Ryan Jahn - The Last Tomorrow

She’s sure of it.

And yet: what he says has the ring of truth to it.

If he let anything happen to her Daddy would kill him.

And he’s probably right. Her initial fear at hearing Eugene avoided apprehension was the fear of a woman used to dealing with criminals. He isn’t thinking about her, he’s thinking about how to avoid arrest. Hell, he’s probably at the border by now, about to cross into Tijuana. And that’s a good thing, isn’t it? She felt crummy about what she had to do to him, about helping to frame him. He deserves to get away.

‘You’re right,’ she says.

‘The police probably have him in custody already.’

‘Maybe.’

But she hopes not. She likes the idea of him living in Mexico, wearing colorful tropical shirts and white canvas shoes, drinking beer by the ocean.

‘Are we done? I have to talk to someone about a job.’

‘Okay,’ Evelyn says.

‘Okay.’ Lou closes the door.

She turns toward her room, and blinks at what she sees.

Eugene stands in the corridor, soaking wet, his hair hanging down around his face in clumps. In his right hand he holds a Baby Browning, a lady’s gun, but lady’s gun or not it shoots bullets, not flower petals, and it’s aimed at her face.

‘Evelyn.’

‘Eugene.’

‘We need to talk.’

2

Lou unlocks his room safe and pulls from within it a small bundle wrapped in brown paper. It’s the shape of a brick though thinner and considerably less weighty. He tucks it into his inside coat pocket, grabs an umbrella, and steps from his hotel room.

Once in the corridor he gives Evelyn’s door three quick taps with his knuckles.

‘I’m stepping out,’ he says, a smile on his lips, ‘you might want to make sure your door is chained. Don’t want the milkman to get you.’

Then he heads down the corridor, toward the elevator.

He takes the elevator down to the lobby and walks toward the front door. The doorman pulls it open and steps aside. He walks out into the rain, holding his umbrella overhead. As he makes his way across the lawn to the street a gust of wind catches the umbrella and nearly tears it from his hands, but he manages to keep his grip on it, and forces his way through the bad weather.

As he approaches Wilshire he sees a large truck, a barn-red Mack wrecker, parked on the street waiting for him. The right front fender is dented up, and there are great gouges running along the length of the door, and the right half of the split windshield is spider-webbed with cracks, but at least his man is on time. If he’d had to stand in the rain he might have gotten irritable.

He pulls open the passenger’s-side door and steps up into the truck, shaking off the umbrella and pulling it in behind him. The truck’s seat and floorboard are littered with food wrappers, greasy pieces of cloth, coffee mugs, washers, nuts, and bolts. The upholstery is gouged and torn. The stink is incredible, an old human stink whose fumes hit the back of your sinuses like horseradish.

The stink is coming off the man behind the wheel, a fat man in a greasy T-shirt and a pair of Levis. He has a dirt-tanned round face in need of soap and a razor. It glistens oily in the gray light. His hands rest on his thighs, grime under the fingernails, fingers wrapped in filthy band-aids. The right thumbnail is black, and a hole has been drilled into its center to release the pressure. There’s a bead of blood there like a jewel.

The rain on the metal roof is cacophonous.

‘Got a cigarette?’

‘I didn’t bring them out with me,’ Lou says.

‘Shit.’

The man reaches to the ashtray and picks through the butts till he finds one of decent length. He lights it with a match, inhales deeply, then casually blows a series of smoke rings.

He cracks the window.

‘You got the money?’

‘I’ve got it. Are we clear on the job?’

‘It ain’t exactly complicated.’

‘Even so.’

‘We’re clear.’

‘Good. Then you know that part of what you’re being paid for is silence. No matter how tough the police get, you keep your mouth shut.’

‘How would the police know it was anything but -’

‘Irrelevant. The point is, your silence has been purchased and paid for, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Good.’

Lou removes the package from his pocket and hands it to the man.

‘Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.’

‘Consider it done.’

‘I’ll consider it done when it’s done,’ Lou says.

With that, he pushes his way back out into the rain.

After the stink of the truck, it’s a relief.

3

Eugene walks out of the rain and into the lobby of the Fairmont Hotel. He looks around. No one looks back. Last time he was here he was anticipating a date, an evening out with the beautiful-ugly woman he’d met the night before. Now he’s back to meet the same woman but has no idea what to expect. He has no plan at all except to point his gun and get answers. Will she provide them? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he could shoot her if she refused to talk. If she calls his bluff it’s over. He thinks it is. But then you don’t have to shoot someone to prove you mean business. He could hit her. Could he hit her? After what she did to him he thinks maybe he could. Punch her square in the nose and watch her bleed. Part of him is repulsed by the idea, one does not hit a lady, but another part knows that civilized behavior doesn’t apply to situations such as these. Besides, she’s no lady, and you don’t sip tea with a serpent.

The pistol feels cold against his stomach.

He walks across the lobby to the elevator and takes the elevator up to the third floor. He isn’t sure how he’s going to get into her room.

He stands in the corridor feeling strange, disoriented, lost in a dream, as he felt when he was a child with high fever. He could simply walk to the door and knock, see what happens. And if she doesn’t answer? He doesn’t know. But he doesn’t know what else to do either.

He walks to her room, pulls the pistol from his waistband.

He raises his left hand to knock.

But before he can he hears the sound of the chain being pulled away from the door, then the sound of the deadbolt being snapped out of place. He takes several quick steps away from the door, backing around a corner.

Paranoid thoughts run through his mind. He’s suddenly convinced the lobby was being watched. When he entered the hotel a call was made. Now a gunman will emerge from Evelyn’s room and end his life.

The door swings open.

Evelyn pushes through. She walks to the hotel room next to her own and knocks, a newspaper gripped in her left hand. The knock is answered.

‘Have you seen this?’

4

‘Evelyn.’

‘Eugene.’

‘We need to talk.’

‘Okay.’

‘Let’s head into your room.’

‘I’m not going in there with you.’

‘Then you’ll die out here.’

‘I could scream.’

‘Then you’ll die screaming. I’m already wanted for murder, Evelyn. I have no problem becoming what the police already think I am.’

She licks her lips. After a long time she nods.

‘Okay.’

1

Carl stands in the rain. He looks at the door in front of him and waits for the slow bastard on the other side to pull the thing open so he can put a roof between himself and the pissing gray clouds overhead. Friedman stands beside him. Neither man says a word. After a while Carl raises his hand and knocks again. The crease at the top of his fedora catches rain while he stands and waits. The water pools there till the crease can no longer hold it, then it pours down the front of his head in a stream, splashing on the brim of his fedora and down to his scuffed shoes.