The Last Tomorrow

FORTY-SEVEN

1

Carl and Friedman sit parked at the curb in front of a pink stucco apartment building. They watch the building, but nothing happens. Carl wishes he were somewhere else. This sitting and waiting is giving him too much time to think and too little to think about. It means his mind is turning inward again, the last thing he wants or needs.

His arms itch, he’s beginning to feel sweaty, he’s very tired. How long has it been since he’s eaten a proper meal? A couple days at least. How long has it been since he took a shit? That was only yesterday morning, and while there was no blood in his stool, he wishes there had been. That might mean he’d get to see Naomi soon. If he doesn’t have the courage to tell her goodbye he might as well be with her. Living in-between as he has been isn’t living at all.

‘Here he comes.’ Carl looks up the street.

A cream-colored Chevrolet Bel Air rolls toward them. Thank Christ — something outside himself to focus on.

2

Fingers knew the detectives would return at some point, and probably soon, but wasn’t expecting them in front of his apartment building as he turned onto his street. He was hoping for peace, some time to relax after the stress of what he’s just done and what he’s agreed to do.

His mouth goes dry and his palms get sweaty.

Be cool. You deal with dangerous people all the time. Do your thing, tell your lies when you need to tell them, and be careful not to light up the tilt sign. It’s that simple.

He drives his car slowly past the cops, holding a hand up at them as he does, then makes a u-turn and parks behind them.

It’s true. He does deal with dangerous men all the time, but they’re men he understands. He understands their motives and he knows how to handle them. He doesn’t understand cops, doesn’t understand what gets them out of bed. And the fact that so many of them are easily as crooked as any criminal he’s dealt with makes him fear them as well. They’re crooked but have the law behind them.

What’s not to be afraid of?

He steps from his car and walks toward the detectives in theirs.

‘How you guys doin?’

‘Get in the car.’

‘Is this gonna take a while? If it is I should water my plants.’

‘Get in the goddamn car.’

He nods his understanding, pulls open the back door, slides into the seat.

If anybody else did this it would be kidnapping.

So what’s not to be afraid of?

The cop behind the wheel, the older of the two, starts the engine.

‘Where we goin?’

‘Somewhere we can talk.’

‘We can talk at my place.’

‘No.’

The curtness of the one-word response marks it as punctuation: a period at the end of a conversation. The car pulls away from the curb.

They drive in silence for what feels like a long time, and every moment he’s in the back of this silent car Fingers grows more tense. He tells himself to be cool. He tells himself not to let these guys shake him up. That’s clearly what they’re after, they want to get him fizzy, but he needs to remain calm. He’s determined to remain calm.

You got this, man. You know what you have to do.

They stop in front of the Shenefield Hotel, rolling up to the rear bumper of an LAPD radio car. Two uniformed cops stand on the street beside it, smoking. Then one of them glances over, flicks his cigarette out to the street, and walks over.

3

Carl stands by the open door of his car and watches the two uniformed cops escort Darryl Castor into the Shenefield Hotel. One of the hotel rooms on the sixth floor has been converted into an interrogation room, which they’ll be using later. For the next couple hours, however, they’ll let him sit. Let him think over every reason they might be holding him. In Carl’s experience, both personal and professional, the best way to get to a man is to let his mind turn on itself.

Darryl Castor steps out of sight.

Carl falls into the car and pulls the door shut behind him.

4

The hotel room is nothing like a hotel room. The bed has been removed, as has the dresser. Any painting which might once have hung on the wall is now in a storage closet somewhere. A square metal table sits in the middle of the room, four chairs surrounding it. A reel-to-reel recording device sits on the table. The windows are covered in dark curtains which allow no light to enter from outside. All clocks are absent, making it impossible to tell what time of day or night it might be.

Fingers enters the room, escorted by two uniformed officers. One of the uniformed officers pushes the door closed and locks it.

Fingers turns in a slow circle, taking in his surroundings, then looks toward the police officers, both of whom are standing silent by the door.

‘What now?’ he says.

‘Wait.’

5

Carl looks at the twelve young detectives sitting before him. His eyes sting. His legs feel cramped. His stomach aches. He tries to ignore all of this. He needs his mind clear. He needs to be able to think.

He closes his eyes and exhales in a long sigh. He tries to think about nothing but the case at hand. He needs to get these guys on the street. There’s someone in this city doing James Manning’s bidding and they need to find him.

He opens his eyes.

‘All right,’ he says. ‘Let me tell you why you’re here.’