Ryan Jahn - The Last Tomorrow

‘Who was that?’

‘Evelyn Manning.’

For a moment Fingers cannot speak. Then: ‘Jesus Christ, man.’

‘What?’

‘The Man is gonna kill us.’

‘He was gonna kill me anyway.’

‘Well, motherfucker, now he’s gonna kill me, too.’

Eugene shakes his head.

‘Not if this works.’

‘Not if what works?’

Eugene tells him.

5

Eugene follows the Chevrolet Bel Air south through Hollywood and downtown Los Angeles to a small industrial city called Vernon, a place where children do not play on the streets, where wives do not garden in their front yards while flirting with door-to-door salesmen, and where husbands do not come home with loosened ties hanging from their necks after working comfortably in air-conditioned office buildings.

This isn’t a city for living.

Foul black pillars of smoke hold up the sky. Tractor trailers backed up to docks are loaded and unloaded by sweaty-gloved men with pallet trucks. Farmers from the surrounding areas haul dead livestock toward the rendering plant. And everywhere the sounds of people getting hard, stinking work done; the kind of necessary but ugly work the rest of society would rather not know about.

Eventually they arrive at an empty warehouse.

The previous tenant’s sign has been removed, but the words can still be read in relief against the filth covering the rest of the crumbling stucco facade.

B amp; K Lumber Co.

Construction Supplies

They drive around the corner and pull into the back lot. A few disintegrating tractor trailers sit in front of the closed and padlocked dock doors. Dead weeds jut from cracks in the asphalt. Weathered gray two-by-fours and four-by-fours are stacked willy-nilly in the parking lot like pyres awaiting sacrifices.

Near one of those piles of wood a thin blond man in a white linen suit and sunglasses leans against his Cadillac smoking a cigarette, a reddish mustache resting uncomfortably on his lip, like a rash. He raises his hand in greeting, shows his white horse teeth, and watches them park.

Eugene lights a cigarette and watches Fingers step from his vehicle.

‘Wait here. I’ll take care of it.’

Eugene nods, then watches as his friend struts toward the man in the white suit. The two talk a moment and make an exchange before the man in the white suit shows his horse teeth once more, gets into his Cadillac, and starts the engine. He drives out to the street and makes a left without even glancing toward Eugene.

Then he’s gone.

Like that: it’s finished.

Fingers walks back toward Eugene, puts a key ring into his hand.

‘The square key is for the front and back doors. Round keys are for the padlocks on the roll-ups.’

Eugene nods.

6

Evelyn hears the key slide into the lock and the lock tumble.

She’s covered in sweat and can smell her own stink filling the confined space in which she’s trapped. She can only breathe through her nostrils — her mouth gagged, the itch of the fabric at the back of her throat making her want to cough — and doesn’t think she’s getting enough oxygen. She feels dizzy. She feels sick.

She can’t believe she let herself go soft. Daddy would never find himself in a situation like this. Daddy doesn’t let his heart tell him anything; doesn’t let his heart lead him anywhere. Only a fool would do such a thing.

The trunk lid swings open.

First thing she sees is bright blue sky. It’s blinding after the darkness of the trunk. Water streams from her eyes. Then a man-shaped silhouette fills the blue, darkness surrounded by a halo of light. It reaches for her.

She pulls back her legs and kicks. Her feet slam into the silhouette’s chest and it stumbles backwards several steps. She slides her way out of the trunk and falls to the hard gray asphalt. She rolls onto her back and pulls herself into a sitting position. She tries to get to her feet but has no leverage with her ankles bound and her hands taped behind her back, no way to pull herself up.

She groans through the gag in her mouth.

Then Eugene reaches for her and picks her up. He drags her, struggling, toward the back door of a warehouse, up five concrete steps, through a blue door. He sets her on hard concrete.

The warehouse is hot, the sun beating down on the corrugated tin roof overhead, a few beams of light shooting through rusted-out holes, illuminating the dust floating through the air. There’s a pile of wood in the far left corner, end-pieces of four to six inches in length. A table saw beside the pile. Shelves line the wall to the right, mostly empty but for a few boxes containing wood screws, finishing nails, and so on. A few pallets are scattered across the floor, and a few rusty pallet trucks.

The concrete floor is cool despite how hot the air is in here.

It feels good on her skin.

She looks at Eugene and he looks back. Neither of them makes a sound for a very long time.

Then he turns and walks away.

7

Eugene walks out to the car and collects Evelyn’s purse and a roll of duct tape from the back seat, thanks Fingers for his help, he really came through, and says I’ll see you later.

‘I hope so,’ Fingers says, and gets into his car.

He pulls his door shut.

Eugene hopes so too, but like his friend, he has his doubts. Still, he’s got to do everything he can to get through this.

He has no other choice.

8

Fingers grips the steering wheel. He stares at the gray cinderblock wall in front of him for a long time. He starts the engine, backs out of the parking spot, pulls out into the street. His headache is only getting worse. The left temple throbs, feeling like someone’s going at it with a tack hammer.

Eugene will be dead by the end of the day tomorrow. He’s sure of it. There’s simply no way he lives through what he’s trying to do. A matador attempting to get two bulls to charge him from opposite directions by waving red, then stepping aside so they’ll crack skulls, instead he’ll end up gored. Twice.

And the worst part is, Eugene’s asked Fingers to sharpen their horns.

He’ll do it. He’ll do what his friend has asked of him. He put the man into this situation and can’t deny him his request.

But there’s no way it doesn’t end badly.

1

Carl and Friedman sit parked at the curb in front of a pink stucco apartment building. They watch the building, but nothing happens. Carl wishes he were somewhere else. This sitting and waiting is giving him too much time to think and too little to think about. It means his mind is turning inward again, the last thing he wants or needs.

His arms itch, he’s beginning to feel sweaty, he’s very tired. How long has it been since he’s eaten a proper meal? A couple days at least. How long has it been since he took a shit? That was only yesterday morning, and while there was no blood in his stool, he wishes there had been. That might mean he’d get to see Naomi soon. If he doesn’t have the courage to tell her goodbye he might as well be with her. Living in-between as he has been isn’t living at all.

‘Here he comes.’ Carl looks up the street.

A cream-colored Chevrolet Bel Air rolls toward them. Thank Christ — something outside himself to focus on.

2

Fingers knew the detectives would return at some point, and probably soon, but wasn’t expecting them in front of his apartment building as he turned onto his street. He was hoping for peace, some time to relax after the stress of what he’s just done and what he’s agreed to do.

His mouth goes dry and his palms get sweaty.

Be cool. You deal with dangerous people all the time. Do your thing, tell your lies when you need to tell them, and be careful not to light up the tilt sign. It’s that simple.