Ryan Jahn - The Last Tomorrow

He’s halfway there. Then he cuts the distance in half again.

He thinks of something he heard once, about a philosopher who supposedly proved it was actually impossible to reach a destination because to do so you must cut the distance there in half, and in half again, and in half again, infinitely, and since there’s no limit to how small the distances can be cut, you arrive nowhere. You end up forever cutting distances in half. He’s always before thought it a bit of ridiculousness, but now he wonders if there isn’t some truth to it. He certainly feels now that he will never reach the door. He must have been walking for several minutes now, for hours, days. It must have been days. The sun must have set and risen again many times by now. His mouth is incredibly dry. How long has it been since he’s had a glass of water? It was only fifty feet from the start, how is he not out yet? How is he not escaped?

How is the door still ten feet away?

Now it’s five.

He’s nearly upon it when the doorman opens the door and a man in a gray suit and a fedora walks in. He’s in his fifties and sweaty but walks with purpose, his glassy eyes on something in the distance, the elevator perhaps. He bumps Eugene’s shoulder, sending Eugene spinning around.

The man stops and catches Eugene by the arm. The gun falls from Eugene’s waistband. He watches it flip end over end on its way down and swipes for it with a sweaty hand but misses.

The man says, ‘Sorry about that, buddy, I -’

The gun hits the floor with a thud and a rattle.

Eugene looks down at it, can’t I catch a single fucking break, and then looks up at the face of the man in the fedora.

His grip tightens on Eugene’s arm.

‘What’s with the weapon, son?’

Eugene pulls away from the man in the fedora, pulls hard, gets his arm out of the grip, though it feels bruised and sore, and rushes the front door. He bangs through it, tripping over the doorman. He falls forward, peeling skin off the palms of his hands as he catches himself on asphalt. Doesn’t even feel it. Doesn’t feel anything. Simply struggles to his feet, glancing over his shoulder to see the man in the fedora pull a revolver of his own from a holster. Sees a police badge clipped to the man’s belt. Then he’s looking forward again, stumbling along, looking for escape, a way to get away.

That’s all he wants in this moment: away.

2

Carl Bachman, in wrinkled gray suit, lies in bed and stares at the ceiling. The ceiling doesn’t stare back. He thinks of his wife and smiles and doesn’t long for her but simply enjoys the mental images. She was so beautiful. Her face was effervescent. When she scrubbed herself free of makeup at night and her skin was pink and clean she was at her most beautiful. She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever known.

The mattress beneath him is very comfortable.

The telephone in the hallway rings. It’s probably for Langer.

Harold Langer is a college student who stays in the next room. He’s studying mathematics. Carl’s talked to him some but they don’t have many overlapping interests so their conversations are short and halting things. Still, seems like a good kid. But he’s been seeing a high school girl, a little paper shaker who calls him at least five times a day, and the ringing phone sometimes gets on Carl’s nerves. Now, however, isn’t one of those times. He likes the sound. Like singing. He listens to it ring and ring.

Until Mrs Hoffman picks it up, choking off the sound. He can hear her voice but cannot make out what she’s saying. Then she stops saying anything. A moment later, a knocking sound. It’s very loud in his ears. She must really be pounding on Langer’s door. The pounding goes on and on, nothing like song. He wants to yell, answer the door, Langer, but he also wants not to yell it, and he guesses he wants that more because he says nothing. The ceiling is stained yellow from cigarette smoke.

The banging continues.

Then: ‘Mr Bachman, are you in there?’

The name sounds familiar.

After a while he sits up. ‘Yeah.’

‘Telephone.’

‘Oh. Okay.’

He gets to his feet and looks around the room. He picks up various items — foil, bindle, pen casing — and shoves them into a brown paper bag. He shoves the brown paper bag into his dresser’s top drawer and slides the drawer closed. He walks to the door, unlocks it, and pulls it open. Mrs Hoffman stands on the other side, hands on hips. Looks at him with disapproval.

‘What took you so long to answer?’

‘I was taking a nap.’

‘It’s the middle of the day.’

‘That’s when naps happen. If it’s nighttime you’re just sleeping.’

He walks past her to the telephone stand.

‘Hello?’

Captain Ellis tells him there’s been a report of a murder. A man under LAPD protection might have been killed. No answer in the room, no word from the protecting officer at the scene. Two radio units are already on the way and hotel staff have been told to stay clear. By the way, do you know where Friedman is? We can’t get hold of him.

Carl says it’s Saturday, he’s probably at synagogue, keep trying till you get him. Then he requests the address. Ellis gives him a number on South Grand Avenue and he scribbles it down, hangs up the telephone, tears the paper off the notepad. He walks to the bathroom and splashes water onto his face and looks at himself in the mirror. Some sad-eyed old man with a face like melted wax looks back. He touches the bag under his right eye. It’s tender and hurts when he touches it, stings with pain. He wonders if he accidentally did something to it to make it hurt.

He turns away from the glass, steps into his room and grabs his fedora from the bed, trudges downstairs, walks to his car.

He drives beneath an overcast sky, wondering if there isn’t going to be rain today.

Less than fifteen minutes later he’s stepping from his vehicle, walking past two radio cars toward the Shenefield Hotel, a gray block building on the corner of 5th and Grand, in the heart of the city.

A doorman sees him coming and pulls open the glass door. He gives the guy a nod and makes his way into the lobby. A couch, two chairs, a table with today’s paper on it and an ashtray. At the back of the room, a desk with a bell on it, and a desk clerk flipping through a magazine.

As he walks he bumps into someone, a young man in a white shirt and a black bowtie with tortoiseshell glasses on his face, and sends the poor fellow spinning. He reaches out and grabs the guy by the arm to help steady him.

‘Sorry about that, buddy, I -’

But the sound of something heavy thudding to the floor cuts him off. He looks down at the carpet and there sees a revolver, a black revolver with a long barrel and a wooden grip. He looks from the revolver to the man standing beside him, the man whose arm is gripped in his fist.

Fear is written across the man’s pale face and guilt flickers in his eyes.

‘What’s with the weapon, son?’

The man yanks away from Carl and runs for the door, pushes through it. He trips over the doorman, hits the ground hard, scrambles back to his feet without slowing down, looks over his shoulder as he runs.

Carl pulls his service revolver, feeling detached from this moment but having some sense that he needs to act, and runs after the guy. He gives chase, shouting stop, goddamn it, and only caring because then he could stop running himself. But the man in the bowtie doesn’t stop. He makes a sharp right turn, pivoting off his left foot, and cuts down an alleyway instead, vanishing behind the brick corner of a building.

About halfway to the alleyway Carl gives up running. He holds his hand to his side and walks quickly, as quickly as he can, breathing hard, feeling dizzy, hating himself. By the time he arrives at the alleyway it’s empty. Of course it is. Murderer isn’t simply going wait for him, oh, I see you’re out of breath, I’ll give you to the count of thirty before I continue.