Fall Down Easy

by Laurence Gough

  “Tear them up and flush the pieces down the toilet. He’s a very nice guy, Randy.”

  “Or maybe sell them to a magazine,” said Randy.

  “I don’t think he’d do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because like I keep telling you, he happens to be a very nice person. Warm and gentle, loving. He wasn’t nearly as twisted as you, that’s for sure.”

  “You needed to spend a little more time together, that’s all. Where does he work?”

  “He’s an actor, remember?”

  Randy picked up a piece of the camera. He bent the sliver of plastic between his thumb and finger, let go. The plastic skittered across the room, disappeared behind the far side of the bed.

  Randy said, “Right, an actor. Let me rephrase the question. Where does he perform?”

  “He’s in rehearsal.”

  “What’s the name of the play?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Did he ever mention it?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s true.”

  Randy’d paid five grand plus tax for the engagement ring. Bought it on time. Eighteen months, payments of three hundred and fifty bucks per month. He knew how it would go if he tried to return it.

  He smiled at his sweetheart and said, “You always came here? To your apartment?”

  “I only saw him once or twice. I don’t know how he got in, he must’ve stolen a key. God, you make it sound like he was a big part of my life!”

  “What’s his phone number?”

  “I’m not going to tell you, Randy. Just forget it, okay?”

  Randy picked up another piece of camera. He bent it between his thumb and finger and let fly. The jagged chunk of plastic flew straight up and then veered away. Faulty aerodynamics. He said, “The camera and handcuffs, film, the cash he stole from my wallet, add it up, it comes to about five hundred bucks. And who knows what kind of damage he’s gonna do to my credit cards. Shit!”

  Randy used the phone in the bedroom to alert Visa, Master Card and American Express to the fact that he’d lost his credit cards. He told them he’d had his wallet boosted in a bar. Yes, of course he’d phoned the cops.

  Hilary said, “Don’t slam the phone down so hard. It isn’t the phone’s fault.”

  It would be three or four days minimum before his new cards arrived in the mail. What was he supposed to do in the meantime — spend cash?

  Hilary said, “So what’re you going to do, track him down and make him give it back? You better take a couple more judo lessons first, that’s all I can say.”

  Randy brushed past her, limped into the kitchen and emptied a loaf of sliced white bread on to the counter.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?”

  Randy turned the plastic breadbag inside out and shook the crumbs into the sink, went out on to the balcony and scooped Greg’s vodka glass into the bag. He held the bag up to the light. He couldn’t see any fingerprints on the glass, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

  *

  Greg walked down the street as fast as he could and not risk bringing unwanted attention upon himself. The Ford Taurus was parked right where he’d left it, the rear end sticking out into the alley. The briefcase lay in plain view on the front seat. He saw he hadn’t locked the door, shook his head. He strolled past the car and down the alley, made a circuit of the block. No cops.

  The young guy with the spade beard and ears loaded down with gold rings lounging in the doorway of a nearby bookstore wasn’t the least bit interested in him.

  Neither was the fat guy in the wraparound sunglasses busily plucking blueberries out of his icecream.

  And he was willing to bet that the babe with the lacy black haltertop, nuclear lipstick and lemming haircut who looked as if she wished she was pushing her stroller towards a steep cliff wouldn’t have noticed him if her life depended on it.

  That left a couple of schoolkids, and an old guy idling at the far end of the block in a battery-powered wheelchair, and Greg sincerely doubted any of them was about to stick a gun in his face and read him his wrongs.

  He yanked open the Taurus’s door, snatched the briefcase off the seat, slammed the door shut and rubbed his hip against the metal, obliterating his fingerprints.

  Still no cops.

  He walked two blocks to a hotel, grabbed a window table with a nice view of the street, a better view of the bar. About the only thing that distinguished the bar from every other bar in the city was its size — it was small: a couple of four-seater booths along one wall and no more than a dozen tables. Otherwise, Greg could have been almost anywhere. The polished mahogany tables were plywood veneer, the leather chairs made of Naugahyde.

