These are powerful people. He’s done.
He should have known this was coming. What did he think would happen once the district attorney got his hands on those photographs? He can’t believe he let himself get talked out of going after that son of a bitch.
He stomps to his truck and flings the door open and slides inside. He pounds his steering wheel, cursing, every foul word he can think of flying from his mouth and spittle as well. If he’d done what he wanted to do this wouldn’t have happened. If he’d done what he wanted to do on Saturday the district attorney wouldn’t have had time to do this. He’d have kicked the shit out of him and taken the pictures back.
Now he’s going to kill him: kill him dead.
He digs through his pocket till he finds his keys.
A moment later the engine rumbles to life.
6
The truck comes to a screeching halt in front of City Hall. He hopes like hell the district attorney’s in his office. He doesn’t care who sees him, he doesn’t care what the man can do to him. He’s already ruined. If the district attorney had stopped when he got the pictures, stopped there, this wouldn’t be happening. But he didn’t do that. He had to rub Leland’s face in his own defeat. He’ll not be anybody’s bad dog. He’ll not be treated like he shit the rug. He gets out of his truck, walks around it, steps up onto the sidewalk.
‘Leland?’
He stops, looks to his left.
Candice stands on the sidewalk. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a bun. Her face is free of makeup or nearly so. A thin man in a dark suit stands beside her.
‘Candice.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was just- Shit. Nothin. What about you, darlin?’
‘Meeting with Sandy and the district attorney.’
‘How’s Sandy doin?’
‘He was okay last time I saw him.’
‘What about you? I didn’t make it to the funeral like I planned.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘But how you doin?’
She looks away, blinking, then swallows.
‘I better head in, Leland. Tell Vivian I said hi.’
‘Will do. You take care of yourself.’
‘I will.’
Leland watches Candice and her lawyer walk up the path toward the building, watches her walk up the steps and disappear inside. He heads back to his truck and steps into it. He stares through the windshield to the street. He needs to get himself a drink.
THIRTY-FIVE
1
Seymour Markley pulls a white cloth from his pocket, snaps it, and cleans his glasses, wiping the lenses in a circular motion one after the other. Without them, the men sitting across from him are mere flesh-colored smudges without eyes or noses or mouths, like someone smeared out their oil-paint faces with the swipe of a thumb. Once the glasses are clean he puts them back on and blinks at Barry and the man sitting beside him, Peter Burton, the deputy district attorney charged with providing the grand jury with legal advice on this investigation once the indictment is presented. They have once more been made human, features having grown from their faces as he placed the glasses upon his nose. He folds the cloth into quarters and puts it back into his pocket.
He has but one question on his mind. What are they going to do about this investigation now that Theodore Stuart is dead? The police haven’t yet apprehended the man who killed him, despite their confidence two nights ago, so he can’t question him about a possible connection to James Manning, and even if he could it doesn’t look like there is one. And he needs one.
He’d planned on presenting the indictment to the grand jury tomorrow morning, once he’d finished lining everything up. He wanted to hand them most of a case. But just as it was coming together, fate knocked it apart. He’s postponed till Friday. He needs at least fourteen members of the twenty-three member grand jury to return an affirmative vote if they’re going to indict, and this is unprecedented legal ground.
When he had Stuart in custody he was sure he’d get the votes, and with a true bill from the grand jury he wouldn’t be standing alone behind a shaky case. Their vote for indictment would protect him, to some degree, from allegations of recklessness. He’d still have to work hard to convince his supporters in the movie industry that this case wouldn’t end up hurting them — he’s gotten more pushback than he expected there, but then the threat those whores made against him clouded his thinking — but at least he wouldn’t be standing alone. Now he’s not so sure the jury will come back with the votes, and if he doesn’t get the votes, it’s over. And his career is irreparably damaged.
Seymour looks at the two men sitting across from him.
Barry, with his elbows on the arms of his chair and his fingertips pressed together, looks like a man preparing for prayer.
Peter Burton, all nerves, with a head of curly blond hair in need of a trim, sits peeling the paper off a cigarette while bits of tobacco fall into his lap.
‘Okay,’ Seymour says. ‘The way I see it, the investigation must to do three things if there’s to be a case. One, it must result in evidence that James Manning is the money behind E.M. Comics. We had testimony to that effect until Theodore Stuart was killed, now we don’t, but I’m confident we can get there. You can’t run a business without leaving a paper trail somewhere. We just need to uncover it. Two, it will need to result in evidence that Down City compelled the boy to commit a murder he would not otherwise have committed. We’ll have the testimony of the boy himself for that, as well as the testimony of Frederic Wertham, an expert in the field. With the way people feel about comics these days, this is the least of our worries. Mothers are already throwing them into trash bins and church groups are burning them. Half of the grand jury will be convinced before any evidence is presented to them. Three, it must result in evidence that James Manning was criminally negligent in allowing the comic to go to press. We need evidence that he knew of the dangers and let the comic end up on newsstands anyway. That’s the tough part, and that’s what might stall the case before it’s even begun. We’re out on a limb here, and to be perfectly frank, it has me worried. Any thoughts?’
