Fall from Grace

by Wayne Arthurson

  I would have left her right then, but in fact I wasn’t finished. “You don’t have a photo of her, do you? We need it for the story. We’ll give it back, of course, but it won’t be right without…”

  I would have babbled on, explaining why I needed the photo, but didn’t. Lewis left the room and a few minutes later returned with what looked like a high school graduation photo. She said nothing when she handed it to me. Instead, she gave me the saddest look in the world, a look that showed she felt more pity for me than I did for her.

  14

  There was a bit of a line at the bank and for a second I thought about leaving but couldn’t. It would be like a heroin addict not shooting up after making a buy or an alcoholic not downing the drink after it’s been poured. Every fiber of my being was telling me that what I was doing was wrong, stupid. Pick any word that means that same thing and it had crossed my mind. I couldn’t count the number of times I told myself to leave, to give up this stupidity, or how many times I ran through the scenarios in which things went wrong. But all of that was just posturing, just a means to fool myself into thinking that I was under the control of some unseen force and not responsible for my actions.

  I was definitely responsible, because I had made the decision to stop at this strip mall, thought about where I should park, determined where I should run if things got out of hand, and worked out all the little details that were necessary when one robbed a bank.

  It’s something addicts do all the time. The rest of their lives may be messy and chaotic, but there is always a ritual involved in every addiction, a set of steps that an addict takes in order to feed his addiction. Often it’s a set of physical tasks, like the heating up of the heroin, the filling of the syringe, and the tying of the band around the bicep, but many times it’s mental, and if you were watching from the outside, you wouldn’t see it. All you would see is stupidity and self-destruction. But the ritual is always there.

  For many addicts like myself, the ritual is also a major part of the rush. The details of seeing where the bank was situated in the strip mall and whether or not there was a back alley nearby to run into if someone gave chase were all part of it. It was a lot like foreplay, getting the juices flowing prior to the climactic event. If I just walked into the bank without thinking about those details and without admonishing myself for being so stupid, then the act itself would feel empty.

  The first time I robbed a bank was like that, and while the rush I felt while it was happening and the jolt of adrenaline and endorphins into my system set me off for days on end, I knew that I had to add more to the experience to create something even more incredible. I also knew that I was robbing banks partly because I wanted to get caught and be punished for the crimes of my past, while another part of me didn’t want to get caught too easily.

  So I was ready when someone shouted at me as I made my way across the parking lot after robbing the bank. I knew there was a back alley to the west of the strip mall and I knew that that was the place to go. Trying to escape using the car would have been stupid because while I wouldn’t be immediately captured, someone would get my plate and the police would show up at the paper or grab me at home, the sound of their police-issue boots stomping down the stairs to announce their arrival.

  So I took off down the alley, jamming the money into the front pocket of my pants. I didn’t look back as I ran, to see how close he was to me or if he was gaining because that would only make it easier for him to catch up and also give him a better chance to see my face.

  “Hey,” he shouted again, and that told me he hadn’t started running after me yet and that I probably had a five-second start on him. I rounded the corner of the strip mall, down the short breezeway, and turned to head down the back alley behind the mall.

  There were a number of Dumpsters behind the mall and across from them were a series of fenced backyards. The alley headed in two directions, north and south, and a couple houses down, there was a sidewalk that headed west, away from the mall into the neighborhood.

  I quickly assessed the situation, and in less than a second, I made my decision. I pulled off my hoodie, tossed that into a Dumpster, and then my cap went over one of the fences into someone’s backyard. I dashed down to the sidewalk, went around the corner a couple of steps, and stopped.

  I untucked my shirt, slipped off my glasses, putting them into the pocket where the money was, and mussed up my hair. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket, held it to my ear, and waited until I heard the footsteps of my pursuer crunching on the gravel of the back alley. I then threw myself back against one of the fences, hard enough that one of the boards cracked but not hard enough that I hit the back of my head. I fell to the ground, my cell phone flying through the air, and shouted, “Hey. Watch it!”

  My pursuer appeared around the corner a couple seconds later, his face completely out of focus because I was not wearing my glasses. “You okay?” he asked, bending down slighty to check.

  I slapped his hand away. “Fuck you,” I bellowed. “You guys are crazy running around like that. You’re going to hurt someone, you assholes.”

  He jerked back as I slapped him, looking west down the sidewalk along the neighborhood street. “Sorry, man. Some guy just robbed the bank and I was just chasing … Did you see where he went?”

  I rolled over on my hands and knees, searching for my cell. “Who the fuck cares where he went?” I shouted. “As long as he doesn’t come back.” I found it, shoved it into my pocket, and slowly got to my feet.

  The guy reached out again to help but I slapped his hand away again. “And you’re fucking crazy, chasing a guy who robbed a bank. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  I turned and walked away, heading in the direction I had just come from, toward the strip mall. I limped a bit and grumbled to myself to keep up the charade. And I didn’t look back to see if he was following me. The whole world was a blur but I still managed to find the convenience store and buy a pack of smokes, using a bill from the robbery to pay for them. Only then did I feel comfortable putting on my glasses.

