The Last Tomorrow

FORTY-NINE

Fingers sits in silence. The uniformed officers stand by the door. He’s tried to speak with them two or three times now, empty chatter to fill the empty minutes, but they responded only with one-word answers to his queries, which filled no time at all. He’s been here at least two hours. Even without a clock or a watch available he knows he’s been here that long, and maybe longer. He briefly wishes he’d remembered to put on his watch when he left the apartment this morning, but supposes the cops probably would have taken it, anyway.

He wonders if Eugene’s still alive. He might already have gotten himself killed. Lou might have already put a bullet into him — or six. He wishes Eugene hadn’t told him what he was attempting. It’s insane, will never work. He’s tempted to tell the police everything, the truth beginning to end, simply to save his friend’s life, but he won’t. He tells himself he won’t. He’ll tell them the story he’s supposed to tell them and no other. That may mean he’s helping to kill Eugene, he’s almost certain that’s exactly what it means, but he’ll not betray his friend’s trust a third time. And maybe Eugene will even pull it off. Maybe he’ll manage it and walk away unscathed.

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.