Seymour’s telephone rings.
He looks down at it. It rings a second time. He told his girl not to put any calls through, so why is his telephone ringing? It had better be important. He holds up a finger to the two men sitting across from him, picks up the receiver midway through the third ring.
2
Barry watches his boss pick up the telephone, put it to his ear.
‘Yes?’
He looks down at his hands, at his fingertips touching, pushes them hard against each other so the skin goes white beneath the fingernails. He thinks of the discussions he’s been having with Maxine.
‘Put him through.’
He’s been talking with her about quitting. They discussed it over dinner last night and the night before. Maxine always asks the same thing. What will we do about money? It’s a good question, an important one, and his answer now is the same as it was then. I don’t know. But he knows this. He’s been compromised by his work here. He wanted this job because of his respect for the idea that he lived in a nation governed by laws, and that breaking them meant you faced consequences, and that those consequences were meted out to the guilty without regard to who they were or what their social status might be. The problem is, it’s bullshit. It’s a lie. And he’s been actively participating in that lie.
‘What bad news?’
He doesn’t know what he’s going to do, but he doesn’t think he can continue doing this. He knows he can’t. Maybe he’ll bang on the ivories in a piano bar somewhere. At least he’ll be able to look himself in the mirror.
‘Are you certain?’
He looks up to see his boss’s face drain of color.
Into the phone Seymour says, ‘How could this happen?’
He puts his hand over his opened mouth.
‘You need to find him.’
; He hangs up the phone and looks across the desk.
‘There was an accident.’
‘What kind of accident?’
‘Automobile.’
‘What happened?’
‘A sheriff’s deputy crashed into a Mack truck. He was transporting our witness.’
‘Is anyone hurt?’
‘The deputy’s dead from injuries and another man’s been shot.’
‘In a car accident?’
‘It’s confused right now.’
‘What about the boy?’
‘Fled the scene. And it looks like he took the deputy’s service revolver with him.’
3
Seymour closes his eyes and rubs his temples with the first two fingers on each hand. His head is throbbing. He can’t believe what a nightmare this has become. It might be time to end it. Without Theodore Stuart or the boy to testify they have very little to work with. They have the Bunker Hill murder and a weak connection to a comic book with a weak connection to James Manning. They have the skeleton of something, maybe, but the meat has been torn away from the bones and hauled off by hyenas.
And the threat against him has been eliminated.
He won’t be able to simply drop it. He made the grand-jury investigation a public matter, and the public will demand answers. His career will suffer, probably permanently, but if he cuts his losses now it won’t be over. He needs to think this through.
The telephone rings again.
He looks at it hatefully, considers picking it up and dropping it right back down into its cradle. He wants it silenced.
Instead he grabs it, puts it to his ear.
‘What now?’
‘Candice Richardson and her lawyer have arrived.’
THIRTY-SIX
Sandy hops out the back of a truck, swinging out over the side and dropping to the sidewalk, both feet slapping the ground. He wears a pair of khaki slacks and a T-shirt. The khaki shirt with the detention facility’s initials stenciled onto the back is now lying in a ditch several miles away. The revolver is tucked into his pants, pressed against his stomach. He lifts a hand to the driver and says thanks mister though he doesn’t know if the driver can hear him. The driver lifts a hand in return, then pulls his truck back out onto Olympic Boulevard. Sandy watches it shrink and disappear. Once it’s gone he turns in a slow circle, taking in his surroundings. He’s never felt more alone. The streets have never been wider, nor the sky emptier. He’s back in the city and has no idea what to do. He can’t go home but has nowhere else to be. He feels planted where he stands, rooted, and his brain won’t help him, frozen in indecision. His stomach growls. He’s hungry and should get something to eat. He likes that idea. It gives him a way to move forward. He begins walking. At first he drags his feet, but he doesn’t like the sound of that or the feel, so he begins taking big steps instead, begins stomping. That’s better. His feet like hammers falling. Cars roll by to his left. He wishes he had a cigarette. He would feel like a man if he had a cigarette. He’s smoked a couple before, on the back of Bunker Hill, sitting on a truck tire that had been tossed there, and it made him feel sick, but it also make him feel ten feet tall. He should feel like a man right now, not lonely or scared. He never has to go to school again. He never has to say yes sir or no sir or please. He never has to tell other people’s lies.
Not if he doesn’t want to.
He has a gun tucked into his pants. That means he can do whatever he wants. It doesn’t matter that he’s thirteen years old. It doesn’t matter that he’s small. Being meaner than everybody else makes you bigger than you really are, and having a gun makes you bigger still. He only wishes he’d learned that lesson sooner. He spent so much time being scared. Even now he feels afraid and hates it. He wishes he could banish the feeling from his heart. That’s why he killed his stepfather. Because he didn’t want to be afraid anymore, didn’t want to feel sick to his stomach every time he walked through his own front door. He tells himself there’s no place for fear. He’s not a lightning rod and he’s not a cup. He’s a vicious dog. He’s a wild horse. He’s anything he wants to be.
