The Long Fall

by Lynn Kostoff

  “Even the snake,” Howard adds. “The snake’s not exempt.”

  Leon points across the room. “Take it to a table. I’m working here.”

  “Fine,” Modine says. “Just how about bringing a few cold ones for my compadre, James Coates, the Cacti Bandit, and myself then?”

  One night, near closing, Modine had heard the story about Jimmy’s mishaps with the black-market saguaros and how that had landed him in Perryville Correctional, and Modine sent over a Lone Star on the house and they got to talking, though the conversation became lopsided, Jimmy doing most of the listening and signalling for more beers as Howard explained the shared underlying assumptions between the vagarities of the tenure review system at ASU and the venality and hypocrisy of the developers’ landscaping practices.

  Leon brings over some cold ones and quickly retreats behind the bar. Modine sets his attaché case in an empty chair, drops a stack of student papers to his left, and unwraps a fresh cigar. He’s a small man with large features, a headful of tangled gray-brown hair and a bird’s-nest beard.

  “You’re in early today,” Jimmy says.

  Howie explains that he’s begun holding his afternoon office hours at the Chute. “The president wants more faculty involvement in the distance learning program,” Howie continues. “It’s his pet project. I’m doing my part to support it by putting as much distance as I can between my students and myself.”

  Modine parks the cigar in the ashtray and pulls the stack of papers closer. He glances over at Jimmy and uncaps a red pen. “I’ve seen you looking better, Compadre,” he says.

  Jimmy shrugs and takes a pull on the Lone Star.

  “In fact, the way you look right now,” Modine says, “I could probably use you as a visual aid for my Kierkegaard seminar. This week we’re doing Fear and Trembling.”

  Jimmy watches Modine put a red C-plus on the top paper and then methodically work his way through the stack, putting the same grade on each, except for a couple he’s separated and set to the side.

  Modine recaps his pen and picks up his cigar. “The plus is for encouragement,” he says. “Don’t want to do any lasting damage to the self-esteem of the customers. You see, I don’t have students anymore, James. I have customers. My job is to render unto Caesar and facilitate their needs so that what formerly was known as an education is now the equivalent of a Jiffy Lube for the soul.”

  Jimmy points his bottle in the direction of the small stack of unmarked papers and raises his eyebrows.

  “I’m saving those for later, when I get home. Those I read and comment on. I’m blessed to have three or four unregenerates who are still laboring under the unfashionable assumption that a university is a place to explore ideas and enlarge the human spirit. Those papers are a reminder of why I got into this profession in the first place.”

  Howard pauses, quickly counts the number of dead soldiers on the table, and hollers to Leon to bring more reinforcements.

  “You still haven’t told me what’s wrong,” he says.

  “In a nutshell, I’m more than a little short in the time and money departments.”

  “You need a loan?” Howard asks, pulling out his wallet. “I can spot you a couple twenties.”

  Jimmy waves him off. “I appreciate it, Howie, but we’re talking Big, not Little, Picture here. And I’m running out of time.”

  “That’s where we always find and lose ourselves,” Howie says finally. “In Time. Always in Time.” He scratches his head. “Our compadre Kirkegaard knew that. You take the leap of faith knowing that sooner or later it’s going to become the long fall, because we’re stuck in time and can’t do anything about that, nothing. But for my money, the truth lies not in the leap or the fall, but precisely at the point where one becomes the other. That’s where you want to set up shop.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Jimmy says.

  Forty-five minutes later, when Howard leaves for his evening class, Jimmy drifts over to the bar, and it’s not long before Winston, owner of the Chute, steps up next to him.

  “No tabs,” Winston says, crossing his arms and nesting them on his chest.

  Jimmy pantomimes deafness and waves him closer.

  “No,” Winston repeats, “tabs.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since I checked the books and saw the one you ran up after first getting out of Perryville.”

  Winston’s in his early fifties with a great sloping paunch avalanching against a pair of thick black suspenders and a wide round face that high blood pressure has shaded the color of wet bubble gum. There’s a small, lumpy gray mustache hanging around his thick upper lip.

  “I’ve also heard about your troubles with Ray Harp,” Winston says. “No way I’m going to let a potential corpse stiff me.”

