The Last Tomorrow (20 page)

The Man has come for him. The Man has sent someone to kill him. He knew this might happen, knew it probably would happen, and now that it is happening the biblical corner of his mind which
before was preaching so loudly has gone silent. That feeling of fading from existence is also gone. He feels fully in himself, fully alive, and his only concern now is for survival.

He lifts his heavy frame from the bed, cringing as the springs creak, wishing he hadn’t let himself get so fucking fat. He pads to the bathroom, eye on the door, every moment expecting it
to open, to see a killer revealed. His first thought is that he can hide behind the shower curtain, but as soon as his feet are on cold tile he sees there is no shower curtain. The shower’s
enclosed in glass. He knew that. He’s been here for days.

Why didn’t he—

Someone in the corridor kicks at the door and the doorjamb cracks without giving completely. A few jagged splinters of wood fall to the carpet.

He pushes the bathroom door shut, knowing he’s only delaying the inevitable, knowing it but not having the courage to face head-on what’s coming.

Another kick at the room door and this time it swings open.

Death has just walked in, but he’ll not greet it. Every second he can cling to life is a second he wants, filled with terror though it might be. It’s a second that belongs to him
rather than God.

3

Lou pulls open the armoire. Empty wood hangers line the length of the warped dowel, interspersed like crows on a telephone line. On the left side of the dowel, a coat, a few
shirts, a few pairs of pants. Two black shoes sit on the floor, empty of feet.

He pushes the door shut and turns around.

A smile touches his lips.

‘You’re in the bathroom, aren’t you, Teddy?’

He walks toward the door, stepping slowly, moving fluidly. He knows that Teddy Stuart’s behind that door. There’s nowhere else for him to be unless he’s not here, and he is
here. The cop was guarding the door because of what was on the other side of it.

Though he remains calm and his actions deliberate Lou knows he needs to get this done quickly. He called the police before taking the elevator up, called them from the lobby and said he needed
to report a murder, told them that Teddy Stuart had been killed, and now he must make that killing happen and get out of here before the police arrive.

He reaches the door and toes it open.

It swings wide, revealing the man whose life he’s to end. He stands barefoot on the bathroom floor in a pair of wrinkled slacks and a Dago T-shirt. He holds in his hands the heavy lid of
the toilet tank. He holds it over his head, ready to swing it down – except Lou is not within swinging distance. His eyes are red, face unshaven and tired-looking. Lou can almost find it in
himself to feel sorry for the son of a bitch.

Almost.

He raises the gun.

‘You had to know the Man would send someone,’ Lou says. ‘He liked you. He trusted you. And you betrayed him.’

4

Teddy looks through the doorway and down the barrel of a gun. Behind the gun, the skeletal face of a killer. He thinks of his ex-wife. They lived together unhappily for a
decade, but she was the only person he ever loved. He wonders why he couldn’t find happiness. He’s going to die now and he never knew happiness. A few good and true moments, yes, but it
wasn’t enough.

He’s not going to die now. He can’t die. He doesn’t deserve to die.

He wants more, and he needs it.

He throws the toilet tank’s heavy lid at the man standing across from him. It flips end over end once. The killer puts up his arm to block the object. It hits the arm and he grunts, ugh,
and falls backwards to the floor, and the porcelain lid lands beside him.

Teddy looks from the killer on the floor to the hotel room’s door. It’s only ten steps away and it isn’t latched. Loose splinters of wood hang from the doorframe. He can make
it. If he can get to the door and through it he might actually live.

He can make it.

He takes a single step.

5

Lou pulls the trigger. The revolver explodes in his hand. A small dot appears on Teddy Stuart’s forehead, dead-center, like a birdhouse door, tweet, and his brains and
small flecks of bone splatter the white wall behind him. The scent of cordite and the coppery odor of blood fill the room. He shoots again, hitting the already dead man in the shoulder as he falls
to the floor. One clean shot in the head would look too much like a professional hit. Two shots, though, one in the shoulder and one in the head, well, maybe the shooter got lucky.

He tosses the revolver to the floor.

He pulls a sheet of paper from his back pocket, one of the milkman’s H.H. White Creamery Company stock-request forms. It includes the milkman’s name, truck number, and how much
product he needed for his route three days ago.

