Street of No Return by David Goodis, Robert Polito Page A

commission.
In the bed with her it was dark but somehow blazing like the core of a shooting star. It was going 'way out past all space and all time.
"Lemme tell you something," she said afterward. "I gotta spoil it now. I gotta get dressed and scram outta here."
"No."
"But I gotta," she breathed into his mouth. "It's risky enough already. I don't wanna make it worse."
"All right," he said.
"Please." She touched his arm. "Don't get sore."
"I'm not sore," he said. He was sitting up in the bed. He spoke thickly, falteringly. "Its just that I hate to see you leave."
"I know," she said. "I hate it too."
Then in the darkness of the room she was out of the bed. He heard the rustling of fabric as she began to put on her clothes. The sound was difficult to take. She was getting dressed to walk out of here and it was really very difficult to take.
"Celia--"
"Yes?"
"Let's go away."
"What?" she said. "What's that?"
"We'll go away." His voice throbbed. "It's the only thing we can do."
"But--"
"Look," he cut in quickly. "I know it's wrong. It's giving him a raw deal, it's sorta like larceny. But that's aside from the issue. We just gotta do it, that's all."
For a long moment she didn't speak. And then, very quietly, "What do you want me to do?"
"Write him a note. Pack some things. We'll fix a time and you'll meet me at the train station."
There was another long quiet. He waited, not breathing, and then he heard her saying, "All right. When?"
They arranged the hour. It would be late afternoon. She finished dressing and there was no further talk and then she walked out of the room and he tried to go to sleep. But he couldn't sleep and already he was counting the minutes until he'd see her again. On a small table near the bed there was a lamp and he switched it on and glanced at his wrist watch. The dial said four-forty. He'd be meeting her at the station in approximately twelve hours. He thought, Twelve times sixty makes it seven hundred and twenty minutes, that's a long time.
He lit a cigarette and tried to think in practical terms of what must be done in the next twelve hours. It would be a busy twelve hours because he'd have to cancel several bookings. He was listed for night-club engagements and guest appearances on several radio shows and a large recording company had him scheduled for some platters. All these bookings were very important, especially the radio and the recordings. His manager would start hopping around and yelling that they couldn't afford these cancellations, there was too much money involved, and another factor, a bigger factor, he hadn't yet reached big-name status and he wasn't sufficiently important to walk out on these contracts.
But, he said to himself, you're sufficiently mad about her to walk out on contracts and manager and everything, if it comes to that. You don't really care if it comes to that. You don't care about anything except her.
As it turned out, the cancellations were handled smoothly and there were no negative reactions. He told his manager that he was very tired and needed a rest and had to go away for at least a month. His manager nodded understandingly and patted him on the shoulder and said, "You got the right idea, Gene. Your health comes first. So what's it gonna be? Florida?"
He said he wasn't sure. He told his manager that he'd send a postcard just to keep in touch. But there mustn't be any publicity, he was really very tired and he just wanted to get away from people for a while. His manager promised to keep it quiet. His manager said, "Leave everything to me. Just have yourself a nice vacation and get plenty of sun. And for crissake stay out of drafts, don't come back with a sore throat."
They smiled and shook hands. The cab was waiting and he climbed in and set his suitcase on the floor. He settled back in the seat and the cab went into gear and moved away from the curb. He looked through the window and saw his manager waving good-by. He waved back and then the cab turned a corner and