The Last Tomorrow

TEN

1

Eugene Dahl pulls his milk truck to a stop in front of the Galt Hotel on Wilshire and kills the engine with the turn of a key. He steps from the truck and walks into the hotel’s bar, which opens onto the street. All daylight is cut off as the door swings shut behind him. A few dim bulbs overhead and a couple neon tubes on the walls provide what little illumination remains. Every direction you turn the dim room feels like looking through a window screen.

Outside it was a Thursday evening. Outside it was the tenth of April. But none of that matters in here. In here it is forever midnight at the end of the world.

He looks around the room for Trish but doesn’t see her, and when he doesn’t see her he feels relief at her absence. He took her to dinner a few times last summer, took her on a few motorcycle rides along the Pacific Coast Highway, took her to a Negro bar for dancing and drinks, but after a few dates she became possessive and angry when he so much as glanced at another woman. Yet when he wasn’t around she was spreading her legs for anybody willing to buy her a few martinis. First they had fights, then they stopped talking. But neither of them was willing to give up this spot. When you find a good bar, you tend to be loyal. Instead, and without discussing it, they developed shifts. Sometimes there’s overlap, but not today.

He walks across the room to a barstool and sits down on cushioned red leather.

The barkeep, Jerry, a balding fellow with a gut that hangs over his belt, white shirt stretched over it like a tarp, dries his hands on a liquor-and mixer-stained towel, grabs a tumbler, and pours a double shot of bourbon into it. He pushes the drink across the counter to Eugene, who lifts it, puts it to his nose, and inhales its fine harsh scent.

He takes a mouthful, closes his eyes, and lets it sit on his tongue. He likes the tingling sensation it brings. He swallows. It goes down warm, feeling acidic, like heartburn in reverse.

He grew up during prohibition, so most of what he drank back home was bathtub moonshine. Occasionally, though, someone’s dad would get a prescription and bring home a bottle of Old Grand-Dad, which everyone would nip from for the next day or two. The bottle claimed the whiskey was

UNEXCELLED FOR MEDICINAL PURPOSES

and while Eugene still isn’t sure what medicinal purposes the whiskey might serve — sometimes it was prescribed for gout, sometimes for the very headaches it caused — he believed then and believes still that Old Grand-Dad is unexcelled for drinking purposes. There’s nothing finer than a good bourbon. He thinks he’ll have another three of these at least before he even considers letting his stool cool off.

He finishes work midday, eats lunch, and still has hours to kill. He loves the way they stretch out before him. He doesn’t understand boredom. Sitting on a barstool, sipping a drink, thinking about the book you will soon start writing — soon, but not today — is more than enough to fill the hours.

One need not actually do anything.

Thinking is enough. Dreaming is enough. Dreaming is the best. As soon as you do, the dream is dead, usurped by reality. It’s best to hold onto that bittersweet hope and the knowledge that there’s still time, even if it is slowly bleeding down the drain of the world. For now there’s time. There’s the future.

He again sips his drink.

‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘How are the twins?’

‘Short and stupid.’

‘I’m not sure those were the wisest names for your children, Jerry.’

‘You ain’t met em.’

‘How old are they now?’

‘Ten months. I don’t know why they can’t be born twelve years old. What good are kids when they’re too goddamn small to take out the garbage?’

Eugene shrugs, thinks of his own childhood.

He grew up in poverty, but hardly knew it. He could spend entire days alone, playing, building fantasy worlds around himself as he went on great adventures, hunting nonexistent beasts and discovering imaginary treasures. There was an innocent magic to it that even now makes his chest ache with nostalgia when he thinks about it, though he knows there was ugliness there he’s since forgotten, or pushed from his mind. He could remember, but chooses not to. He’s simply glad he still has some small magic within him. He’s protective of it, never wants to lose it. Maybe this is why he doesn’t spend it, why he only dreams. He’s afraid if he uses it, the magic will be gone. He’s afraid he will use it up completely. Then what will he have left?

The door behind him lets out a high-pitched squeak as someone pushes through. He looks over his shoulder to see a slender woman with wavy red hair slither into the dim bar. She’s pale, with fine features, and manages somehow to be both beautiful and ugly simultaneously. There’s something oddly, disquietingly, reptilian about her. She sways silently toward the counter, in a brief dress, and sits down, leaving an empty stool between herself and Eugene.

She reaches into a clutch, finds an etched gold cigarette-ase, unlatches it with the push of a button, and flips it open. She removes a filtered Kent cigarette with slender fingers, puts it between her lipsticked lips. She glances toward Eugene, her eyes pale blue.

‘Have a light?’