Lou drops it.

It falls to the carpet, looking like planted evidence.

He picks it up, crumples it up a bit, walks to the armoire. He drops it to the floor. With his toe he pushes it till it’s half hidden beneath the large piece of furniture, more than half
hidden, just a corner of paper poking out of the shadows. That’s better. Looks less obvious and therefore more real.

His job is now finished. He glances at his watch. He needs to get out of here. The police will be arriving soon. The milkman will be arriving soon.

He steps from the hotel room and into the corridor, turns left and walks toward the elevator. As he does he sees a man stepping off said elevator. The man’s about five-ten, an inch shorter
than Lou himself. He’s wearing well-ironed white slacks, a white shirt, a black bowtie, and a pair of tortoiseshell glasses.

Eugene Dahl, right on time.

Lou strolls toward him casually, not a care in the world. They nod at one another the way strangers sometimes do when passing, giving simple courteous acknowledgments, and then Lou steps onto
the elevator. Before the doors close he watches Eugene Dahl continue his walk down the corridor, toward the murder scene.

1

Seymour watches Leland Jones push in through the fingerprinted glass door. He stands in the doorway and scans the room, squinting and turning his head slowly like a lighthouse
lamp. Then catches sight of Seymour and smiles. He holds up a hand like an Indian in a Western picture. Big Mustache say How. Seymour nods a cool greeting without, he’s certain, so much as a
hint of smile. There’s no humor in him, nor kindness toward this blackmailing hillbilly peckerwood (as the southern Negroes Seymour’s put in prison would rightly call him). He looks
past Leland, expecting Vivian to walk through the door behind him. But he appears to be alone.

He walks to the table and slides into the booth saying, ‘You need to relax, sugar. You look more nervous that a pussycat in a roomful of rockin chairs.’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ Seymour says. ‘Where’s Vivian?’

‘You miss her purty face, eh?’

‘I just want this finished.’

‘Fair enough. You got the money?’

‘I have it. Where is she?’

‘She’s at home. What’s it to you?’

‘At home?’

‘Yup.’

A hot lead ball drops into Seymour’s gut with a heavy plunk, like a fishing weight, splashing bile up into his throat and the back of his mouth. He tries to swallow but cannot. He removes
a white cloth from his coat’s inside pocket. He snaps it to remove any lint and cleans his glasses. He rubs at the sore spots on his nose where his glasses usually rest. He puts his glasses
back on. He folds the cloth into quarters and slides it back into his pocket. He swallows. He wonders if Vivian called the police when Barry broke into the place. He wonders if Barry might talk to
get himself out of trouble. He wonders what kind of investigation that might lead to.

The precarious nature of his situation makes him feel sick. He hopes none of what he’s feeling is visible on his face, but believes it must be. His face feels numb and for a moment he
can’t seem to move it.

‘Well,’ he says once he again has some control of himself, once he thinks he can speak with a voice that isn’t shaking, ‘let’s get this over with, then.’

‘Let’s,’ Leland says.

Seymour puts five twenty-dollar bills on the table.

Leland smiles and scoops the money up and counts it before shoving it into the breast pocket of his pearl-button cowboy shirt.

‘Thanks, sugar,’ he says. ‘Vivian said you might be a problem, but I think you handled the situation real good. You didn’t act scared. Business had to be done and you
done it. I appreciate that.’ He slides out of the booth and gets to his feet. ‘Oh. Here’s your pitcher. It really is the last one, you know. I don’t believe in prolongin
unpleasant business.’ He reaches into the back pocket of his pants, pulls out a Polaroid, tosses it onto the table top. He touches the brim of his Stetson cowboy hat, makes a clicking noise
with the corner of his mouth, the way a man will sometimes do to call a horse, and turns away.

Seymour picks up the photo, gets to his feet, walks across the checkered vinyl floor to a payphone in the corner.

He slips a dime into the coin-slot and dials a phone number.

After three rings a woman picks up. ‘Carlyle residence.’

‘Hello,’ he says, ‘this is Seymour Markley. May I speak with Barry, please?’

‘Barry isn’t in.’