  By this time, there were two cop cars parked in angles in front of the bank. Two cops were inside the bank talking to the staff, while another was heading toward the back alley, guided by my pursuer.

  I kept my head down and slowly walked into the parking lot, cutting between various cars until I found mine. I climbed in, gently shutting the door behind me. My hands were shaking so hard that it took me several tries to get the key into ignition. I knew that driving away would be one of the hardest things I would do in my life, but I told myself that if I didn’t, it would be over right there.

  I took several deep breaths and told myself to break it all down into steps, just do them one at a time, without thinking what would happen next. The first step was to get the car out of the spot. I managed to do that and next I would have to drive the car out of the parking lot without doing something that would attract anybody’s attention. I drove the whole way to the paper one step at a time, and while it probably took only fifteen to twenty minutes, it seemed like an all-day trip.

  By the time I parked the car in its designated spot, my hands had stopped shaking. So when I signed the car back in, my hands were steady enough to fudge the time on the sheet so it looked like I had arrived a half hour earlier.

  15

  The next day I went to talk to Grace’s friend Jackie. The basement apartment in which they lived was located in a run-down, three-story walk-up. Paint peeled from the walls, the carpets were dotted with cigarette burns and broken glass, and the smell of urine permeated the air. As I stood by the door, the scent of marijuana drifted from apartment 102, and after I knocked, there was the hurried sound of someone scuffling. I saw a shadow drift across the peephole and it became quiet. I knocked again and a bird squawked a couple of times but no one answered. I knocked once more, harder this time, almost hammering against the door.

  A tattooed dude in shorts and a wifebeater opened the door down the h
all, an angry look on his face. “Shut the fuck up or I’ll fucking kick your ass,” he shouted, starting to come out of his apartment. I’m not a little guy but neither am I big enough to be intimidating just by my physical presence. This guy certainly was. He was the same size as me but was covered with tattoos, and spewing anger. When he saw me, he moved down the hall.

  I could have run, and should have run because he didn’t have any shoes and probably would not have followed me out of the building, but I didn’t. I was already prepared to bluff my way into Jackie’s apartment, to pass myself off as some sort of cop, and since I was already in the zone, I kept it going. I had nothing in the way of a good hand, a low pair at best, but you can never win at gambling if you don’t take big chances once in a while. So I put my big bet into play.

  I stepped away from Jackie’s door, spread my feet apart as if I was standing at ease, slapped my right hand against my right hip and held up the left, pointing the index finger to the sky and my thumb toward the wall, making an L or gun shape.

  I had seen enough takedowns, either in person or on TV, to know that cops only use the open-hand Halt! signal when directing traffic. Whenever they’re directing an actual individual to stop, the hand signal is shaped like an upturned gun, which gives a subliminal signal to the suspect that deadly force is a possibility if things continue down this path.

  I also shouted, “Back off!” with that firm and authoritative voice that I’d inherited from my dad, the ex-MP who had been buried with full military honors years before.

  With a recent murder victim having lived here, the number of police visiting the building must have increased in the past few days. Not only that, Jackie’s neighbor probably had plenty of experience with police himself, because he stopped so quickly that he almost fell over. He caught himself, raised his hands, and backed up a step.

  “Whoa, whoa,” he said, a look of fear and surprise bringing total destruction to the anger in his face and body. “Take it easy, buddy. I had no idea you were a cop.”

  “That gives you no excuse to threaten to assault a private citizen,” I said, flicking at my belt to give the impression that I was opening the snap of my nonexistent holster. “So I would suggest that you get back into your apartment and hope that I don’t call in a cruiser to book you on a six four nine.”

  I had no idea what a 649 was, but then again, neither did the tattooed neighbor. As far as he knew, he had almost assaulted a cop and was only seconds from being arrested for another crime. He may have started with the higher cards in this deal but he did not end up with the winning hand.

  He backed up all the way into his apartment, hands held high, eyes continually staring at my hand against my hip; he slipped back into his apartment, slammed the door, the dead bolt locking and the security chain clicking into place.

  I remained in my position all through this and for a few seconds afterward to continue the show for all of the neighbors who were no doubt watching through their peepholes.

  I turned back to Jackie’s door and figured that I might as well continue in character. “Jackie. I know you’re in there,” I said, banging with my fist and keeping that authority in my voice. “So you can either open it up and we can talk nicely. Or I can bust it in and we can go downtown. It’s your choice.”

  After a pause, I heard a sigh on the other side of the door. The dead bolt unlocked and the door opened just wide enough to show her face.

  She was shorter than I expected, about a head or two smaller than me, and behind the smell of the marijuana was the smell of something that my dad used to call the scent of an old person. Something stale and decaying. Her face was spotted with acne and still carried a lot of baby fat, which was kind of cute now but in a couple of years could easily become a double chin.

  “What do you want, cop?” she said with defiance, but I knew it was only an act. Despite being a prostitute she was basically a scared teenager without anything or anyone to support her.