  In the modern world, things were what they appeared to be either because the genuine article was cheapest, or because no artificial substitutes were available. Greg believed that was as it should be. Especially in bars, where it’s pretty much taken for granted that appearances are meant to deceive.

  The waitress arrived. She wore tight black pants and a crisp white shirt, a bow tie that was almost the same shade of red as her lipstick. Her auburn hair was short and spiky, and so was her attitude. Well, what the hell. If the haircut fits, wear it. Greg ordered a Kootenay Pale Ale, lit a cigarette and made himself comfortable in the fake leather chair.

  As he drank his beer, his mind kept turning of its own accord to the fact that he’d killed a guy — and then skittered away He couldn’t quite bring himself to look in the briefcase. What if it contained nothing of value? Had he killed for nothing? He told himself to settle down, reminded himself the cop had popped the first cap. He’d whacked the guy in self-defence, pure and simple. Anyway, it was too bad about the cop but what really tore at his heart was the way Hilary had deceived him. He robbed banks for the buzz, not the money. What made him glow the brightest was ministering to the wounded. He loved to rock those frightened women in his arms, love away the nightmares, be strong for them.

  But somehow he never found the patience to see the trauma through. Inevitably, just as they were beginning to recover, he’d find fault with them. Let them know exactly where they were lacking.

  Then take a walk. Start all over again. Man, it sounded so easy, but the time he burned getting it done. Women. He always had two or three or even four of them going at once. But this time, due to circumstances beyond his control — or maybe it was the cocaine — he’d put all his eggs in one basket. The days and weeks and months he’d wasted on Hilary, setting her up for what — so her dumbass blackbelt boyfriend could waltz in from Toronto and wipe away her tears?

  Usually it was about at this point, right after he’d scored and as he was holding his traumatized baby’s hand, that Greg, seeking comic relief from all those tears, selected his next victim from among the three or four he’d been courting. And now, just like that, he had nothing, nobody!

  What a mess. What a mess.

  Greg finished his first beer and then another, was starting to feel bloated and ordered a rye and ginger. The drink arrived. He lit a cigarette, saw in the tinted glass window the reflection of someone moving rapidly towards him. He glanced up, startled, as a woman in her mid-twenties slid into the booth, smiled warmly at him and said, “Hi, I’m Sylvia.”

  Greg nodded, held his tongue.

  Sylvia said, “Look, I’m sorry I’m late, but … ” Her eyes widened. “Oh my God, you’re not Walter Irving, are you?”

  Greg said, “No, and I can prove it.”

  The woman glanced around the bar. Except for a trio of Japanese tourists, the bartender and the waitress, the place was empty.

  Greg said, “You were supposed to meet a guy, you’re a little late, and he didn’t wait? Excuse me, don’t think I’m handing you a line, but I find that hard to believe.”

  “You do?”

  Greg introduced himself, made s
ure he’d heard her name right. He told her he’d never met a Sylvia before, it was a beautiful name, liquid-sounding, like falling water. He said he’d understand if she turned him down, but thought it would be really nice if she’d stay and have a drink.

  Sylvia had curly blonde hair, big green eyes that laughed a lot. They made small talk about the bar and the weather and then Greg asked her what she did for a living, saw the eyes suddenly darken as she turned serious. He discovered she was an interior decorator, had taken a degree at Carleton and come out west to make her fortune.

  Greg’s ears perked up a little. He asked her how she was doing and she said it wasn’t an easy profession to break into but she was getting by, making progress.

  They had a couple more drinks. Time slipped by. The bar was completely empty now, except for the bartender and punk waitress.

  Sylvia glanced at her watch, noticed that it was getting late.

  Greg asked her if she’d like one last drink. After a moment’s hesitation, she smiled and said yes. Somehow the conversation wandered back to the art of interior design. Greg said it sounded complicated.

  Sylvia told him there was nothing to it, if you knew what you were doing. She’d completely remade her apartment, which was only a few blocks away. Would he like to take a look and see what she could do?

