A wasteland of strangers by Bill Pronzini Page A

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