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 over.”
“You want me to tell him you’re on the way?”
“No. Not unless he tries to leave again before I arrive.”
“Anything you say, Mrs. Carey.”
Anything for twenty dollars; that was what I’d paid him earlier to keep an eye out and make the call. I hung up without saying good-bye and hurried out to the BMW.
The distance from my house across the Northlake Cutoff to Harry Richmond’s resort is a little better than five miles; I drove too fast and was there in under ten minutes. Richmond was on the office stoop, waiting. He came down the steps to meet me as I stepped out of the car.
“Still here,” he said.
“Which cabin?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Leer on his fat lips and his eyes fondling my breasts. His tongue appeared like a pink slug wiggling out of a hole, flicking from side to side as if he were imagining my nipples and how they would taste. Imagine was all he would ever do. A sleazeball, Mr. Richmond. Soft-bellied, dirty-minded, and money-grubbing. The Hunger wanted nothing to do with men like him, thank God.
“I asked you which cabin, please.”
“Six. His car’s parked in front. Have fun, now.”
I took my eyes off him. The only way to deal with the Harry Richmonds of the world is to deny their existence whenever possible — and let them know you’re doing it. I detoured around him and along the side of the office building into the central courtyard. I could feel him watching me, the crawl of his gaze on my buttocks; the Hunger and I pretended his eyes were hands and that the hands belonged to John Faith.
Faith’s mode of transportation suited him perfectly: battered and scarred, powerful, a ride that would be fast and exciting and not a little dangerous. The comparison put a smile on my face as I stepped onto the tiny porch. But I wiped it off before I knocked; I wanted him to see a different Storm Carey this afternoon, serious and sober and just a touch contrite.
He was surprised when he opened the door, but it lasted for only a second or two. Then his expression reshaped into a faint upturning of his lips, lopsided and sardonic. “Well, well,” he said. “Storm, isn’t it?”
He seemed even bigger in the daylight. Bigger and uglier, with those pale eyes and facial scars. His shirt was off; hair grew in thick tufts on his chest, black flecked with gray, and underneath it muscles and sinews rippled, flowed, like a deadly undertow beneath a calm surface. Frightening and compelling at the same time. Touch him and you might be hurt, but that only made you want to touch him more.
The mouth, the nibbling lips began to move again inside me. “Yes. Storm Carey.”
“What do you want, Mrs. Carey?”
“I told you last night, I’m not married.”
“So you did.”
“Do you mind if I come in?”
“Pretty small, these cabins. Not much inside except a bed, and I don’t feel much like lying down.”
“That isn’t why I’m here,” I said.
“No?”
“No. I came to apologize. I shouldn’t have come on to you the way I did. I’m not usually so brazen.”
“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.