Up ahead on the right he sees a small shop. He decides he’s going to get his lunch there. He’s hungry and he’s going to get lunch and it doesn’t matter that he has no money. He doesn’t need money. He’ll take what he wants. That’s what men do. They take what they want and they don’t say please.
He steps into the store and walks up and down the aisles looking at the loaded shelves, at the jars of pickles and mayonnaise, at the tubes of toothpaste. He stops in front of the canned meats. Rows of corned-beef hash, Spam, tinned herring snacks in sour cream, oysters, sardines. He glances toward the man behind the counter. He’s looking directly at Sandy, watching him. When they make eye contact he nods. Sandy quickly turns back to the canned meats. He shouldn’t have looked. He doesn’t know why he did. Now the man behind the counter will know he’s up to something. But he has no choice. He’s very hungry.
He picks up a tin of sardines, reads the label as if considering the purchase. Boneless, skinless sardines in cottonseed oil. Lightly smoked. He nods to himself and steps away from the canned meats. Continues down the aisle toward the back of the store. He wants to find a place where the man behind the counter can’t see him. Then maybe he’ll be able to slip the sardines into his pocket. Then maybe he’ll-
‘I know what you’re up to.’
He turns around and looks at the man behind the counter. His face feels suddenly hot. The skin tingles. The man looks back, a heavy-set Greek guy with a bushy beard and a sweat-glistening forehead. He stands casually, one hand resting on the counter near a glass ashtray, a brown cigarette between his lips sending up a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. He has sleepy eyes. He blinks at Sandy. A small breeze blows in through the glass front door, disturbing the stream of smoke, breaking it apart, and causing a small plastic American flag jutting from a cigarette rack to wave briefly before once more going still.
‘What?’
He takes a drag from his cigarette, taps ash into the tray, blinks again.
‘I know what you’re up to.’ His tone is flat, unconcerned.
‘I’m not.’
‘You got any money? You gonna pay for those sardines?’
Sandy has a decision to make. After a moment’s thought he nods and walks toward the counter. He licks his lips.
Then grabs a packet of cigarettes from the rack on the counter, knocking the rack over in the process, cigarettes spilling across the counter and falling to the floor, and runs for the exit. The man behind the counter yells after him, get back here you little shit, but he doesn’t stop and he doesn’t look over his shoulder. He runs through the door, out into daylight. He runs down the sidewalk. His feet pound against the pavement. Thud, thud, thud like falling hammers.
Once he reaches the corner he stops running. He looks back. The man stands in the shop’s doorway, looking in his direction, but he doesn’t give chase. Sandy turns away and turns the corner, heading up a small street, looking for a place to eat his lunch.
He should’ve pulled out his gun. He should have waved it around. That would have let that fat Greek bastard know he meant business. Then he could have taken his time, took as many cans of sardines as he wanted and as many packets of cigarettes too. He could have emptied the register and had a nice lunch at a restaurant, like it was Easter or something. That’s what he should have done, but he didn’t think to. Still thinking like a little boy, he only wanted to get away. He needs to stop that, needs to stop thinking scared. Next time he goes into a store it’s with his gun drawn.
He’s a vicious dog. He’s a wild horse. He’s anything he wants to be.
As he continues north apartment buildings give way to houses with neat square lawns. Eventually he arrives at one with a
FOR SALE
sign planted in the grass and walks up the oil-spotted driveway to look inside. He hops up three steps to the front porch, puts his face to the glass, sees an e
mpty living room. The beige carpet has been recently vacuumed. The walls are white. A few nails jut from them where pictures once hung. He checks the door and finds it locked, and there’s no key under the mat. He walks around the building looking for a window to crawl through. He finds one cracked open a few inches at the back of the house and pries the screen out of the way, leaning it against the outside wall. Then pushes the window the rest of the way open and climbs inside.
He walks around the house, exploring the empty rooms, inhaling the scent of fresh paint. He checks the kitchen cupboards and drawers, hoping for a discovery of some kind, but they’re empty with the exception of a box of matches in a drawer near the stove.
He carries the box with him to the living room and sits down on the floor, leaning against the wall. He pulls the gun from his pants and sets it down beside him. Then he pulls the key from the side of the sardine tin, puts it into the metal eye at the top, and begins peeling the lid off, pulling away a twisted metal ribbon.
He’ll have to eat the sardines with his fingers. He doesn’t care. There’s no one around to yell at him for eating with his hands, no one around to smack him upside the head and call him a piggy little shit, so there isn’t any reason to care.
Once the lid is free of the tin he sets it on the floor beside the gun and plucks a sardine from within. He puts it into his mouth and chews. It tastes good. He licks the oil off his fingers, then eats another sardine, and another, and another.
When the tin is empty he sets it on the floor and wipes his fingers clean on the carpet, front and back. He stares at the white wall in front of him. He likes this, sitting here alone, not worrying about anything, not answering to anybody.
The Last Tomorrow Page 25
