “I opened the trunk of your car,” she said in a voice I’d never heard her use before. “I thought I’d be nice and bring in your bag.”

  She was standing there with one of the new suitcases in her left hand. In her right were two of the banded packets of $100 bills.

  Richard Novak

  WHEN MY PAGER went off I was waiting with Thayer and Verne Erickson at the hospital, the sheriff standing off by himself and being pissed at me again because I’d asked Verne to ride with us on the transfer. Thayer and I were like gasoline and fire; Verne’s presence would keep us from setting each other off. What we’d been waiting for the past fifteen minutes was for Faith to finish his phone call. He was inside the resident physician’s office, visible to us through a glass partition, facing away and holding the receiver tight to his ear.

  I left Verne to keep watch on him and called the station from the head nurse’s desk. Della Feldman had relieved Lou Files. She said, “What’s keeping you, Chief?”

  “Faith. He demanded his one call as soon as Verne and I walked in. Changed his mind all of a sudden, Christ knows why. He’s still not talking to us.”

  “Lawyer?”

  “What else. One of the doctors gave him the name of a criminal attorney in Santa Rosa. He didn’t want anybody from Pomo County.”

  “Can you hurry him up?”

  “Why?”

  “Big crowd outside already and getting bigger by the minute.”

  “How big?”

  “Must be a couple of dozen reporters, photographers, camera people. You’d think you were bringing in the Unabomber’s brother. Lot of citizens out there, too. Lining the street and congregating over in the park.”

  “Any trouble?”