Eugene flips open his lighter, a pre-war Zippo, gets a flame going with some effort — he needs to replace the flint — and holds it to the end of her cigarette. She inhales deeply, removes the cigarette from her mouth, the end of the filter now smeared red, and exhales a thin stream of smoke through sensually puckered lips. A smile touches them.

‘Thanks.’

‘You bet.’

‘How’d you like to buy me a drink?’

‘That depends.’

‘Oh, yeah? On what does it depend?’

‘What are you drinking?’

‘Is this a test?’

‘I guess you could call it that.’

‘A man who’s particular, I like it. But I’m afraid I’m about to disappoint you. Old Grand-Dad, neat.’

‘Old Grand-Dad.’ He smiles.

‘Did I pass after all?’

‘Pass? What say we skip to the end and get married?’

‘Ouch, that is the end. Let’s just start with the drink.’

‘Bourbon for the lady, Jerry. And I’ll have another myself.’

Jerry nods.

The woman holds out her hand. ‘Evelyn.’

He takes her hand lightly in his own. ‘Eugene.’

‘You don’t look like a Eugene.’

‘No?’

She shakes her head.

‘What do I look like?’

‘A Kurt. That chin belongs on somebody with a hard-edged consonant in his name. I’d even settle for Frank. Eugene, though, I’m not sure it works for you.’

‘I’ve managed to live with it so far.’

‘Then I suppose I can too.’

‘That’s awful generous of you, I appreciate it.’

‘I thought you would.’

‘You from out of town?’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘Your accent.’

‘I have an accent?’

He nods.

‘I’m in from New York.’

‘I’d hate to call you a liar.’

A blush touches her cheeks.

‘I grew up in New Jersey.’

‘What brings you to town?’

‘Business.’

‘Business?’

Evelyn nods.

‘What kind of business?’

‘You a private dick?’

‘Just making conversation.’

‘I work for my dad.’

‘Well, what kind of business is your dad in?’ Evelyn downs her whiskey.

‘Stop asking questions and buy me another drink,’ she says. ‘Quick, before you ruin your chances.’

‘Another drink for the lady, Jerry.’

2

Evelyn takes a drag from her cigarette and watches Jerry pour her drink from an orange-labeled bottle. She says thanks and takes a sip. It’s harsh and unpleasant, but at least it’s the real thing. She respects a man who takes his liquor straight. Means he’s serious about it. She’s serious about it too. She just wishes Eugene had better taste.

But the important thing is that Fingers, one of Daddy’s west-coast peddlers, came through on the information. He didn’t seem too happy about it, but he came through.

And on short notice.

As recently as yesterday morning Evelyn didn’t even know she was taking this trip to the West Coast. She was called into Daddy’s office in lower Manhattan and, as usual, asked to wait in his outer office, so she walked-

3

Evelyn walked to Daddy’s bar and poured herself two fingers of scotch from a crystal decanter. She held the tumbler up to the light, swirled the liquid in the glass, looked at its honey color. She brought it to her nose and smelled peat and leather.

She downed it in a single draught and set the empty glass on the counter. She walked to the window, looked down at the street below, watched people walk by. They looked small from up here, like they were barely people at all. Amazing how a little distance could change your perspective. Seeing the world from this height she thought she could understand how good wholesome boys — like her brother, George, before the Japs shot him down over Tokyo — could fly over cities and drop explosives on them without feeling remorse, without feeling anything.

But of course, unlike those good wholesome boys who dropped bombs on cities, she did not have the luxury of distance.

She turned away from the window, walked to a couch, sat down. She crossed her legs at the knees and settled in, waiting for her turn to speak to Daddy.

She was obviously called here for a job. She wondered what it was.

4

It was six years ago, when she turned twenty-one, that she demanded her first meeting with Daddy, and two days later she was summoned from their Shrewsbury house to his office in lower Manhattan. She’d never before seen him in that context. He had forever been Daddy and that was how she perceived him. Daddy took her to Coney Island and bought her Foster Grant sunglasses, cotton candy, and hotdogs from Nathan’s Famous. Daddy watched her ride the Ferris wheel and waved at her. Daddy brought home presents from his trips to Chicago and Las Vegas.

But in his office he was no longer Daddy.

He was the Man.

She realized it as soon as she pushed through the door. The weather was different here. It was colder.

‘What is it you want, Ev?’

‘I want a job.’

He nodded but for a long time said nothing. His bulbous face like over-yeasted bread dough was still and expressionless, his eyes vacant. Finally he blinked once and said, ‘A job.’

She nodded.

He simply stared, and after some time she realized he wanted her to make her case. She cleared her throat and sat up nervously. She looked down at her skirt and flattened it against her legs with the palms of her hands, pushing it down to make certain her knees were covered.

‘Well, see,’ she said, ‘you don’t have a son and I thought-’

‘I have a son.’

