Free The Bell Tolls for No One by Charles Bukowski

vaults. I’m too close to these empty vaults!”
    â€œOh, Mary, you’ve got a long way to go yet!”
    â€œNo, I haven’t. No, I haven’t!”
    â€œMary . . . ”
    â€œLet’s get out of here!”
    They hurried past Vicki and Hank.
    â€œPeter Lorre is just around the corner,” said the young girl to Hank as they went past.
    â€œThanks.”
    They walked around and looked at Peter. He looked just like the rest of them. They moved on. They walked about casually. It was pleasant. All clean and secure and dull. No pain.
    Vicki wanted to steal a glass vase but she wanted a hand-cut glass vase. Hank talked her out of it. “They may search us. With a face like mine . . . ”
    â€œYou’ve got a beautiful face. I’ve always admired you. You’re one of the few real men I’ve known . . . .”
    â€œThanks, but leave the vase.”
    â€œTell me I’m pretty.”
    â€œYou’re pretty, and I like very much being with you.”
    They kissed in the tombs. Then they walked toward the entrance. Three men were up front. They were locking the door.
    â€œOh,” said Vicki.
    They ran. “Hey! Hey!” yelled Hank, “wait a minute!”
    The door was locked. They beat on the door. The men turned. One came forward and put a key in, opened the door.
    â€œIt’s closing time,” he said.
    â€œO.K. thanks . . . ”
    The keepers walked off and Vicki and Hank walked down toward the car. They got in and Hank bummed a cigarette.
    â€œOf course,” he said, “it’s no good now, but think if we had been locked in there? Wouldn’t it have been wonderful?”
    â€œWell, you can think of it that way. I figure we got all the benefits . . . We didn’t get locked in but we almost did.”
    â€œMaybe you’re right.”
    They were on the street again. “Look, Vicki, let’s stop off at my place . . . ”
    â€œWhy? You want to see if she left a note? You want to see if she might phone?”
    â€œThat’s over, I tell you. It’s history, deader than a Douglas Fairbanks tomb. I just want to leave a note for Marty. Marty said he was coming by tonight. I don’t want to hang him up. I just want to leave a note on the door.”
    â€œYou’ve still got her on your mind.”
    â€œI just don’t want to hang up Marty. Now don’t spoil a good afternoon.”
    â€œIt has been a good afternoon, hasn’t it?”
    â€œYes.”
    They got to the place. Hank had the front court.
    â€œJust drive up on the lawn.”
    Vicki parked it and they went on in.
    â€œGod,” she said, “this place is filthy! Got a broom?”
    â€œTrauma,” he said, “forget it. Sit down.”
    He gave Vicki three or four books and she sat there. He let the water run in the tub. He heard her laughing. Well, they were pretty fair books. He had written them.
    He got into the tub. The Wormwood Review No. 44 was on the edge of the tub. He began to read the first page:
    From a Letter by Henry Green to G.W.—dated June 9, 1954 in W.R. Archives:
    A man falls in love because there is something wrong with him. It is not so much a matter of his health as it is of his mental climate: as, in winter, one longs for the spring . . .
    It went on, and ended:
    It is the horror we feel of ourselves, that is of being alone with ourselves, which draws us to love, but this love should happen only once, and never be repeated. If we have, as we should, learnt our lesson, which is that we are, all and each of us, always and finally alone.
    Hank got out and toweled. Vicki was still laughing. “Your writing’s so raw. You’re too goddamned much.”
    â€œThanks, kid . . . ”
    He walked into the bedroom and got into some fresh clothes. He got the shoes on and then checked the place out. He decided to see if the back screen door was locked. He stepped into the back porch. There was