‘He’s not back yet?’

‘No.’

‘Okay,’ Seymour says, ‘thank you.’

‘You’re
—’

He drops the phone into its cradle.

2

Keeping one eye on the woman standing wet in a nightgown, holding the weapon in his left hand, ready to swing if necessary, Barry reaches to the top shelf of the closet with
his free hand and pulls down a hat box. He knocks the lid away and looks inside. No hat, but dozens of Polaroid pictures. They’re rubber banded into small stacks of two, three, or four. Most
of the pictures are labeled, names written across them in black marker. Barry recognizes several of the names, and the faces within them as well. Men in the movie industry, men in politics. The
same room appears in every photograph, a dingy room with peeling wallpaper lining the walls, with a couch and a sink and a rolling clothes rack with a few dresses hanging from it. The photographs
were all taken from the same strange angle, the photographer undoubtedly hiding from his primary subject.

‘My God.’

‘You never had sex before?’

‘How long have you been doing this?’

‘What do you care?’

‘I’m taking the pictures.’

‘I figured.’

‘You’re not going to try to stop me?’

‘No.’

‘Okay then. I apologize for threatening you. It seemed necessary. In fact, it still does. Don’t move till I’m out the front door. Please.’

Barry backs out of the bedroom, walking slowly, keeping an eye on the woman standing across the room from him. He backs his way across the living room, the wood floors creaking beneath his feet.
It’ll be okay if he can just get out of here. These people can hardly call the police about the missing photographs. As soon as he’s out the door everything will be fine. He can stop
sweating.

He’s at the front door, ready to throw down the pole and leave, ready to grab the doorknob and make his exit, when he hears the sound of a vehicle pulling into the driveway. The engine
rumbles and the brakes squeal, and then the engine stops rumbling. A door squeaks open, a door slams shut. Boot heels thud against the concrete walkway, coming ever nearer.

And the woman’s now standing in the bedroom doorway, looking at him, despite the fact he told her not to move.

‘Who is that?’

‘It’s Leland.’

‘Okay,’ Barry says, backing away from the door. ‘Okay.’ He leans down slowly and sets the box on the floor. He raises the pipe over his head. He looks again to the woman.
‘Don’t you make a sound.’

The doorknob turns. The door swings open.

A man in a Stetson cowboy hat is on the other side, smiling beneath a thick mustache and saying, ‘I told you everything would be fine. It went smooth as
—’

Barry swings the pole down with all his might, hitting the man on the side of the head, hitting him so hard the shock of the blow makes his palms ache. The pole bends at the contact point,
forming an elbow. The large man collapses to the floor, knees first, then forward, but he’s not knocked unconscious. He immediately starts picking himself up, glancing back toward the door
with a confused look on his face, like he somehow tripped over his own feet and simply can’t figure how it could have happened.

Barry swings again, against the back of his head, the soft part, and when the man hits the floor this time he doesn’t try to pick himself back up.

Barry looks to the woman. She hasn’t moved.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I told him this would happen.’

There’s resignation in her tone. Barry’s glad to hear it. It means this is over.

He picks up the box of pictures.

‘Even so, I apologize,’ he says, and heads out, stepping over the unconscious gentleman blocking the doorway.

3

Seymour’s sitting on the green corduroy couch in Barry’s living room, rocking nervously and gripping a cup of water in both hands. Maxine, who helps out around the
house, is sitting in an easy chair, her legs crossed, looking at him. Neither of them speaks. The door swings open. Seymour gets to his feet. Barry walks through, his bald head beaded with sweat, a
pink knob on his forehead, a box under his arm. He closes the door behind him, looks at Seymour, and says, ‘You assured me the place would be empty.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. Is everything okay?’

‘The place wasn’t empty.’

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he says. Then: ‘Look at this.’ He tosses a hat box onto his coffee table. It lands with a clap.

‘What is it?’

‘Take a look. I need a drink.’

Maxine says, ‘Are you okay, Bear?’

‘I need a drink,’ Barry says again, and heads into the kitchen.

The refrigerator opens and closes. There’s a pop, a small hiss, silence. Barry returns with a small bottle of Blatz gripped in his fist.