  Greg said he thought that was a wonderful idea.

  Sylvia’s apartment was in a prewar three-story brick building that might survive a point three on the Richter Scale but was doomed to collapse in a cloud of dust and crushed tenants, the day the big one hit.

  Greg followed her up the stairs, waited while she unlocked the door, switched on the light.

  Greg’s first thought was that he’d been captured by an alien. The interior of the apartment was like a spaceship from a circa 1950 B-movie. The walls and ceiling were covered with shiny Mylar strips, Sylvia’s furniture was stainless steel and glass and injection-moulded plastic and the apparently riveted-in-place floor was fashioned of brushed aluminium panels. Droning electric motors powered miniature pastel searchlights no bigger than Greg’s fists that roamed in fitful random patterns across the shiny walls. Squinting, Greg saw that the walls had been literally sprinkled with bits of macaroni spray-painted silver.

  He brought his hand up, shielding his eyes.

  Sylvia said, “Well — what d’you think?”

  Greg said, “Fantastic.”

  “Really? You like it?”

  One of the searchlights locked in on Greg’s right eye, and a psycho with a torque wrench began playing with his skull. Greg gritted his teeth. “It’s amazing,” he said. “Very impressive.” He’d tossed the killer Browning into a back-alley dumpster a block from Hilary’s building. Huge mistake. He pictured himself burning a full clip, lights exploding.

  He slipped his arm around Sylvia’s waist, splayed his fingers across her hip. She asked him if he’d like to see the rest of the apartment.

  Greg nodded happily, and was led down a corrugated sheet metal hallway to a door made of rainbow panels of plastic, then inside a giant soup tin lit by a pulsing red ball that looked like a harvest moon gone apoplectic that hovered over a king-size waterbed full of curdled milk.

  Greg had an almost overpowering urge to start singing “Moon River”, but fortunately couldn’t remember the words.

  At three o’clock in the morning a tiny unfamiliar sound somewhere deep in the bowels of the apartment block pulled Greg out of a light sleep. As soon as Sylvia had finished with him, he’d pulled the plug on the red ball, so the only light in the room came through the curtained window from a distant streetlight.

  Greg turned on his side, propped himself up on an elbow. His chest ached where the puta guy’s round had smacked into him. The waterbed belched softly. Sylvia looked cute as a button in her Bart Simpson nightie. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, found his cigarettes and walked naked into the living room, lit up. Now that the pastel searchlights had been turned off, the apartment wasn’t so bad, really. Almost peaceful, in a way. Like a nuthouse at bedtime, when everybody’s been strapped in and had a sock stuffed in their mouth.

  He wandered into the kitchen. No renovations here. He yanked open the fridge. Salad stuff. Too many flavours of yogurt to count. Two per cent milk. He tried the freezer and found it empty except for a tray of icecubes and a loaf of seaweed bread hard as a rock and probably not much tastier. He turned to the cupboards. Tins of minestrone soup and a package of Stone Wheat Thins. Yummy. There was a wall telephone. He dialled home and listened to Hilary’s recorded message of doom and gloom, the bottom line being that she never wanted to see him again but he better get those pictures back real fast, or Randy was gonna call the cops, no kidding.

  Chuckling, Greg hung up. He went into the living room and opened a window, ricocheted off the furniture until he found his jacket, squeezed pockets until he had a small plastic bottle of Bayer aspirins in his hand. He knelt on the floor, popped the childproof cap and shook five or six aspirins and about three lines worth of coke on to a fire-blackened glass table that looked like a recycled windshield from a doomed Boeing 747.

  He picked the aspirins out of the coke, fashioned a straw out of the last page of a battered paperback copy of Gone With The Wind. He stuck the straw up his nose and leaned over the windshield and made happy snorting noises until the coke was gone.