  “Okay, okay,” Jimmy says, digging around in his jeans. He pulls out a crumpled wad of ones, all he has left from what he fenced out with Pete Samoa.

  Winston leans over and fingers his way through the bills Jimmy’s piled next to the ashtray. Jimmy can hear him counting to himself.

  Winston steps back and tells Leon, “You shut him down when those are gone, understand?”

  Someone calls Jimmy’s name, and he turns and sees Don Ruger working his way through the tables, all smiles, his gait with a permanent hitch from a knee injury he got in one of the long string of auto accidents he’s been in over the years.

  “What’s wrong with the forehead?” Jimmy asks when Don gets to the bar. “That’s some kind of nasty.”

  Don grins sheepishly and lightly fingers the dark mass of bruise and contusion running from above his right eye to temple. Through its center is a vertical line of ragged homemade stitches.

  “Got clotheslined by the Missus,” Don says. “She had it strung across the front steps, knee-level, when I came home late from the track, you know, the one on Washington and thirty-eighth?” Don drops his hand and grins again. “Porch light was out, and I walked right into the line, went headfirst into the storm door. Glass everywhere after. I guess I should stay away from the dogs.”

  Don lightly punches Jimmy on the shoulder and winks, then turns to Winston when he notices that Winston hasn’t moved off. “What’s up?” he asks.

  “What’s up is whether you’re going to pay up. I want to be sure you’re more solvent than your pal there.” Winston goes on to deliver the usual litany of complaint about Jimmy’s overdue tab.

  Don pulls out his wallet, then pauses. “You a betting man, Winston?”

  Jimmy sees what’s coming. “Not a good idea, Don. I’m a little rusty.”

  Don lays a hundred down on the bar. “Jimmy’s tab against that. He’ll do the Titties.”

  “I told you, I’m out of practice, Don. I don’t think this is such a good idea.” Jimmy’s seen it before, Don wagering the weekly grocery money. Ditto with the green for the electric and water bills. “If we lose, Teresa will do more than clothesline you.”

  “I have faith in you,” Don says. “I’ve seen you work.”

  Winston’s looking at the hundred. “What do you mean, he’ll do the Titties? What kind of bet is that?”

  By now, word has started to snake through the bar, and a number of regulars have left their stools and tables and drifted over, standing in a clump behind Winston.

  “Jimmy can give you fifty—” Don says, concentrating. “What you call them, Jimmy?”

  “Synonyms,” Jimmy says quietly.

  “Yeah, okay,” Don says. “Here’s the deal. Jimmy can give you fifty synonyms for titties in a minute.”

  “No way,” Winston says. “He can’t. No one can. Not in a minute.”

  “I say yes.” Don reaches up and lightly scratches at his stitches.

  Jimmy shakes his head and sighs, but lets it ride.

  Winston’s fidgeting, his broad forehead sheened in a light sweat. He keeps tugging on his suspenders and then glancing at his watch. When he bites his lower lip, the slug of a mustache perched on his upper twitches and dips.
Winston cranes his neck, looking around, taking in the crowd watching him, then resolutely dips into his pants pocket.

  “Tell you what,” he says. “Double or nothing.”

  “Don,” Jimmy says, but he’s waved off.

  Don’s nodding at Winston. “How about a little side bet, too? Five bucks for each one over fifty.”

  Winston takes off his wristwatch and sets it between Don Ruger and him. Then he pulls a small calculator from his shirt pocket and presses a couple buttons, clearing its face.

  “You ready, Jimmy?” Don asks.

  Jimmy looks at the door, but stays put. He nods.

  “Ten seconds and counting,” Winston says, looking down at the watch. “And it’s fifty synonyms besides ‘titties.’ Titties don’t count in the total.” He smiles and points at Jimmy. “Go.”

  Jimmy leans back on the stool and aims his face at the ceiling, closing his eyes. “Silos. Jugs. Hooters. Tubes. Boomers. Torpedoes. Milk Steaks. Little Debbies. Melons. Rockets. Knockers. Bazooms. Saddle Bags. Paps. Milkshakes. Mammals. Jigglers. Snuggle Puppies. Headlights. Cushions. Squeegees. Pods. Balloons. Softies. Fixtures. Slope Heads. Tomatoes. Milk Duds. Meat Pies. Bags. Dynamic Duos. Hand-to-Mouths. Nipple Condos. Pillows. Tubes. Saucers. Chesties. Bouncers. Lamps. Dairy Products. Cha-Chas.”

