Bill Pronzini - A Wasteland of Strangers

“More or less,” I said. “You mind, Mr. Faith?”

“Would it matter if I did?”

“It might.”

“Sure. Release lever’s on the left there, if you want to check inside the trunk, too. Nothing in there except a spare tire, some tools, and an emergency flashlight, but don’t take my word for it. Go ahead and look for yourself.”

“I think I will.”

I yanked the release, went up front, and peered into the shallow trunk compartment. Spare tire, some tools, an emergency lantern. Nothing else.

He came over to stand next to me as I shut the lid. “Mind telling me what you’re looking for?”

“What would you say if I told you a ski mask?”

“A ski mask. Uh-huh. I guess I’d tell you I don’t ski. Couldn’t if I wanted to in country like this, since there aren’t any mountains and not even a flake of snow on the ground.”

“Where were you between midnight and two A.M.?”

“In bed, asleep.”

“Not according to the owner of the Lakeside Resort. He says he was awake at twelve-thirty and you weren’t in your cabin.”

“Is that right?”

“But you say you were.”

“I was. He’s either blind or a damn liar.”

“Why would he lie?”

“Why would I lie? Somebody wearing a ski mask do something between midnight and two A.M.?”

“Somebody tried to do something. Attempted break-in, possibly with intent to commit rape.”

“Yeah? Well, it wasn’t me.”

“I hope not.”

“You have any reason to think it was me?”

“No particular reason.”

“Just figured you’d hassle the biggest, ugliest stranger you could find.”

“I’m not hassling you. Asking questions, that’s all.”

He showed me the non-smile again. “Anything else, Chief?”

“Your car registration says you live in Los Angeles,” I said. “Pomo is a long way from L.A.”

“Pomo’s a long way from anywhere.”

“Then why’d you come here?”

“Why not? Everybody got to be somewhere.”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes, sir, Chief. L.A.’s where I used to live. Got to be a town I didn’t like anymore, so I pulled up stakes a couple of weeks ago. You might say I’m scouting a new location.”

“Pomo?”

He shrugged. “I doubt it.”

“What’d you do down in L.A.? For a living, I mean.”

“Construction work.”

“You won’t find much new construction around here. This is a depressed county, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I noticed. I’m not interested in a job right now.”

“No? Why is that?”

“I made good money down south and I saved enough to treat myself to some time off. I’ve got about five hundred in my wallet, if you want to see it.”

“Why would I want to see your money?”

“Come on, Chief. We both know the difference between transient and vagrant.”

“I don’t think you’re a vagrant.”

“Just a prowler and would-be rapist.”

That jabbed my temper. “Don’t get smart with me.”

“Smart?” He spread his hands. “I’m cooperating the best way I know how.”

“You do that and we’ll get along,” I said. “I’m not accusing you of anything, I’m just doing my job the best way I know how. You may not believe it, but I try to take people at face value — until I have cause to take them otherwise.”

He laughed, a quick, barking sound. “Me too, Chief. Me too.”

“A few more questions and you can go on about your business. What were you doing on Redbud Street earlier?”

“Redbud Street?”

“Residential neighborhood not far from here.”

“The one with all the trees and older houses? Looking, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“Seemed like it’d be a nice street to live on.”

“It is. Nice and quiet — a family street. Why were you driving so slowly?”

“Can’t see much when you drive fast,” Faith said. “Somebody call in to complain, Chief? Afraid I might be casing the neighborhood, looking for another house to break into?”

I let it go. He wasn’t going to tell me anything more than he already had. “What is it you’re after, Mr. Faith? What’re you looking for in a new location?”

“Not much. A little peace and quiet.”

I waved a hand at the plots and markers uphill. “This kind?”

“I like cemeteries,” he said. “Nobody bothers you in one — usually. And you can tell a lot about a place by the kind of graveyard it has.”

“What does Cypress Hill tell you about Pomo?”

“That it could’ve been what I want but isn’t.”

“Meaning?”

“Just that.”

“So you’ll be moving on soon.”

“Pretty soon.”

“Tomorrow? I understand you’ve paid for another night at the Lakeside.”

“That’s right. Unless you’re going to invite me to leave by sundown tonight.”

“I’m not going to invite you to do anything except obey the law. Are you leaving tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir. Tomorrow for sure.”

“What’re you planning for the rest of today?”

“Nothing different than what I’ve been doing.” Another replay of the non-smile, so brief this time it was like a dim light flicked on and off. “And none of it involves ski masks or forcible entry — houses or women.”

“I’m glad to hear it. One piece of advice.”

“I’m all ears.”

“As long as you’re here, keep in mind that citizens in small towns tend to be leery of a stranger who looks too close at them and their surroundings — as if he might have more on his mind than a friendly visit. As if he might actually be a threat. You understand?”

“Oh, I understand, Chief. I hear you loud and clear. I’ll do my best not to alarm the good citizens of Pomo while I’m enjoying your fine hospitality.”

The sarcasm was just mild enough not to provoke me. I said, “Then we won’t need to have another talk, will we?”

“I sure hope not.”

I got into the cruiser, still feeling frustrated; the conversation hadn’t satisfied me on any level. As I drove out through the gates, Faith was on his way uphill into the older part of the cemetery. And he wasn’t looking back.

I didn’t believe the Wilson woman’s story for a minute, of course. She’d called the Advocate before, with complaints about this and that or to offer a juicy hunk of speculative gossip that invariably turned out to be both slanderous and imaginary. Viper-tongued busybody and self-appointed guardian of public morals. Or, in the eloquent phrasing of old Pa Kent, “a fookin’ shit-disturber.” (Mine papa: bargeman, boozer, brawler, and barroom bard. He’d fallen into the Monongahela half a dozen times, dead drunk; the last time they fished him out, when I was a freshman at Penn State, he was just plain dead. If he’d had time for a final coherent thought before he sank into the depths, I knew exactly what it’d been — the same as mine would be under similar circumstances: “Fook it.” Ah, the sins of the father.)

I assured the biddy that I would personally investigate the matter and that the Advocate would do whatever it could to keep the citizens and streets of Pomo safe, and hung up before she could fill my ear with any more bullshit. After which I fired a fresh gasper and administered a little more hangover medicine to the Kent insides. Shakier than usual, this A.M. I’d applied so much salve to the old wounds last night that I hadn’t even the haziest memory of where I’d gone after staggering out of Gunderson’s. Last clear image: Storm with her hand on Bigfoot’s thigh, crooning her old black magic into his hairy ear. Woke up this morning on the couch in my living room, my head bulging with the percussive beat of a Pomo Indian ceremonial drum. A hell of a toot, all right. But I’d had provocation. Yes, indeed. Didn’t I always?