Bill Pronzini - A Wasteland of Strangers

“Man, what happened to you?”

“No time for that. Listen, get your—”

“Fight, man? Some dudes jump you?”

“I said there ain’t no time!” The scare was in his voice, too. It shook like an old woman’s. “Get your shit together, make it fast. We got to move .”

“Mateo, what’re you talkin’ about?”

“Clothes, cash, whatever else you need.”

“Need for what?”

“Travelin’, man. Don’t be thick.”

“Where to?”

“What’d we talk about this morning, huh? L.A.”

“Now? Just pick up and split in the middle of—”

“Yeah, now, yeah. Haul ass.”

“You in trouble, man?”

“Keep your voice down! Wake up the old man and old lady, for Chrissake?”

“You got to tell me what happened.”

“I don’t have to tell you squat. You comin’ or not?”

“I don’t know—”

“Don’t know, don’t know, that’s all you know how to say.”

“I’m just tryin’ to find out—”

“You with me or what?”

“Always with you, man. But give me a clue what’s goin’ down here. Cops? Heat on you?”

“Yeah, all right, I’ll be hot as hell pretty soon. The bitch saw my face, man. Her and the dude busted me up like this.”

“What bitch? What dude? Jesus, Mateo, what’d you do?”

“ iCagon de mierdas! Quit asking stupid questions!”

“Hey, man, don’t dis me. You’re the one—”

“I got no more time to waste with you, Anthony. Comin’ or not? Yes or no, spit it out.”

It was in me to say yes. He was my brother, man, I looked up to him all my life. But he done something real raw this time — the way he was beat up said so, the scare in his eyes said so, my chilled guts said so. Cops after him... I didn’t want a piece of that. I’m no outlaw. I never saw nothing cool in being an outlaw.

“I’m no outlaw, man,” I says.

“It ain’t gonna be like that.”

“Yeah it is. I wouldn’t be no good at—”

“How much cash you holding?”

“What?”

“You heard me. How much you got stashed?”

“Not sure, man. Fifty, sixty bucks...”

“Give it to me. The whole wad and no more crap.”

I went and got my stash from behind the loose board in my closet. When I gave it to him, up close like that, I could smell him, and he stank. He stank of the fear that was crawling in him.

“Last chance, bro. You gonna go to L.A. with me or stay here and rot in this hole?”

I flashed on Trisha, the kid she had in the oven — my kid. My brother, man! Yeah, but he’d crossed the line, done something raw this time, turned outlaw, and I couldn’t get past the stink of his fear. I couldn’t get past it, man.

“I can’t do it,” I says. “You’re my brother, I’d do anything for you, you know that, but this—”

“You ain’t my brother. I ain’t got a brother no more.”

“Hey, Mateo—”

“Fuck you, Anthony,” he says. “ Vaya a la chingada, ” and he went out fast through the window into the rain and dark.

But he left the stink of his fear behind. I couldn’t chase it even with the window up and the cold wetness blowing in. It hung there, heavy, and I kept smelling it, and the more I smelled it, the sicker I felt. It wasn’t like the stink of a brother, not anymore. It was like the stink of somebody I didn’t even know.

Time passed in a seemingly endless series of ticks and slow sweeps and frozen moments. For long periods it was as if I could hear the passage of each second — now like the faint pulsing of a clock just outside the range of hearing, now like the slow, steady beat of a heart. Then it would seem suddenly to stop. Then it would start again, lurch along, and then settle into the same methodical tempo as before.

William Sixkiller: “Patience is the great virtue of cats and Indians.” Yes, but I had lost that virtue tonight. In its place was a restless need to be gone from this place, a frustrated sense of urgency even though Mateo Munoz was far away by now. Patience disappears from cats and Indians both when they are held against their wills.

Now and then John Faith would get up from the other couch and pace for a while, back and forth, back and forth. Once when he did that I complained that my legs were growing numb, and he did me the favor of unwinding the tape, rubbing circulation into the ankles, helping me stand and letting me walk awhile. I thought then of trying to run from him, hiding in the trees once I was outside, but it was a hollow scheme. Even if I could get my hands on one flashlight, he still had the other; and I didn’t know the way out of the lodge and he must know it. I thought, too, of telling him I had to relieve myself and asking for privacy and taking advantage of that. But then I would not even have a chance at the flashlight and I couldn’t hope to escape by blundering around in the dark. Besides, at some point I really would need to relieve myself and it would be an embarrassment to both of us if I forced him to stand watch over me when that time came.

When my ankles were taped again he returned to the other couch and I drew the wool blanket he’d given me to my chin. It was still raining steadily, the dampness intensifying the cold in there. For the third or fourth time, upstairs, there were faint chittering cries and leathery flutterings. Bats. They didn’t like the wet weather any more than I did; it made hunting difficult for them.

Except for the rain and the night sounds, we sat in a monotony of silence. We had said all there was to say on the subjects of Mateo Munoz and Storm Carey and the fugitive status of John Faith, and there was little else to talk about. But when the silence began to drag intolerably—

“John, there’s something I’d like to know.”

“... What’s that?”

“Earlier you said you’ve been running most of your life. What did you mean?”

“Nothing. Another bad choice of words.”

“They sounded true to me.”

Silence.

“Has the law been after you before?”

“Once or twice. Minor violations, if it matters.”

“Who else?”

Silence again.

“John? Please talk to me.”

“People like you,” he said.

“Like me? I don’t understand.”

“Ordinary people. Average.”

“You think I’m average? A Native American woman?”

“You are as far as I’m concerned.”

“I still don’t understand,” I said. “Why would you run from ordinary, average people?”

“I don’t run from them. That’s the wrong word, run — makes me sound like a coward. I don’t back down from anybody. And I don’t run unless I’ve got no other choice.”

“Like last night.”

“Like last night. I suppose Novak said I was running away when he showed up, but it wasn’t because I’m guilty. I would’ve reported what I found. Anonymously, yeah, because I knew what’d happen if I called from the house and identified myself. Exactly what did happen — I got blamed.”

“You only made things worse by assaulting him, trying to escape.”

“Maybe. But I wasn’t thinking too clearly at the time. You get pushed around enough, backed into enough corners, you figure your only chance is to push back.”

“Has it really been that bad for you?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you how bad. Pomo’s the worst by far, but there’ve been other times, other places...” He shook his head, as if shaking away memories. “The hell with it,” he said.

“So that’s why you shy away from people.”

“Shy away? Let’s say I’m better off with my own company.”

“Isn’t there anyone you’re close to? Someone in your family—”