Bill Pronzini - A Wasteland of Strangers

“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.