Don’t kid yourself, man, you know better than that.
He supposes the chances are small.
The chances are nonexistent. Eugene might come across as cool, but he’s square and you know it. He can’t kill nobody. Man gets nervous in the presence of a few reefers. You let your friend surround himself with criminals and cops, you’re letting him kill himself. He don’t have it in him to do what he’s planning to do, and when the time comes, he’ll find he’s nothing but a mouse in a snake pit. They’ll eat him alive and you’ll be the one who let it happen, because you’re the only one in a position to stop it.
So ask yourself this. Is it a betrayal to save your friend’s life?
Three knocks at the door. One of the uniformed cops pulls it open. The older detective steps into the room. His face is beaded with sweat. A uniformed cop pushes the door closed and locks it. The detective carries in his hand a white paper bag. He walks to the table and sets it in front of Fingers. The bottom is translucent with grease.
‘Got you some food. Eat up, then we’ll talk.’
The detective pulls out a chair and sits across from him.
FIFTY
1
Eugene carries Evelyn’s purse to Louis Lynch’s rented car, opens the door with a gloved hand, tosses the purse into the back seat. It falls to the floorboard, where its contents spill out across the carpet.
He slams shut the door.
2
He grabs his motorcycle by the handlebars and pushes it out to the street and along the sun-faded asphalt, rolling it away from the building silently. Once he’s put some distance between himself and the warehouse, he kicks the machine to life and rides north, feeling shaky now that the adrenalin within him has been spent. The front of his shirt is filthy from lying on top of the trailer. His face is grimy. He feels sticky with nervous sweat now dried. He doesn’t care. He managed to make it through the first part of this madness, and that’s something. He wasn’t sure he would, but he did, and without any trouble at all. It gives him hope he might actually pull it off. He’ll know for certain by tomorrow afternoon — if he’s still alive to know anything.
There’s more than a small chance it’ll turn out to be his last tomorrow.
For now, though, he must finish with today.
3
He pushes into Louis Lynch’s hotel room and closes the door behind him. He walks to the small leatherette hard-case on the dresser and opens it, squeezing the latch with thumb and index, flipping the body of the case up. He looks down at the black Royal typewriter revealed. Then, after a moment, he rolls a sheet of hotel stationery into the machine. He looks down at the blank cream-colored paper. His mouth goes dry. He licks his lips. He swallows. Finally he types:
2294 E. 37th St.
Vernon, CA.
1:30 p.m.
Come alone or she dies.
He stops typing, pulls his gloved fingers off the round keys. His hands hover over the typewriter. He reads the note and, satisfied, removes it from the machine. It says everything he needs it to say, and most of what he needs it to say has nothing to do with the words on the page or what order they’re in. He carefully folds the paper into thirds, making certain the creases are straight — Louis Lynch seems like a straight-crease kind of guy — then stuffs the folded paper into a hotel envelope and seals it. He types a name on the front of the envelope and with it in his hand steps out of the hotel room. He takes the elevator down to the lobby, slides the envelope across the front desk, tells the gentleman who picks it up it’s for Humphrey Smith, I understand he’s expected to check in late tonight or early tomorrow morning. He must receive it as soon as he arrives. The gentleman tells him yes, sir, not a problem. Eugene says thank you, then turns and walks out of the hotel. As he makes his way toward the street he asks himself what else he needs to do, what else he needs to take care of.
A few things yet.
4
He stops at a liquor store and buys himself a bottle of Old Grand-Dad. He knows there’s a good chance he’ll get sloppy if he works drunk, make mistakes that might kill him or put him in prison, but he doesn’t think he can remain sober and still do what needs to be done. He knows he can’t. Tomorrow will be a day filled with ugliness and he can’t face it straight. Every time he thinks about it he feels sick to his stomach. But it has to happen. If he’s going to walk away from this, it simply must happen, and that’s all there is to it. So he’ll do what he needs to do to make sure it does. He’ll try not to get drunk, he’ll try to consume only enough so he can face the day, but he needs his medicine.
With the bottle purchased he steps back into the daylight. As he does he throws Louis Lynch’s room key into a trash can by the door.
He won’t be needing it again and doesn’t want it on him.
5
He makes one last stop before heading back to the warehouse. He parks in front of a hamburger joint, steps inside, and walks to the cash register, behind which a pimple-faced young man in a white hat stands waiting. He orders six hamburgers for take-out. He pays and walks to a red vinyl stool. He sits down and leans forward with his arms on the counter and glances around the room, checking out the few other patrons. To his right a woman sips an ice-cream soda through a straw, and a teenage boy drags French fries through a smear of ketchup. Then he looks left. The detective he ran into at the Shenefield Hotel, the one who saw him drop the murder weapon, sits not twenty feet away in a booth in the corner. A greasy white take-out bag sits on the table to his left, presumably lunch for someone who couldn’t make it to the diner. Eugene turns quickly away, head snapping forward. He looks straight ahead at the wall behind the counter, at shelves of ketchup and mustard and various flavors of syrup for sodas and fresh fruit in baskets. He wants to glance over his shoulder again, to see if the detective noticed him, but doesn’t. He must simply sit here and look normal and wait for his food. He wants to leave immediately, but doesn’t do that either. If he leaves the counter boy might call after him, hey, mister, you forgot your food, and this would bring him attention he doesn’t want. No, he must sit and wait. He must not look around nervously. He must act normal. He closes his eyes and swallows. He opens his eyes and looks at the clock on the wall.
