Ryan Jahn - The Last Tomorrow
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- Название:The Last Tomorrow
- Автор:
- Издательство:Macmillan Publishers UK
- Жанр:
- Год:2012
- ISBN:9780230766501
- Рейтинг книги:4 / 5. Голосов: 1
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But then he knows Eugene has summoned the Man.
He gets to his feet and walks to the window. He pulls open the curtains and looks out at the day. Cars roll by on the street six floors below. People walk on the sidewalk.
Someone knocks.
He turns around. A uniformed officer pushes open the door and says, ‘Get dressed. They want you in the interrogation room.’
He nods.
‘Okay.’
5
Louis Lynch paces the floor of this tiny fucking prison while Evelyn sits expressionless with her knees drawn up to her chest. He wants to yell at her, to shout in her face, where’s your fucking heart? We need to get out of here! We need to do something! But he doesn’t shout at her. This is at least partly his fault. He should have listened to her worries day before yesterday. If he’d listened to her worries this never would have happened. She knew it was coming and he ignored her.
He can’t believe he allowed himself to walk into a trap.
It was a big mistake, but the milkman made a mistake of his own.
Because Lou isn’t someone who walks through strange doors with only one weapon. Even now he can feel the weight of the small six-shot Colt Vest Pocket fitted snugly into its custom holster on the inside of his left wrist.
Even now he has plans for it.
6
Carl and Friedman step into the interrogation room at ten to nine.
Darryl Castor is already inside, facing the reel-to-reel magnetic tape recorder on the table before him. He looks bored, his shoulders slumped, his eyes distant.
Carl hands him a cup of hot coffee.
‘Thanks.’
He nods, then takes a seat. Friedman takes another.
‘Sleep all right?’
‘I don’t like being held captive.’
‘You can walk out that door as soon as you tell us what we need to know.’
He lights a cigarette and inhales deeply. The dry tobacco crackles as it burns. He looks toward the ceiling and exhales. He thinks for a moment about his house. He thinks about his front door and walking through it. He thinks about the years stolen from Naomi and what they might have been like if she were allowed to live them. He thinks about her laugh, wonderful and loud and infectious. He misses sitting on the couch with her. He misses holding her hand while they watched television. He misses the way she would lean over and kiss the corner of his mouth for no reason at all. He misses her scent.
He glances toward Darryl Castor.
‘Cigarette?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Then let’s get started.’
‘Like I said yesterday, I don’t have anything to tell you.’
‘I’m hoping to change your mind.’
‘It’s not a decision, man. I’d cooperate if I knew anything, but I don’t.’
‘You know plenty.’
7
Eugene opens his bottle of Old Grand-Dad at half past ten. He holds it to his nose and inhales its scent. He takes a swallow. It burns going down. He doesn’t know if he can bring himself to do what he needs to do. He doesn’t want to do it. He can’t do it. He feels sick when he thinks about it. But he has to do it. He takes a second swallow of whiskey and looks at the day-old hamburger on the pallet beside him. He should eat it. He doesn’t want to. He’s both hungry and sick to his stomach simultaneously. He should try to eat. He picks up the hamburger and unwraps it. He brings it to his mouth and takes a bite. It’s cold and the fat in the burger has congealed. The tomato is grainy and flavorless. He chews slowly, tasting nothing. He wants to be sick. He swallows. It goes down like a lump of lead. He washes the bite down with yet another swig of whiskey. He tells himself he needs to be careful about the drinking. He tells himself he can’t get drunk. He takes another bite of hamburger. He wonders how he ended up in this mess. He’s always tried to be a decent human being. He’s always minded his own business. He had his simple life and his small ambitions unfulfilled, his small dreams, and the occasional woman to keep him warm on the occasional cold night, but that’s all, and that’s all he needed, all he wanted if he’s honest with himself. So how did he end up here?
Stop it, Eugene. How you ended up here is irrelevant. You’re here. You’re in the situation you’re in. You have to deal with it. Bellyaching accomplishes nothing. You know it accomplishes nothing. Just eat your goddamn hamburger and wait. At one o’clock you get up and you walk to that trailer and you begin. Don’t get drunk. Have enough whiskey that you can do what you need to and not a drop more. You can get through this. In three hours it’ll be over. You can handle that. Three hours is no time at all. So no more feeling sorry for yourself. No more bellyaching. You wait till one o’clock and you do what you need to do. Okay?
He nods to himself.
Okay.
He takes another swallow from his bottle.
8
Fingers scratches his cheek and looks down at the older detective’s left wrist, but the man’s watch is covered by the cuff of his shirt. He thinks it might be time to start talking, but he’s not certain. He could be kidding himself, but it feels right, and he has nothing else to go on. He exhales in a sigh and looks toward the reels of magnetic tape waiting to record. Then he looks from one detective to the other. He hopes to God he isn’t making a mistake.
‘Okay.’
‘Okay what?’
‘I’m tired of being locked in this fucking room.’
‘You and me both.’
‘Then let’s get this over with.’
But before they can even begin the telephone rings.
The younger detective gets to his feet and picks it up.
‘Hello?’ He listens for a moment, then says, ‘Okay. We’re on our way.’
He hangs up.
‘What is it?’
‘We got a match at The Fairmont on Wilshire.’
‘Who?’
‘Louis Lynch.’
‘We sure?’
‘It’s an also-known-as, could be someone who really is named Leopold Jones, but the check-in date is right.’
‘Okay.’ The older detective gets to his feet.
Fingers looks up at him and says, ‘He’s not there.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I know where he is.’
The older detective looks to his partner. ‘You go.’
‘You sure?’
He nods.
‘Okay.’
The younger detective heads out the door.
‘You better start talking.’
9
At a little past noon a heavy-set man in a gray suit with a red silk tie wrapped around his neck and a matching handkerchief poking from his breast pocket steps from the elevator at the Fairmont Hotel and, trailed by three men, heads through the lobby toward the bright midday sunshine, and then into it, breathing in the fresh Pacific air. He pauses a moment and puts his face toward the sun before continuing toward a black rental car parked on the street. First he needs to pick up a few weapons, then he’ll head to an important appointment — at which he fully intends to kill a motherfucker.
10
Fingers watches the reels spin as he speaks, watches the magnetic tape transfer from one to the other. There’s something hypnotic about it. The tape rolls while he thinks of nothing at all, and the words come easily, as if the tape were simply pulling them from his mouth. If he were to look at the detective instead he might start wondering whether the man could see his lies; he’d stumble mid-sentence, forget what he was saying, and contradict himself. It’s best to simply watch the reels spin. So that’s what he does.
He watches them spin and tells the detective he got a call from Louis Lynch last week, during which he was asked several questions about Eugene Dahl. He thought it odd, Eugene isn’t part of that world, but he answered the questions all the same. Lou was asking for the Man and when the Man wants to know something you tell him. It’s just that simple. Or it was until he learned he’d inadvertently helped to frame his friend for the murder of Theodore Stuart. It made him sick. He doesn’t get involved in that ugly sort of business even when it means sinking a stranger. It fucks with his sleep, and he’s a man who likes his sleep. To mitigate his guilt he tried to help Eugene. He gave him a gun, offered him money. He didn’t want to put himself at risk, but he wanted to do something.
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