Ryan Jahn - The Last Tomorrow

He walks to the table and slides into the booth saying, ‘You need to relax, sugar. You look more nervous that a pussycat in a roomful of rockin chairs.’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ Seymour says. ‘Where’s Vivian?’

‘You miss her purty face, eh?’

‘I just want this finished.’

‘Fair enough. You got the money?’

‘I have it. Where is she?’

‘She’s at home. What’s it to you?’

‘At home?’

‘Yup.’

A hot lead ball drops into Seymour’s gut with a heavy plunk, like a fishing weight, splashing bile up into his throat and the back of his mouth. He tries to swallow but cannot. He removes a white cloth from his coat’s inside pocket. He snaps it to remove any lint and cleans his glasses. He rubs at the sore spots on his nose where his glasses usually rest. He puts his glasses back on. He folds the cloth into quarters and slides it back into his pocket. He swallows. He wonders if Vivian called the police when Barry broke into the place. He wonders if Barry might talk to get himself out of trouble. He wonders what kind of investigation that might lead to.

The precarious nature of his situation makes him feel sick. He hopes none of what he’s feeling is visible on his face, but believes it must be. His face feels numb and for a moment he can’t seem to move it.

‘Well,’ he says once he again has some control of himself, once he thinks he can speak with a voice that isn’t shaking, ‘let’s get this over with, then.’

‘Let’s,’ Leland says.

Seymour puts five twenty-dollar bills on the table.

Leland smiles and scoops the money up and counts it before shoving it into the breast pocket of his pearl-button cowboy shirt.

‘Thanks, sugar,’ he says. ‘Vivian said you might be a problem, but I think you handled the situation real good. You didn’t act scared. Business had to be done and you done it. I appreciate that.’ He slides out of the booth and gets to his feet. ‘Oh. Here’s your pitcher. It really is the last one, you know. I don’t believe in prolongin unpleasant business.’ He reaches into the back pocket of his pants, pulls out a Polaroid, tosses it onto the table top. He touches the brim of his Stetson cowboy hat, makes a clicking noise with the corner of his mouth, the way a man will sometimes do to call a horse, and turns away.

Seymour picks up the photo, gets to his feet, walks across the checkered vinyl floor to a payphone in the corner.

He slips a dime into the coin-slot and dials a phone number.

After three rings a woman picks up. ‘Carlyle residence.’

‘Hello,’ he says, ‘this is Seymour Markley. May I speak with Barry, please?’

‘Barry isn’t in.’

‘He’s not back yet?’

‘No.’

‘Okay,’ Seymour says, ‘thank you.’

‘You’re -’

He drops the phone into its cradle.

2

Keeping one eye on the woman standing wet in a nightgown, holding the weapon in his left hand, ready to swing if necessary, Barry reaches to the top shelf of the closet with his free hand and pulls down a hat box. He knocks the lid away and looks inside. No hat, but dozens of Polaroid pictures. They’re rubber banded into small stacks of two, three, or four. Most of the pictures are labeled, names written across them in black marker. Barry recognizes several of the names, and the faces within them as well. Men in the movie industry, men in politics. The same room appears in every photograph, a dingy room with peeling wallpaper lining the walls, with a couch and a sink and a rolling clothes rack with a few dresses hanging from it. The photographs were all taken from the same strange angle, the photographer undoubtedly hiding from his primary subject.

‘My God.’

‘You never had sex before?’

‘How long have you been doing this?’

‘What do you care?’

‘I’m taking the pictures.’

‘I figured.’

‘You’re not going to try to stop me?’

‘No.’

‘Okay then. I apologize for threatening you. It seemed necessary. In fact, it still does. Don’t move till I’m out the front door. Please.’

Barry backs out of the bedroom, walking slowly, keeping an eye on the woman standing across the room from him. He backs his way across the living room, the wood floors creaking beneath his feet. It’ll be okay if he can just get out of here. These people can hardly call the police about the missing photographs. As soon as he’s out the door everything will be fine. He can stop sweating.

He’s at the front door, ready to throw down the pole and leave, ready to grab the doorknob and make his exit, when he hears the sound of a vehicle pulling into the driveway. The engine rumbles and the brakes squeal, and then the engine stops rumbling. A door squeaks open, a door slams shut. Boot heels thud against the concrete walkway, coming ever nearer.

And the woman’s now standing in the bedroom doorway, looking at him, despite the fact he told her not to move.

‘Who is that?’

‘It’s Leland.’

‘Okay,’ Barry says, backing away from the door. ‘Okay.’ He leans down slowly and sets the box on the floor. He raises the pipe over his head. He looks again to the woman. ‘Don’t you make a sound.’

The doorknob turns. The door swings open.

A man in a Stetson cowboy hat is on the other side, smiling beneath a thick mustache and saying, ‘I told you everything would be fine. It went smooth as -’

Barry swings the pole down with all his might, hitting the man on the side of the head, hitting him so hard the shock of the blow makes his palms ache. The pole bends at the contact point, forming an elbow. The large man collapses to the floor, knees first, then forward, but he’s not knocked unconscious. He immediately starts picking himself up, glancing back toward the door with a confused look on his face, like he somehow tripped over his own feet and simply can’t figure how it could have happened.

Barry swings again, against the back of his head, the soft part, and when the man hits the floor this time he doesn’t try to pick himself back up.

Barry looks to the woman. She hasn’t moved.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I told him this would happen.’

There’s resignation in her tone. Barry’s glad to hear it. It means this is over.

He picks up the box of pictures.

‘Even so, I apologize,’ he says, and heads out, stepping over the unconscious gentleman blocking the doorway.

3

Seymour’s sitting on the green corduroy couch in Barry’s living room, rocking nervously and gripping a cup of water in both hands. Maxine, who helps out around the house, is sitting in an easy chair, her legs crossed, looking at him. Neither of them speaks. The door swings open. Seymour gets to his feet. Barry walks through, his bald head beaded with sweat, a pink knob on his forehead, a box under his arm. He closes the door behind him, looks at Seymour, and says, ‘You assured me the place would be empty.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. Is everything okay?’

‘The place wasn’t empty.’

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he says. Then: ‘Look at this.’ He tosses a hat box onto his coffee table. It lands with a clap.

‘What is it?’

‘Take a look. I need a drink.’

Maxine says, ‘Are you okay, Bear?’

‘I need a drink,’ Barry says again, and heads into the kitchen.

The refrigerator opens and closes. There’s a pop, a small hiss, silence. Barry returns with a small bottle of Blatz gripped in his fist.

Seymour sits down and pulls the box toward him. He looks down into it and sees dozens of photographs, and at first thinks these are all pictures of him with whores, and feels shame and disgust and terror. How long have they been following him? How long have they been photographing him? Has he really had this many transgressions? Then the faces in the pictures reveal themselves to him and he realizes they’re not of him. He picks up several rubber-banded batches, reading the names on them, flipping through the pictures. Some of the pictures are of nobodies. Most of those are unlabeled. But many more of the pictures are of important people in Los Angeles. An ex-mayor, a police captain, two different state senators, a clean-cut actor with a spotless reputation.