Deadline at Dawn

“What was it you wanted to say?”

“Just—” He stopped a second. “How game you are, how spunky you are — that’s all. We’ll make it. If there’s a star that looks out for a little fellow and a little girl, and there must be one somewhere — we’ll make it.”

He moved on a step or two from her, to go out. Then he stopped and came back again.

“What is it?”

“Bricky, I don’t suppose — would you want to kiss me, just for luck, like?”

Their lips touched fleetingly for a moment, in a sketch of a kiss. “Just for luck, like,” she murmured.

As they parted there in the darkness, just inside the front door, to slip out into the street one at a time, the last thing she said to him, in a pleading whisper, was: “Quinn, if you should get back first, before I do — wait for me, ah, wait for me, don’t leave me behind. I want to go home tonight, I want to go home.”

Chapter 6

So he left her, and he struck out down the night-charred street, thinking: Oh, this is hopeless. It’s no use. Why not admit it, why not recognize it? If he’d been alone in it, he would have gone over to the park and planked down on a bench and waited for the daylight to come around, and for it to end that way. Or maybe he would have even beat the daylight to it by getting up again in a little while, after a reflective cigarette or two, and walking around to the nearest police station and marching himself in.

But she was in it now, so he didn’t. She was in it now, so he kept going.

So she was helping him by that much at least: she was keeping him going.

They do that to you. For you. Sometimes, as now, even in spite of you.

He was sorry he’d dragged her into it. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair. He was almost sorry he’d gone up there to that dance-hall at all earlier in the evening. But gee, that would have meant — not knowing her. He couldn’t be sorry for that, he couldn’t make himself that unselfish.

All right, he said to himself. Get started.

I’m him, now.

I’m leaving there, where I’ve just killed a guy. He’s lying back there behind me, and I’ve just killed him. Where do I go? What do I do?

He stopped short, held his forehead. I’ve never killed anyone, so how do I know? That’s the whole trouble, I’ve never killed anyone, so how do I know what I’d do? What they do?

He shook his head. Not in negation, but violently, as if to clear it, to get any loose preconceptions out of it.

Take it up again. Take it from where you left off.

I’ve just killed someone, and he’s lying back there. Now what do I do?

He was at the corner by now.

Which way do I turn?

There’s a cab. Do I get in one? A bus-line stops here. Do I get on one of them? Two blocks over, on Lexington, there are subway steps. Do I go down them? Three blocks over, on Third, there’s the El. Do I climb the stairs of that? Or do I just keep walking, do I steer clear of all those things and just keep using my own two feet, as the safest and best way? Or maybe I didn’t even come this far. Maybe I had a car of my own waiting up the street, just a door or two away from the place where I killed him. Maybe I got in that.

Six choices. And splitting each into its two possible main directions, uptown and down, that made twelve altogether. An even dozen. A maze of getaways, and I’m lost in the middle of all of them. And even if I picked the right one, what good would that do? I still wouldn’t know where it led to, what the destination at the end of it was.

Don’t keep doing that, don’t keep giving up. You wouldn’t want her to think you were that kind of a guy, would you? Start over. Start over fresh. Now.

I’ve just killed a guy, and I’m at the corner now, I’ve come as far as the corner. Never mind about what did I do, this time. How did I feel, try it that way. Maybe the emotional approach will get you there quicker.

Well, how did I feel? I’m shaky all over, I guess, inside and out — unless I’m a pretty hard case. The nervous reaction has caught up with me, along about here; the anger is gone, or whatever it was that made me do it, and I’m getting the after-effects.

I’m shaky all over, pretty well shot.

Wait a minute, there’s a drugstore over there, still lit up. It’s got a little sign in the window, it says “Open all Night.” If it’s still open now, it was surely open then.

Well, if I’m shaky all over, inside and out, maybe I go in there and ask for something to steady me up. Gee, that’d be dangerous, wouldn’t it, right after killing a guy in the immediate vicinity? The druggist would notice my condition, he’d remember it later and tell them about me. I wouldn’t go into such a place, right after killing a guy. But maybe I’d have to, maybe I’m so shaky I wouldn’t stop to think of all that, I’d go in anyway.

He’d remember and tell about me. That’s it, right there. Let’s see if he does.

He went in.

There was only one man in the place. He was behind the prescription-counter, at the back. Quinn went up to it, and just stood there.