‘George is dead, Daddy.’

He nodded once, minutely. ‘I have a dead son.’

‘Someday you’ll want to retire. Even if George was alive he couldn’t take over the business. He was too innocent, like Mom. I’m like you.’

‘And you think you can take over my business?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

A smile shone behind Daddy’s eyes but did not reach his wide, moist mouth.

‘You have no idea what happens here.’

‘I have some idea,’ she said. ‘I hear talk. But I know I don’t know enough. That’s why I want a job. To learn.’

‘If I give you a job there’s three conditions.’

‘Okay.’

‘First, I might ask you to do some unpleasant things. You do what I say as an employee and don’t question it. When it comes to work, I’m not your daddy. You get no special treatment. You’re told to do a job, you do it and that’s it. You got that?’

She nodded. ‘Of course, Daddy. Sir. Of course.’

‘Good. Second, you talk about business to no one on the outside. Not even your mother. Especially not your mother. You might do some things weigh on you. You might think about confessing to Father Byrne or someone else. Don’t. You can have God in your personal life — in fact, I insist on it — but there’s no room for Him in this business. He’s too big, He’d crowd us out. The business is what it is and it won’t be soft on you because you’re a girl. This ain’t the typing pool. It’s a man’s business and a tough one, and you’re starting out at a disadvantage, which means you gotta be even tougher than the men you’re working with. You’re gonna have to prove yourself. You got that?’

She nodded.

‘Third, you ain’t gonna play the moll. I know you’re a woman now, I see it clear as Waterford, and the boys will too. Not one of them is to touch you. That’s part of being respected. You want a man in your life, you find that man outside the business. None of these sons of bitches is good enough for you, anyways. Scoundrels all.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘You start tomorrow.’

‘Thank you, Daddy. Sir.’

5

He wasn’t lying when he told her the business got ugly. In the years since she first began working for Daddy she has gone from an innocent-if-spoiled Jersey girl to. . to something else altogether.

Good wholesome boys might be able to drop bombs from a thousand feet above the human suffering, but she can’t afford to be good or wholesome.

She doesn’t have the luxury of distance.

Before you do certain things you think you have mental boundaries, places you would never go, but those boundaries are like smoke, only thinner, and as you approach them they vanish on the air.

When she began working for Daddy his boys considered her something of a joke. They thought she was a little girl playing at being grown-up. They thought she would dip her toe into the waters of this business and find them much too cold. They don’t think that any longer. They know now she’s colder still than the waters in which she’s expected to swim. When she has to be she’s much colder.

6

She picked up a newspaper from the table and flipped through it, looking for something of interest. On page three she found a piece on Alvin M. Johnston, a pilot for Boeing who, according to the paper, was preparing for his first test flight of a new bomber called the Stratofortress. It was designed to carry 70,000 pounds of nuclear weapons, nine times what was dropped on Hiroshima. According to the article, it would take only one round trip to Moscow to turn the city into a mere divot.

After reading that piece, she flipped the page again and came across a news item out of Los Angeles. Her brow furrowed as she read and a frown touched the corners of her mouth. But before she could finish the article, Daddy’s office door swung open, and she looked up. Louis Lynch stepped out. He wore a black pinstriped suit that accentuated his thinness and stood with his back very straight. To Evelyn he always looked like he should be standing near a casket.

‘The Man will see you now.’

Evelyn got to her feet.

‘Will I be taking a trip to the West Coast?’

Lou cocked an eyebrow at her.

‘Something in the paper.’

‘We have to be at Idlewild Airport in two hours.’

‘We’re flying?’

‘Time is of the essence,’ Daddy said from the office. ‘Come in.’

She walked past Lou into Daddy’s office.

‘Close the door behind you.’

She did.

7

‘You have an accent yourself,’ she says.

‘I do.’

‘Where’s it from?’

‘Kentucky.’

‘I like it,’ she says, ‘you sound kind of like a cowboy.’

They talk for another hour and half, and throughout it all Eugene can see she’s trouble. It’s in the sensual way she touches herself when speaking — her own earlobe, her neck, her thigh — and in the way she purses her lips, and in the way she looks at you with eyes behind which there are no nos. But mostly it’s in her beautiful-ugly reptilian features. He wouldn’t be surprised by a forked tongue. And she’s not the kind that’ll shake her rattle before striking either. One minute she’ll be coiled up beside you, the next her teeth will be gum-deep in your throat.

Yet Eugene finds that attractive. There’s something in him drawn to trouble, always has been. He likes fire in the eyes and a knowing smile. He wants to grab onto something wild and hold on as long as possible.

He finishes his seventh or eighth drink, more than he’d planned on having tonight, and sets his tumbler on the bar. He smiles at Evelyn.