  “May I come in?” I asked with my polite voice.

  She laughed. “No fucking way, cop. I let you in and that gives you the right to search anything you want. I’m not stupid, you know.”

  “I’m not a vampire, you know, I don’t really need your permission,” I said, still with my polite voice. “There’s enough of a stink of grass for me to walk past you, but since I don’t really care about that, I’m being polite and all. So you gonna let me in?”

  She seemed to think about it but I knew she was only stalling. Finally, when she realized that I wasn’t going to go away and there was nothing she could do to get rid of me, she stepped back and opened the door. She wore a loose sweatshirt with matching pants. “All right, come in if you have to. I don’t really care.”

  I stepped in but only as far as the entryway. I decided to wait until she invited me in farther. The smell of pot and staleness was even stronger inside. From where I was standing, I could see into the kitchen and the stacks of dirty plates, pots, and discarded junk-food bags on every inch of the counter, the sink, and the stove. The cupboard under the sink was open and the garbage was overflowing, mostly with ashes and cigarette butts.

  I took in the scene and filed it in my brain for use in my story, to give a sense of where Grace had lived. I could have pulled out my notebook, but the ones the paper gave us were white with the words REPORTER’S NOTEBOOK on the front. The notebook of a cop was usually small and black, so if I brought out my book, she would realize that I wasn’t a cop. And I had no idea what would happen then. Kicking me out was possible, but then again, maybe the guy across the hall was a friend or a client and she would call him over once she realized I was bluffing. I wasn’t keen on dealing with that.

  “Haven’t been out in a while?” I asked.

  She shrugged, but said nothing.

  “Guess not. Probably not since Grace died. Am I right?”

  For a brief second, the look of a scared teenager crossed her face, but she quickly recovered and offered me one of resignation, as if she knew she’d been caught but didn’t really care. But she did care, I could feel it. “Yeah, I’m really sorry about that, I know she was your friend. I know it’s hard when you lose a friend.”

  “She wasn’t my friend, she just lived here,” she said, again speaking with defiance, although she couldn’t hide the hurt on her face or the fear in her eyes.

  “Okay, whatever you say. No matter. I’m just following up the investigation into her death and I was wondering if you can tell me the last time you saw her.”

  “Can’t remember,” she said quickly. “Okay, you done now?”

  I ignored her last comment. “You sure? It’s really important.”

  She lit up a cigarette, and though she tried to look tough and cool as she did it, there was a tremor in her hand. “What the fuck do you care?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Big fucking deal. You cops don’t care. We know that.”

  “Who’s we, Jackie?”

  She looked lost for a second, but recovered. “I was talking about us, you know, me and Grace, that’s who I was talking about.”

  “No you weren’t. You were talking about someone else. Who’s we?”

  “It’s the royal we, you know, like the fucking queen.”

  “Nice try,” I said with a smile, but also a questioning look.

  She puffed a few times and then shook her head. “Okay, you probably know what I do sometimes to make a few bucks, right?” I nodded, knowing that sometimes was probably an understatement. “I’m talking about me and the girls. We know you cops don’t care. Girls getting killed all over the place and nobody does anything.”

  In my head, I repeated what she said a couple of times so I could get the quote. I probably wouldn’t get it exactly right in the story but it was important to get the gist of it. According to all the information I had, there had been only a few similar killings like Grace’s; nothing to get worried about. Were we missing something? But I couldn’t let Jackie see my confusi
on, I had to keep up the charade of being a cop and figured a pithy statement like “We do the best we can” would work. It did.

  She laughed; it was a cruel sound. “Yeah, right. That’s funny. The best you can. Which is fucking nothing, if you ask me. Grace has been dead for more than a week and you cops keep coming in and asking the same goddamn questions. If that’s your best then I hate to see your worst. Don’t you guys fucking talk to each other once in a while?”

  “So you do remember when you saw her last?” I said, ignoring the comment. “A week ago?”

  She let out a disappointed sigh. “Yeah, okay, I remember when I saw her last. She was heading out to work and—”

  “By work, you mean out to the streets?”

  “Man, you cops are fucking morons. Where the hell do you think she was going? To her corner office to hang with the gang by the water cooler? Of course she was heading out to the streets, to make a few bucks because we were a day late on the rent.”

  “You didn’t go with her?”

  That question caused Jackie to lose all of her street toughness and she became a little girl, a girl about the same age as my daughter. I tried to imagine how she’d arrived at this point in her life, what had happened to her to cause her to end up selling her body on the street and living in a dump like this.

  The desire to sit her down and spend hours asking questions about her life to get her story was almost overwhelming, but there was no way I could do that because I was here for Grace’s story, not hers. Although Jackie’s life story was probably just as heartbreaking and sad, she was doomed only to be a character in Grace’s story. Maybe if she died, I could delve a bit deeper, but probably not. The paper had only room for one story of this kind, despite the fact that I could fill issue after issue for years with only the life stories of women and girls like Grace and Jackie.

  She looked down at her feet and I barely heard her say, “I was sick. I had the flu.”