A wasteland of strangers by Bill Pronzini Page B

another two back in the morning, the inference had been there. He'd been gone when I returned from Safeway with my groceries, but he could've been lurking somewhere, watching; he could've followed the running lights on the Chris-Craft—Lakeshore Road does what its name implies, follows the water-line all along the northwest shore—and seen where I docked and that the house was dark; he could've watched the house and when no one else came he'd have known for sure I was alone ...
    But I was jumping to conclusions. It didn't have to be the stranger; it could be anyone, a resident as well as an outsider. And what if I hadn't scared him off permanently? What if he came back, tonight or some other night?
    I was still angry, angrier than before, because whoever he was, he'd made me afraid. That was the one thing William Sixkiller had never let me be, that I hated being more than anything else. Afraid.
    In the front room I peeked out again through the drapes. Lakeshore Road was as deserted as before. I sat on the couch and picked up the phone. If I called the police station to report what had happened, it would mean patrol cars, questions, neighbors being woken up . .. people knowing I was afraid. But I had to tell someone, and that meant Dick. He was the only one I could talk to right now.
    I tapped out his number. And it rang and rang and rang without answer.
    Where was he, for heaven's sake? Why wasn't Dick home at 1:40 in the morning?

    Part II

    Friday

    George Petrie
    RAMONA SAID, "I asked you a question, George. Where were you last night?"
    I heard her that time, but the words didn't register right away. I had so damn many things on my mind. My head felt stuffed, the way it does when you have a bad cold. I couldn't concentrate on any one thing. It was all churned together, pieces here and there breaking off like swirls of color in a kaleidoscope; hang on to one, focus on it for a few seconds, and then it would slide back into the vortex and there'd be another and the same thing would happen.
    "Well?"
    "Well what, for Chrissake?"
    "You don't listen to me anymore," she said. "You act as if you're alone half the time we're in the same room."
    "Ramona, don't start—"
    " 'Ramona, don't start.' " Like a goddamn parrot. Hair all frizzy after her shower, nose like a beak jutting at me, mouth flapping open and shut, open and shut. And that dressing gown of hers, green and red, white feathery wisps at the neck and on the sleeves. Wings, feathers, bright little bird eyes ... a scrawny, scruffy, middle-aged, chattering parrot. What did I ever see in her?
    "What did I ever see in you?" I muttered aloud.
    "What? What did you say?"
    "Nothing." Sip of coffee. Bite of toast. Glance at my watch even though I know what time it is. "I'd better get to the bank."
    "It's only eight-twenty," Ramona said. "I want an answer first."
    "Answer to what?"
    "God, you can be an exasperating man. Where you were until after two o'clock in the morning. On a weeknight."
    The squawking and screeching echoed inside my head, making it ache. My eyeballs actually hurt from the pressure.
    "George. Where were you?"
    "At the Elks Lodge, playing cards."
    "Until two A.M.?"
    "Yes, until two A.M. Pinochle. I lost nine dollars and had four drinks and then I drove home. Does that satisfy you? Or do you want to know who else was in the game and who won and how much and how many drinks each of them had?"
    "You don't have to yell—"
    "And you don't have to interrogate me as if I were a fucking criminal."
    Her mouth pinched until it wasn't a mouth any longer, just a bunch of hard ridges and vertical creases. Kissing that mouth was like kissing two strips of granite. Was it ever soft, even on our honeymoon? I couldn't remember her lips ever being soft.
    "At the breakfast table, George?" Hard and tight like her mouth. "That kind of language at eight-twenty in the morning?"
    For a few seconds I lost it. Couldn't stop myself from saying, "That's right, you don't like fucking, do