Free Night-World by Robert Bloch Page A

breath. Breaking glass was too noisy. If he could find something to pry the window open with—
    Lorch extended his damp palms to test the frame. His hands were shaking now, he knew he’d have to hurry. His fingers slipped from the wood. The window was rising.
    It was rising. It wasn’t locked!
    Goddam Blix and his efficiency. Smart operator and too dumb to remember to lock the window! Wait until he saw him, he’d chew him out—
    Only he wasn’t going to see Blix. That was the whole point. See no one. Take the money and walk, not run.
    The window slid up.
    Jack Lorch gripped the sill and hoisted himself to the ledge. Perspiration beaded his forehead, the rosary of effort. He sat panting there for a moment, eyes searching the alleyway, ears straining for sound. Darkness and silence reassured him, and his breathing subsided to a normal level. But his throat was dry. So dry—
    Over the ledge and into the office. His desk loomed in the shadows. There was a desk lamp, but Lorch didn’t turn it on. Too risky, and he didn’t need light. He knew every foot of the office, every inch. He could find his way blind; the liquor cabinet was just five steps to the left on the wall behind the desk. All these miles, and now just five little steps to go.
    Lorch groped along the side of the desk. The money would be in the upper righthand drawer. Loose change and a few small bills for petty cash, right on top. A metal box for checks and big bills. Locked, of course, but the key was always here, under the desk blotter. He could reach for it now, open the box—combination was forty left, fifty-seven right, twenty left—and put the money in his pocket. But that could wait for another minute. His pocket wasn’t what burned.
    First things first. First a drink, then the money, then plans. And maybe one more drink before the planning. That’s the way he’d always worked, sitting behind the desk and relaxing over a shot while he figured the next move. And that’s the way he’d work now. A drink, two drinks at most, but no more. Not on an empty stomach. And he wasn’t going to slip back into the old routine again; he’d had it with alcoholism, he’d paid his dues. But that first one he needed. Now. To hell with Griswold and his oral-erotic crap, all that jive about infantile craving for the nipple. Once the cash was in his pocket he could have all the nipples in the world. Acres of tits, anything he wanted—after he had a drink.
    Lorch stepped into the deeper shadow at the corner of the room. He moved faster than he realized; only four steps and he banged his forehead against the corner of the built-in liquor cabinet. He didn’t hit hard, but the pain was just enough to sober him.
    Sober. Funny word. Funny feeling. The way he felt now, opening the door of the liquor cabinet. Because he realized that up until now he’d been drunk. Dried out for two and a half months, but drunk as a lord. Drunkenness is a state of mind.
    Of course. Why hadn’t he figured that out before? Alcoholism doesn’t come out of bottles, it comes out of craving. A few ounces deaden the pain of reality, but—by God, old Griswold told the truth!—the pain is subjective. Like all that crud going through his thoughts about the liquor store. An alcoholic is drunk before he ever starts drinking. He sets up his own crazy world, his thoughts are staggering long before his legs.
    Lorch reached out and opened the door of the liquor cabinet, trying to focus his eyes on its contents.
    There it was, three deep shelves crowded with bottles. Gin, vodka, vermouth, bitters on the bottom—Irish, Canadian, Scotch in the middle—top shelf, solid bourbon. Some of the bottles were partially empty, recapped and recorked, and he could smell their contents. The sharp reek penetrated his nostrils and curled down into his throat. Lorch found his hand automatically extending towards the top shelf, felt it falter and draw back as he realized his throat wasn’t burning any