  The black leather briefcase seemed to weigh a ton. He unclasped the latches. Inside were numerous pockets of various shapes and sizes. Greg’s fingers sized up the leather. He tried to imagine what the interior of an accordion must look like. Or bagpipes … It took him about ten minutes to riffle through the briefcase. It contained nothing of interest but a gold fountain pen, a pair of expensive sunglasses and a thick, unbound sheaf of computer paper covered with rows and rows of numbers.

  Greg lit another cigarette. His brain had played a trick on him, tried to justify Garcia Lorca Mendez’s death with a dreamscape of immense wealth.

  Yeah, sure, of course the guy was a mule or courier, the briefcase was full of cash. And what was Greg full of, that smelled so sweet?

  But what was an out-of-continent cop disguised as a cable-vision repairman doing at Kingsgate Mall? And why was he packing a concealed weapon, and what gave him the right to try to blow Greg away?

  Greg took a closer look at the spreadsheets, the orderly columns of dot-matrix figures that he gradually came to realize were all six-figure numbers.

  Each column had a seven-digit number at the top left corner of the page. The top right corner of each of the sixteen pages had an identical six-digit number divided into three pairs separated by angled slashes: today’s date; day, month and year. The top left numbers weren’t sequential. The pages themselves weren’t numbered. He scratched his head, wished upon a spray-painted length of pasta for more cocaine.

  He smoked three cigarettes down to the filter and nibbled every last aspirin to death before he managed to work out that the seven-digit numbers were bank savings accounts, that the three columns on each page represented deposits and withdrawals and the current balance.

  He went through the pages one by one. There were one hundred and eighteen accounts. The smallest balance was eight hundred dollars and the largest was nine thousand, five hundred plus change. From what he could see, there was a fair amount of juggling going on, many small chunks of cash shifting from one account to the next.

  He went into the bedroom and plugged in the light and gently awoke Sylvia. She said, “Wha … ” and then her eyes popped open and she smiled, her teeth flashing red.

  Greg said, “Have you got a calculator?”

  She shook her head, no. Her hand listlessly stroked his thigh. She was really, really cute. Looking at her, you’d have no way of knowing what nightmare visions she was capable of realizing. Greg pulled the duvet up over her bare shoulders, kissed her lightly on the cheek and whispered, “It’s late, go back to sleep.” Sylvia closed her eyes. In a moment her breathing was deep and even.

>   Greg sat there on the edge of the bed full of curdled milk, in the bedroom of brushed aluminium and stainless steel that was stained the colour of blood by the red light. He inhaled her perfume, admired the curve of her eyelashes, sniffed the musk of her perfume. Really, really cute.

  What a shame.

  He couldn’t help giving her a last, lingering kiss.

  She murmured, “Greg?”

  He said, “Not really,” and turned out the light.

  Eight

  Inspector Homer Bradley’s office was located on the third floor of 312 Main, and over the flat tar-and-gravel roof of a neighbouring building he had a terrific view of the mountains on the far side of the harbour. Grouse had a ski lift and gondolas strung up the slopes, and the top of the mountain had been clear-cut for the convenience of skiers who couldn’t afford the time or expense to make the trip to Whistler. The other local ski hill, Seymour, had also been ruthlessly scalped.

  But the night-lights at the top of the mountains were kind of pretty, especially when the slopes were covered with snow. And there was another reason Bradley liked to look out at the lights — it was because they so sharply and exactly defined the limits of civilization; the point at which the petty thefts, knife fights, assault & battery, muggings, rape and murder ended. There was nothing on the other side of those bright lights but hundreds and hundreds of square miles of peace and quiet.

  A comforting thought, at times.

  Bradley turned away from the window. “We ought to go fishing sometime, Jack. Outwit a few trout. Swap a few lies.”

  Willows had heard it all before. He leaned a little more heavily into a wall painted the same shade of green as a badly bruised granny smith apple.

  Bradley said, “How’d Fireplug and Windy take it when you snatched their case?”

  Willows shrugged.

  Parker said, “About what you’d expect.”

  Bradley smiled at Willows and said, “If we paid you two by the word, the city’d probably be able to balance its budget.” No response, naturally.