Read Online Nightfall by David Goodis - Free Book Online

strong, sitting there on top of the dresser.
      Vanning moved toward the dresser, his hands stretching toward the satchel, then suddenly veering away, clutching at the nearest bottle. He worked whiskey into a highball glass, studying the amount of whiskey he had poured, telling himself he had never taken that much whiskey in a single drink. He took the glass toward the bathroom door, leaned against the door, looked at the satchel, kept his eyes on it as his head went back, as he raised the glass toward his mouth. Then his eyes were closed and the whiskey was flowing down his throat, exploding in his belly. And the empty glass fell out of his limp hand and hit the floor and made considerable noise as it cracked apart.
      The noise echoed within Vanning's brain. He told himself to go to the window and lean out and call for help. Then he laughed at himself. He laughed out loud. The sound of it was attractive in an eerie way and he laughed harder. Maybe if he laughed loud enough, someone would come in and see him here and talk to him. He wanted that badly right now. If he only had someone in here with him, someone with whom he could discuss this. He stared at the satchel.
      He rubbed his hands together, telling himself he looked like a safety man waiting for a punt. Then he walked toward the dresser. He rubbed his hands again. He took hold of the satchel, lifted it, brought it over to the bed and opened it and saw United States currency.
      Thousand-dollar bills. In small packets, ten bills in each packet, and he counted thirty packets. That made three hundred thousand dollars, he told himself. He placed the packets in the satchel, closed it and stared at it.
      Then he came bounding up from the bed, and he picked up the satchel and walked out of the room. He walked down the hall toward the stairway. Just before he reached the stairway someone moved in behind him, something pressed against his side. And the party said, “Keep walking. Be good.”
      Vanning turned his head and he was looking at a man he had never seen before. The man wore a white panama and a pale green suit, a dark green shirt and yellow tie and a yellow handkerchief flowing largely, gracefully, from the breast pocket. The man was tall and heavy, and he had a square face and his skin was sun-darkened.
      “Just keep walking,” the man said. “Downstairs and to the right and we'll go out through a side door.”
      “You can have the money,” Vanning said.
      “I don't want the money.”
      “Are you a policeman?”
      The man let out a laugh that suddenly got itself sliced clean. “Just keep walking,” he said.
      They arrived on the second-floor landing. The gun nudged Vanning's side, then pressed hard, and Vanning winced, and then he was going downstairs with the man that way beside him, the gun that way against him, and they were in the lobby and a few people were standing around doing nothing the way only people in hotel lobbies can do nothing.
      “So help me,” the man said, “if you let out a whimper I'll let you have it. Now go toward that side door as if you're going out with me for a stroll.”
      They went toward the side door, the man opened the door, they walked out and down a dark street, and nothing was said until the man told Vanning to make a turn. A minute later he told Vanning to make another turn. They were on a narrow street, weakly illuminated by yellow light coming from second-story windows.
      “Now,” the man said, placing himself in front of Vanning, “let's have that bag.”
      Vanning handed over the satchel. He looked at the man. The man was smiling. Vanning sighed. He saw the revolver coming up and pointing at his chest. He sighed.
      He said, “I knew it.”
      “Tough,” the man said, “but that's the way it's got to be.”
      “Can I have a