A wasteland of strangers (10 page)

I SAW JORDAN today.

Well, no, that's not true. It wasn't Jordan. But he does look like Jordan, the resemblance is quite striking—

No. Stop it now. He doesn't look anything like Jordan. He's a large man, that's all, in the same way Jordan was large. And he startled me, appearing so suddenly from behind the marble obelisk that marks our family plot. The sun was in my eyes—

Yes, and for just a second I thought he was Jordan. I truly did. But only for a moment. Only long enough to say, "Oh! Jordan!"

He stopped and looked at me, and, of course, I realized then that he wasn't really anyone I'd ever known. A large, homely stranger with pale eyes—no, nothing at all like Jordan. Jordan was so handsome, the handsomest man I've ever seen, especially when he was wearing his uniform. Is it any wonder I fell in love with him that summer?

"My name isn't Jordan," he said.

"Oh, I know," I said. "But when you stepped out so suddenly, why, for a moment I thought you were."

"I didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't, really. That's ours, you know."

"Yours?"

"The Pearce family plot. My father and mother are buried there. And my brother, Tom, and my sister Pauline, and both their spouses. Alice's husband, too. Alice is my older sister. She and I are the only Pearces left now." I smiled at him. "My name is Madeline, but everyone calls me Maddie."

"How are you, Maddie?"

"Oh, I'm fine. I don't believe I've ever seen you before. Are you visiting relatives here, too?"

"In Pomo, you mean?"

"No, here. Does your family have a plot in Cypress Hill?"

"I don't have a family," he said. He sounded sad, and I felt sorry for him. Everyone should have a family.

"Visiting a friend, then?" I asked.

"No. I like cemeteries, is all."

"So do I. So lovely and peaceful with all the shade trees and flowers."

"It was more peaceful when I first got here."

"It was? How is that possible?"

"Nobody around. Not that I mind your company."

"That's nice of you, young man. I don't mind yours, either."

He laughed. His laugh was a bit like Jordan's, too, deep-chested and robust. "This part's pretty old," he said. "Can't read the names on some of the stones and markers."

"I find that sad, don't you?"

"Yeah. I do."

"Cypress Hill is more than a century old, you know." I found myself smiling at him again. Such a nice young man. "Even older than me."

"You're not so old, Maddie."

"Seventy-nine."

"Is that right? I'd have said nine or ten years younger."

"Well. You're very gallant."

"Me?" His laugh, this time, had a different pitch. "You're the first person who ever called me that."

"Well, I hope I'm not the last."

"I hope so, too. But I'll bet you are. First and last."

"I come here every week to visit my family," I told him. "Usually Alice drives me, but she had a doctor's appointment today. A neighbor brought me; she's waiting in the car. She wants me to come and live with her."

"Your neighbor?"

"No, my sister. Alice. She thinks I'd be better off, because I'm getting on, but I'm not sure I would be. I can't make up my mind. I've lived alone such a long time."

"Widow?"

"Oh, no. I've never been married. Once I nearly was, but... God has His reasons."

"Was it Jordan you almost married?"

"Yes, it was. How did you know?"

"What kept it from happening?"

"He went away. He was a soldier, and he went away to Korea. He promised he'd come back and we'd be married, but he never did."

"Killed over there?"

"I don't believe so, no. Someone would have sent word if he'd been killed. For years I was certain he'd come and things would be the same as they were before he went away. But he didn't." I sighed and looked past him at the sky. Most of the clouds were gone; it was going to be a lovely day. "It was all such a long time ago, Jordan."

"I'm not Jordan. My name is John."

"John. You know, John, you don't look anything like him. Except for a moment, when I first saw you."

He didn't speak for quite some time, and then when he did he said the oddest thing.

"I'll tell you something, Maddie," he said. "If this were fifty years ago and I were Jordan, I'd have kept the promise he made. I'd've come back and married you. Then you wouldn't have had to live alone all those years."

We parted after that, but on the way home I thought about him and the odd thing he'd said. He isn't Jordan, he's nothing at all like Jordan except for his robust laugh, but I don't know how I could have thought he was homely and that his eyes were strange. Actually, he was rather good-looking. Not nearly as handsome as Jordan, of course, but in his own way quite an attractive young man.

I told all of this to Alice when she called after her doctor's appointment. "Oh, Maddie," she said, "I think it's time you came to live with me. Honestly, it's time."

I've made up my mind. I think so, too.

Earle Banner

I CAME HOME from Stan's Auto Body fifteen minutes early, and Lori wasn't there. No sign of her, no note, nothing fixed in the kitchen even though I'd told her I might be home for lunch. Testing her, and she'd flunked again. How stupid does she think I am?

Wouldn't be surprised if she was out screwing that big bastard she was pawing in the Northlake last night. Two of 'em laughing together like they were old pals, her with her hand on his arm, and everybody in the place looking and whispering. Her and him whispering before that... making plans for today? Son of a bitch wanders into town and she's all over him like a bad rash. She likes 'em big, big all over. Big horse with a cock to match. Just right for a cheating little mare in heat.

Sometimes, Christ, I think I oughta just shoot her. Let her have one in the head with my .38, put her out of her misery. That movie I seen once, the one about the dance contest back in the thirties, guy who wrote that had it right. They shoot horses, don't they?