  Winston’s loudly marking time, trying to break Jimmy’s rhythm. Jimmy, though, is in the zone, auctioneer-overdrive.

  “Home stretch, Buddy,” Don Ruger says.

  “Full Moons. Dinner Plates. Tongue Twisters. Bra Babies. Three-Sixties. Bay Windows. Peaches. Sugar Bags. Badges. Butter-balls. Twins. Hang Gliders. Plums. Knobs. Roundtables. Soft Touches. Chest Antlers. Cheese Keepers. Holy Rollers. Pies. Mommies. Peaks. Hat Racks. Front Lines. Handles. Ear Muffs. Chubbies. Tourist Attractions. Safe Harbors. Grillwork. Sno-Cones. Tahitis.”

  “Seventy-three,” Don Ruger says, slapping the bar top after Winston calls time.

  Winston looks at Jimmy, picks up his watch, and then stalks off to his office. He’s back in a few minutes with the money and Jimmy’s tab, which he rips in two and drops on the floor.

  Jimmy snaps his fingers. “Satellites,” he says. “I forgot Satellites.”

  “Man,” Don Ruger says, fingering his forehead. “I wish you’d been the dog running in the third at the track the other night. Would’ve saved me a whole lot of grief and green.”

  SEVEN

  Frankie Coronado was the best jailhouse lawyer in the Perryville branch of the state of Arizona State Prison Complex, and Jimmy had driven out for early afternoon visiting hours and passed on two cartons of Camels and a couple bags of Almond Joys to Frankie and then the paperwork from his last meeting with Richard. Frankie took a distressingly short time looking over the stuff. There was also a lot of slow head-shaking.

  “It’s straight,” he’d said finally.

  “No holes?” Jimmy asked.

  “None that matter.” Frankie had gathered up his Camels and candy bars and raised his hand, signaling to the guard that the meeting was over.

  Familia, he’d said, shaking his head one more time before he left.

  A master plan, Jimmy is thinking on the drive back, that’s what he needs. Not some scrawny, mewling runt of an idea, but a full-fledged master plan with all the accessories.

  First, though, he has to make a quick detour to an Auto Zone for a quart of thirty-weight and some tranny fluid, replenishment for the beast he holds the pink slip on, which today, as usual, is burning one and leaking the other.

  When he gets back on Route 10, Jimmy thinks he sees a flash of orange in the rearview, but it’s not there when he checks a second time.

  The sun’s coming straight through the windshield and baking the cab of the truck. Jimmy had tried wedging a piece of cardboard into the skeleton of the visor, whose insides had dry-rotted away, but after a half hour of rattling and flapping, the cardboard had blown off and out the window.

  Phase one of the master plan pretty much comes down to Jimmy trying to stay out of Ray Harp’s way until he can come up with something that will net him some quick cash without landing him in Perryville Correctional again.

  Phase two is finding some way to get his inheritance back or, barring that, making his brother pay one way or another for what he did.

  Jimmy’s still working on phase three.

  When he checks the rearview this time, it’s definitely there. A bright splash of orange.

  It’s there, and it’s closing.

  Jimmy, he knows how it’s supposed to work. He’s seen all the movies, the action flicks, the hero tailed by the bad guys, then suddenly kicking it in and rocketing out of there, the bad guys cranking it up, too, high-speed-pursuit time, lots of smoking and screeching tires, blaring car horns, sharp cornerings, narrow misses with buses and trucks, running red lights, civilian cars swerving and tipping over, the hero redlining it, the bad guys blasting away at him, Jimmy, like everyone else, able to summon up all the choreographed chaos and mayhem, the fancy stunt maneuvers and all their variations, until the hero either loses the bad guys through a stroke of daring and luck, or the bad guys screw it up and crash into something in a ball-of-flame finale.

  Jimmy knows how it’s supposed to work, but when he presses the gas, the Chevy starts shuddering, the transmission slipping into a long torturous whine before shifting up, and his breakaway move is a half-assed forty-seven miles per, barely two clicks above the minimum speed limit for Route 10. He glances in the mirror, hunches over the wheel, and keeps the truck pointed east.

