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There was morning gray in the sky as the sedan crossed Brooklyn Bridge. There was some pale blue in the sky as Vanning parked the car off Canal Street. He used the subway to get back to the Village, and upon entering his room the first direct move he made was to start packing his things. After some minutes of that he changed his mind, sat on a chair near the window and smoked cigarettes while he toyed with various angles. He was certain they didn’t know his address. He told himself not to be too certain of anything. The logical step at this point was something simple, something easy. And the easiest thing he could think of was sleep.

He slept until late afternoon, showered and shaved, concluded after a mirror inspection that he looked just a little too banged up for an appearance at the advertising agency where his illustrations were due. After breakfast, he used the restaurant phone booth, told the agency art director that he was sick with an upset stomach. The art director told him tomorrow would be all right, joked with him about the effects of alcohol on a man’s stomach, told him milk was the best medicine for a raw stomach. Vanning thanked the agency man and hung up. He took a subway uptown. He didn’t know where he was going. He wanted to get away from the Village. He wanted to think.

— from David Goodis Nightfall (1947)

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