‘How’d you like a dinner companion tomorrow night?’

‘Why, do you know someone less annoying than yourself?’

‘Ouch.’

She laughs and says, ‘That sounded meaner than I thought it would. I’d love dinner.’

‘There’s a place on 8th Street I think you’ll like,’ he says. ‘Where are you staying?’

‘At the Fairmont across the street.’

‘And you didn’t go to the Palm Frond?’

‘Too cheery for me. Like sex, drinking should be done in the dark. It adds mystery to the whole experience.’

‘God,’ he says, ‘are you sure you don’t just wanna get hitched?’

‘Do I look like a horse to you?’

‘All right,’ he says. ‘I’ll settle for dinner. Pick you up around seven?’

‘Are you leaving already?’

He taps his empty glass. ‘One more drink and I’ll be crawling home.’

‘Hey, Jerry,’ Evelyn says, ‘pour one more for Gene. He’s promised a show.’

Jerry glances toward them, but Eugene waves him away.

He gets to his feet, bowing slightly. ‘It was lovely meeting you.’

He takes her hand in his and kisses the back of it. It’s cool and dry and soft and he can smell perfume on the inside of her wrists, something light and flowery and unlike the woman herself.

‘I look forward to tomorrow night, Evelyn.’

‘Room three twenty-three,’ she says.

‘Room three twenty-three.’

He turns and heads for the door, pushes through it, staggers into the night. He blinks at his milk truck parked by the curb and feels a moment of internal conflict. He knows he’s had a few too many, probably shouldn’t drive, but he knows too that he doesn’t feel like walking despite the fact it’s only a few blocks.

He lights an Old Gold, inhales deeply, exhales through his nostrils. He spits tobacco from the end of his tongue. He pulls his keys from his pockets and looks at them in his open palm.

‘Fuck it.’

Five minutes later he’s parking the milk truck in front of his building. He steps from his vehicle and tosses what remains of his cigarette into the street. A car passes by. He waves at it for no good reason and when the man behind the wheel doesn’t return his wave he wishes him an early death, or at least a sprained ankle. He walks into his building, up the stairs that lead to his front door, and as he walks up the steps he sees that something has been nailed there. A white envelope. The nail pierces its center, making it look to Eugene — perhaps because he’s drunk — a bit like an insect specimen.

‘And here,’ he says to nobody, ‘is the rare paper moth of Peru.’

He walks the rest of the way up the stairs and stands facing his door. He looks at the envelope nailed to it. There’s nothing written on the outside; it is just an envelope. It could contain anything.

After a moment he grabs the nail between the pad of his thumb and the side of his index finger and wiggles it back and forth and, once he has it loose enough to pull it from the door, does so. He turns the envelope over in his hand, but doesn’t open it. Instead he unlocks his front door and steps into his small apartment.

The kitchen is just inside the front door, tiled in blue. Cabinets hang over the counters. To the right of the kitchen is the living room, with only a counter between them. Next to the counter, a small table with two chairs sitting in front of it. On top of the table, a black case containing a portable typewriter. Beside the typewriter, a stack of blank paper beginning to yellow with age.

Eugene shuts the door behind him, looks at the typewriter, and thinks maybe he should try to get some writing done. He walks to the table and sits down, setting the envelope aside unopened. He pulls the typewriter toward him, unlatches the case. He looks at the typewriter, a green Remington with white keys. He bought it for five dollars when he moved to New York. The keys look like grinning teeth to him. He doesn’t like the grin at all. It’s full of contempt.

You’re really gonna do this again, eh?

‘Shut up.’

If you wanna pretend you’re a writer, go ahead. No skin off my nose.

‘I said shut up.’

He rolls a piece of paper into the machine.

He stares at it, blank.

The machine stares back, but says nothing more.

He’s just drunk enough to write the first sentence of his novel. He will dream this doorway into existence and he will walk through it. He’s done it before. He puts his fingers on the keys. They’re cold to the touch. He types.

CHAPTER ONE

I wasn’t supposed to be in the car when it went off the cliff.

He stops. He stares at the sentence for a long time. He blinks. He tears the paper from the machine, crumples it up, tosses it onto the table.

I knew you couldn’t do it.

He closes the typewriter case to shut the thing up. It only speaks when he doesn’t want it to, when he wishes it wouldn’t.

He pushes it away. He gets to his feet. He looks to the envelope on his table.

It can wait till tomorrow.

He walks to the back of his apartment and falls into bed, still clothed. He imagines he can hear the typewriter’s muffled voice mocking him from within its case. Eventually, though, he hears nothing at all.

Soon after the typewriter goes silent he’s snoring low rhythmic snores.

On the table, the envelope waits.