  The orange El Camino pulls into the space behind him. Newt Deems gives the horn a short tap.

  Jimmy helplessly watches the 51st Avenue exit flip by. Even if he could run, he’d still have a hard time losing Deems. Not in Phoenix, he thinks. The streets in the city and every one of its subdivisions are laid out in a rigid right-angled grid. Eight hundred square miles of boxes. One, that’s it, just one damn street in the whole town, Grant Avenue, that runs at a diagonal.

  Newt Deems pulls the Camino into the left lane and even with Jimmy’s pickup. Without looking at Jimmy, Newt hooks his hand over the roof and points at the sign for the next exit. Newt then punches the Camino into the right lane. Jimmy follows him down the ramp and a half block later into a dirt lot next to a roadside fruit-and-vegetable stand.

  Newt Deems gets out and stretches, then walks over to the produce stand. Jimmy stays in the truck, trying to keep the engine at something approximating an idle, but it sputters and stalls out. Even with the windows open, the cab quickly fills with the smell of burnt oil.

  Jimmy watches Newt approach. He’s carrying a brown paper bag.

  Everything about Newt suggests something that’s been incorrectly assembled. He’s a big guy, with overlapping and awkwardly proportioned slabs of muscle covering a squat torso. His eyes are set too close together, lost between the wedge of bone running straight across the base of his forehead and the thick bridge of his nose. He’s sporting a long, thin bandito mustache and one of the most unfortunate haircuts Jimmy has ever seen on another human being—a seemingly impossible cross between a buzz and bowl cut.

  You open a thesaurus, Jimmy thinks, and look up gruesome, you’d find Newt Deems listed as a synonym.

  It’s the meaty right hand that always gets to Jimmy though. Covering its back is a minutely detailed tattoo of a tarantula, its head and bared fangs perched on Newt’s middle knuckles and its legs extending along the top of his fingers. Of the other three legs, one runs across the pad of flesh between thumb and index finger and down into his palm, and the other two curl over either side of his wrist.

  Newt has this way of flexing his hand so that it looks like the spider’s moving, the mouth even appearing to chew. The verisimilitude’s kicked up a notch, too, by the fact that the back of Newt’s hand is hairy.

  Newt walks up to the truck and opens the door. Jimmy follows him over to the El Camino. Newt perches on the hood and pulls out a cell phone, punches in some numbers, and says, “I got him,
” and a moment later, “I wouldn’t count on it.” After giving directions, Newt slips the phone back into the breast pocket of a checked Western-cut shirt and opens the brown paper bag, taking out a nectarine.

  Without taking his eyes off Jimmy, Deems unsheathes a buck knife and begins peeling the nectarine, his movements deft and practiced, the reddish-orange skin curling in one continuous piece no thicker than a postage stamp and dangling from the blade like a Mobius strip before Newt flicks it to the ground.

  He holds up the nectarine. Its meat is wet and pulpy and glistens in the sunlight.

  From where Jimmy’s standing, the nectarine looks like a freshly dissected organ.

  Newt pops it into his mouth whole and begins slowly chewing, pausing along the way to work the pit to the front of his mouth and catch it in his teeth before leaning over and spitting it into the dirt next to the right front tire.

  Jimmy left his sunglasses in the truck, and the sun’s cranking it up, the orange hood of the Camino starting to shimmer and ripple around Newt’s bulk. Behind Jimmy is the insect drone of passing traffic.

  Newt scratches the back of his wrist and watches Jimmy. After a while he slides off the hood and wipes his hands on his jeans. “There we go,” he says, walking over to a blinding-white Continental that has stopped in the middle of the hard-packed dirt fronting the produce stand. Newt opens the rear passenger door and ushers Jimmy inside.

  Ray Harp glances over, then returns his attention to the woman sitting in a modified fold-down jumpseat across from him. There’s a small tray in front of her. She’s working on Ray’s nails.

  The driver pulls out of the lot and heads east and then south.

  Jimmy cranes his neck and looks out the rear windshield. The El Camino’s following them.

  “Get me a beer, will you, Jimmy?” Ray nods toward a small white ice chest on the seat between them. Ray’s got the Allman Brothers going on the CD player.