After what feels like an hour a white paper bag is set in front of him.
He says thanks, picks up the bag, turns around. He doesn’t glance toward the table at which the detective sits. Only an asshole would do that. He walks straight for the door. He feels stiff and awkward in his movements, as if he were drunk and trying not to reveal the fact. He pushes his way outside. He walks to his motorcycle.
No one tries to stop him. No one says a word.
6
He steps into the warehouse and walks to the tractor trailer parked at dock number three. He looks into it through a hole in one of the doors. Evelyn and Louis Lynch are sitting across from one another, silent and motionless. Evelyn’s arms and legs have been freed, the gag removed from her mouth. At this point it doesn’t matter. She’ll be locked in the trailer until it’s finished and it’ll be finished tomorrow afternoon.
Besides, she needs to eat.
‘I got you food.’
Neither Evelyn nor Louis Lynch says anything.
‘Stand up.’
They both get to their feet.
Louis Lynch glances toward him. ‘Do you really think you have any chance of walking away from this?’
‘Toss your gun toward the door.’
He removes a revolver from its holster and throws it toward Eugene. It thuds against the wood paneling and slides to the door, which brings it to a stop.
‘You’re already dead,’ Louis Lynch says, ‘you just don’t know it yet.’
‘Turn around and put your hands to the wall, both of you.’
They both turn their backs to him. They both walk to the opposite end of the trailer. They press their palms against the wall.
‘Don’t move.’
Eugene pulls up on the handle, the bolts re
tract, and the doors swing open. He removes two burgers wrapped in greasy white paper, then tosses the bag containing the four remaining hamburgers into the trailer. It lands with a heavy thud against the floor. He picks up Louis Lynch’s revolver and tucks it into the back of his pants. He shuts the trailer doors and brings the handle down, sliding the bolts back into their holds. He puts the padlock into place.
Then he walks to a stack of pallets in the middle of the floor and sits down. He takes off his gloves. He unwraps one of his burgers. The smell makes his stomach turn. He knows he should eat, but he isn’t at all hungry. He feels sick. He brings the burger to his mouth and takes a bite. It’s very salty. He chews slowly and forces himself to swallow.
This is it, then.
There’s nothing left to do until tomorrow — when it all happens.
THE CANNIBALS
FIFTY-ONE
At nine twenty, with the Lazarus sun drowned once more in the western sea, a heavy-set man in a gray suit with a blue silk tie wrapped around his neck and a matching handkerchief poking from his breast pocket steps from a DC-6, descends a set of rolling steps, and, trailed by three men, makes his way across the tarmac, through Los Angeles Airport, and out the front doors. Crowds, without realizing they’re doing it, part for him as he walks. People simply glance in his direction as he cuts through space with the ease of a sharp knife and step out of his way. They do it as a unit, a group of people suddenly moving as one, like a sheet of paper unfolding.
He carries in his right hand a black leather briefcase.
FIFTY-TWO
1
Next morning, the sixteenth of April, the sun breaks past the horizon at five twenty-one. The temperature is fifty-two degrees Fahrenheit, though it will increase to sixty-eight before the day is finished. The air is clear enough to see Mount Wilson to the north through the morning haze and to the northwest the Santa Monica Mountains. The wind speed is a little over five miles per hour. The sky is cloudless and when the sun rises fully will be a one-color canvas — solid blue. In other words, it’s a beautiful spring day, last weekend’s rainstorm nothing but a distant memory.
2
At seven thirty Carl steps into the cool spring morning.
He hopes they catch a break on this investigation today. They need to catch a break on this investigation. They have too many man-hours put into it to come up with nothing. And Carl feels they’re close.
He can sense it. They’re close.
To what, though, he doesn’t know.
3
Eugene opens his eyes at seven fourty-five to find himself looking at pin-dots of morning light shining through holes in the corrugated tin roof overhead like stars in a makeshift sky. His night was long and restless and cold, and what little sleep he had was unpleasant. His head aches and he feels sick to his stomach.
The best outcome today is still something to dread.
Today will be a day filled with ugliness and horror.
He wishes it were otherwise, but it isn’t.
He wishes he could take Evelyn out of that trailer and scrub her body clean and give her a fresh set of clothes. He wishes he could apologize and wrap her in his arms and forget any of this ever happened. But he can’t do any of that. He can’t even allow himself to feel any of that.
Much worse is yet to come.
4
They didn’t let Fingers leave last night. They led him instead to a hotel room with a bed and told him to get comfortable, we’re not letting you leave till you talk. He thinks they’re getting desperate, or else they sense something approaching. He certainly does.
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 y
ou 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.’
The Last Tomorrow Page 33
