Free Night-World by Robert Bloch

all the other jokers who tried to stop him. Tell ’em and sell ’em —that was the big secret. If you tell the suckers what they want to hear, you can sell them what they don’t want to buy. And that’s why he’d ended up with his own company, the new Caddy every year, the monogrammed shirts, the forty-dollar haircuts, everything. Somewhere along the line he’d picked up this little drinking problem, but he had that under control, too. Nobody sent him to the sanatorium, he’d figured that move out for himself. And it worked. Plans always work.
    Lorch started down the street, heading for the office at the end of the block. Midway he passed the lights of the liquor store.
    Funny, it hadn’t been there a couple of months ago. Schermerhorn’s property, wasn’t it? Used to be a cycle shop, but vacant for a long time. He’d tried to get old man Schermerhorn to give him the listing, but the tight bastard turned him down—too cheap to pay commission. So he’d gone ahead and rented it on his own. Mortlake Liquor was the name, slashed across the storefront in red neon.
    Lorch halted and glanced past the cardboard window displays, peering at the brightly lit interior beyond. He stared at aisle racks heaped with half-pints, counters cluttered with quarts, wall shelves filled with fifths, hosts of half-gallons, pyramids of pints.
    The glittering reflection of light bounced off ten thousand bottles. It radiated from rum, glinted on gin, vivified vodka’s crystal clarity. All the colors of the rainbow assaulted Lorch’s eyes, and once again he was conscious of the burning in his throat.
    Twenty-four hours without food will do that. Twenty-four hours without food, and two and a half months without a drink.
    Lorch could see the proprietor sitting behind the counter next to the register. Little old man in a short-sleeved white shirt that hung down over his potbelly. You didn’t have to look twice to know that he shuffled when he walked. And he wouldn’t even have time to get to his feet if Lorch slipped through the doorway, grabbed a bottle from the nearest display and slipped out again. It would be easy.
    Unless, of course, the old man had a gun under the counter. Or someone happened to come along just as he was on his way out. In any case, the old man would sound an alarm, and he’d have to run for it.
    No, that wasn’t the answer. He hadn’t gone through two and a half months of purgatory and then the hell of last night just to start running. Not when he was so close to safety.
    Just a few doors down was the realty office, and he’d find the answer there. The answer to his little drinking problem was in the big liquor cabinet behind his desk. Little problem. Big cabinet. Griswold said whiskey would kill him, but Griswold was a fool.
    Lorch turned away, quickening his pace. Not too fast now. Losing your grip, letting your mind go off like that. Because your throat burns. You still have to make plans.
    He came abreast of the frame bungalow set back from the street and turned down the walk. No sense going up to the front door; the lights were out—it was locked up for the night and he couldn’t smash the lock, not here in full view of the street.
    Lorch glanced around. No one in sight. He skirted the side of the bungalow, moving past the wooden sign on the lawn and into the shadows behind it. He emerged on an empty alleyway. There was a rear entrance, but Lorch didn’t bother to try it; that door would be locked, too. His best bet was the window.
    The window was around on the other side of the building. He moved up to it slowly, still conscious of the dryness in his throat. The window blinds were up, and he could stare into the darkness of his private office. He could see his desk, but not the liquor cabinet; it was in shadow. He knew it was there, though, and all that barred his way was a thin pane of glass. Easy enough to find a rock out in the alley—
    No. Got to make plans. Lorch shook his head, taking a deep