Lying to me, all the time lying. Wasn't what it looked like, Earle. Nothing between me and him or anybody else, Earle. Why won't you believe me, Earle. Lies. Lies and horseshit. Why do I keep letting her do it to me? I don't love her no more. Good lay, but the world's full of good lays. Why don't I walk? I oughta walk. Oughta've smashed her lying mouth again last night and then walked, but no, I let her whine and plead me right out of it. Don't hit me, Earle, you promised you wouldn't hit me anymore. Like it's my fault. Like I'm the one playing around all the time. Once in a while, sure, a man don't let a chance for some strange tail pass him by when it wiggles right up and begs for it. Storm Carey—oh, yeah! Gave that high-and-mighty bitch what she was begging for. Somebody oughta give her what else she's begging for, smash her high-and-mighty mouth for her. Women. Lousy, lying bitches. Better not hit me anymore, Earle, L«von't stand for you hitting me anymore. Yeah? But I'm supposed to stand for her spreading her legs for every big bastard comes along. Well, I had enough, too. Man can only take so much—

Here she comes. Damn little Jap car of hers sounds like a washing machine, hear it coming half a mile away. I hate that crappy Jap car. Why the hell wouldn't she listen to me and buy American like I told her? Push that friggin' car off a cliff someday. Yeah, and maybe with her in it.

I went into the living room and stood there so she'd see me soon as she walked in. She almost dropped the grocery sack she was carrying. Her eyes got wide and scared. Good. I liked that. I liked it just fine.

"Earle," she said.

"Didn't expect to see me, did you?"

"Well, you said you might be home for lunch—"

"But you took a chance I wouldn't be."

"A chance? I don't know what—"

"You know what, all right. You know what."

"Earle, please don't be mad."

"How was it, baby? Huh?"

"How was what? Safeway? That's where I've been, I had to pick up a few things—"

"I know what you picked up. That big, ugly bastard and his horse cock, that's what you went out and picked up."

"Oh God! I swear I was at Safeway. Go down and ask Sally Smith, she was my checker, she'll tell you—"

"Lie to me, you mean. All you bitches lie for each other. You think I don't know how it is?"

"I've never cheated on you, Earle. Never, not even once. Listen to me, honey, please—"

"I'm through listening, you damn cheap little whore."

"Stop it! Stop it!"

I stopped it, all right. I stopped it with my fist smack in her lying mouth.

George Petrie

THE WAY OUT occurred to me right after lunch. At least that was when I was first conscious of it. It may have been there all along, planted days ago or even longer, hidden and growing under all the pressures piling up and rotting inside my head like a compost heap. Taking seed and finally poking up like a little green shoot into the light.

When I saw it I was thinking again about the stranger, John Faith. I hadn't thought about much else all day, hadn't done much work. Every time the doors opened I expected it to be him. He hadn't showed yet, but he didn't have to walk in waving a gun during business hours. He could be cleverer than that. Usually I arrive each morning half an hour before Fred and Arlene, enter through the rear door from the parking lot; it wouldn't be difficult for Faith to find that out, lie in wait for me some morning. Or worse, come right to the house and take me hostage there. Either way, he could force me to let him into the bank, empty the vault when the time lock released, shut me inside, and be long gone by the time anyone found me.

Did he have any idea how much cash we keep on hand for a smalltown bank? Quite a lot. Must be around $200,000 in the vault right now. Some of the bills are marked, and we keep a record of the serial numbers; we also have one of those indelible red-dye packets. But if Faith is a professional thief, he'll know ways to avoid traps like that. All that money, $200,000 in cash—his to spend, free and clear.

Unless somebody else took it first.

And there it was, the way out: Unless / took it first.

The idea is absolutely terrifying. But it also excites me. Dangerous ... yet not any more so than taking the seven thousand. And not any more frightening than the prison sentence I'm already facing. It's my one and only chance at escape, freedom, the brass ring. No more Ramona, no more Pomo, no more worries. And $200,000 in tax-free, spendable cash!

But if I did dare to take it, where would I go? You can travel anywhere in the world on that much money, to someplace that doesn't have an extradition treaty with the U.S. All you need is a passport. And I don't have one. Forever dreaming of far-off, exotic places, but I'd never been to any of them, couldn't afford it on my salary. I've never been anywhere. Forty-seven years old, lived my entire life in this town, never been any farther from it than Las Vegas.

I can't take the chance on waiting anywhere near the three or four weeks it takes for a passport application to be processed. And even if I could, even if I was able to leave the country myself, how would I get the money out? Airport security at both ends, no matter what the destination; carry-on and checked baggage inspection on international flights because of the terrorism threat. And I couldn't risk entrusting that much cash to the mails or one of the air-freight companies. If I had enough time I could convert it to bearer bonds or arrange for a wire transfer... Christ, what's the use in thinking about what can't be done? If I'm going to take the money, it has to be right away, before something happens or I lose what little nerve I have. Tonight, Friday night. Before I close the vault and set the time lock for nine-thirty Monday morning. Give me two and a half days to get far away from Pomo—

To where, damnit? Where can I go in this country that the FBI wouldn't be able to track me down, sooner or later?

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 sleaze-ball, 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 Rich-monds 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."

'Til 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."