The Last Tomorrow by Ryan David Jahn Page A

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