Bill Pronzini - A Wasteland of Strangers

There weren’t any other reporters at the police station when Chief Novak radioed in his bombshell. Nothing had happened on the Carey homicide in over thirty-six hours, and with there being no connection between it and the Banner shooting, the newspapers and TV stations had shifted their people elsewhere. The only reason I was at the station was my promise to Mr. Kent to stay on top of the situation. I’d finished my personal account of the Carey murder last night, and this morning I’d made a few improvements and then faxed hard copies to the Santa Rosa Press-Democrat and both the Chronicle and Examiner in San Francisco. So I was just hanging around, waiting for something to happen and watching the 49ers beat the Saints on Jake Maddow’s portable TV. I went to school with Jake and we’re pretty good friends, otherwise he wouldn’t have let me watch the game with him while he was on station duty. The Chief didn’t like his officers lazing around even when things were Sunday slow, but he hadn’t been in all day and Jake didn’t have any work to do, so he figured there was no harm in sneaking his portable in. He’s a big 49ers fan, Jake is.

Anyhow, when Lou Files came hurrying in to tell Jake the news I was right there with my ears flapping. Jake rushed out on orders to meet the Chief and his prisoner at Pomo General, and Mr. Files went to do whatever else he’d been told to. I tried to pry more details out of him, but he wasn’t talking. He said I should keep the news under my hat for the time being, but since I don’t wear a hat and he didn’t wait for an answer, I didn’t feel honor-bound to obey him. News is news, after all. And the public has a right to know when something big breaks. Any good reporter knows that.

Besides, this story was all mine. My first exclusive. If the capture of John Faith and all the other sensational stuff that went with it didn’t earn me a job on a bigger paper than the Advocate , I might as well give up on a career in journalism and join Pop in his printing business.

I drove straight home and made quick calls to the Chronicle and Examiner and PD and didn’t tell any of the editors I talked to what’d happened until I had a promise from each to run a bylined story by me, either the one I’d already faxed or the next one I wrote on John Faith’s capture. That’s what Mr. Kent would’ve done. He always said to be aggressive, don’t take any junk from anybody. Only, he used a stronger word than junk. He may have a drinking problem and be a curmudgeon and have a cynical outlook on things, but he knows the newspaper business backward and forward. He worked on a lot of sheets in his day, including some major ones like the Houston Chronicle and the Pasadena Star.

I owed him a lot, even if he did treat me like a dumb kid sometimes, so before I headed out again for the hospital, I took the time to ring him up and tell him the news. He didn’t sound too happy about it, but that’s Mr. Kent for you. He never sounds happy about anything. He did say before we hung up that I could write all the news accounts and sidebars on the Carey homicide and Faith capture for the Advocate , so that’ll be one more feather in my reporter’s cap. I don’t care what his problems are or what anybody says about him, underneath it all he’s a great guy.

So storm’s murderer was still alive and kicking. John Faith, whose name suited him about as well as a virginal white gown would have suited his victim. The strange beast. The stranger in our midst. Bigfoot. The Incredible Hulk. Frankenstein unbound. The destroyer of beauty, the extinguisher of flames, the slayer of dreams. Alive, alive-o.

I built myself another vodka-with-a-hint-of-orange-juice and returned to the sofa in the parlor, on which I’d been sprawled before the call from Jaydee. Roscoe was on the coffee table, comfortably arranged on a copy of the current Advocate (whose cheap ink was doubtless staining his smooth walnut butt, no sexual connotation intended). As I stretched out again and lit an unfiltered wheezer, he studied me critically with his lone eye.

“You’re glummer than before, pal,” he said. “Bad news?”

“The worst. The son of a bitch is still alive.”

“Which son of a bitch is that?”

“John Faith, naturally.”

“How is that possible?”

“All Jaydee knows is that Chief Novak found him over at the Nucooee Point Lodge and arrested him.”

“Look on the bright side,” Roscoe said. “He’ll probably get the death penalty.”

“ Au contraire. Prosecutors need to prove special circumstances to plunk a murderer in the hot squat nowadays.”

“‘Hot squat’ is slang for the electric chair,” he pointed out reasonably. “California’s preferred method of offing the offers is the gas chamber.”

I didn’t feel like being reasonable. “I don’t feel like being reasonable,” I said, blowing carcinogens in his eye, “so don’t give me any bullshit semantic lectures.”

“Bullshit dialectical lectures.”

I sighed. “You’re a gun, for Christ’s sake. Guns aren’t supposed to be the voice of reason.”

“Well, excuse me. Where were we?”

“Special circumstances. Too hard to prove in a case like this. Crime of passion. Twenty years to life, that’s all the cretinous bastard will get in a court of law.”

“Sad but true. Ergo?”

“What the hell do you mean, ergo?”

“Sometimes a great notion, pal.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I have a great notion.”

“Is that so? What sort of great notion?”

“A name just popped into my head. Or it would have if I had a head. A name out of the past. A flash of history, a name to reckon with.”

“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.

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.