Fall Down Easy

by Laurence Gough

  A steel-clad hoof scraped on concrete. Greg peered through the open door of the closest stall, saw a wooden stool, a galvanized bucket, a heap of straw. If there was an animal in there, it was pocket-size.

  Samantha said, “Step on it, Tod!” flashing an imperious side that he hadn’t previously glimpsed and didn’t much care for.

  He stamped some of the mud off his shoes and walked up to her, grabbed a handful of mink. “What d’you want?”

  “Look at that.” In her cowboy boots, she was almost as tall as he was in his flats. He stared at her for a moment, eye to eye, then turned and peered over the top of a Dutch door, into the stall.

  The horse was standing at three-quarters profile, watching him with its massive, lustrous dark eyes, the huge head slightly cocked, ears erect and its tail flicking restlessly. Greg didn’t like the way the horse was looking at him, as if it was endowed with an unnatural intelligence, and was probing into his soul. Slightly unnerved but determined not to let it show, he said, “Nice looking animal.”

  She pulled at a steel bolt. The stall door moved an inch or two. The horse whinnied again, nostrils flaring. It did a little jig. Samantha pulled the door open wide enough to step through. She said, “His name’s Panama.”

  Panama?

  Before Greg had time to react to this titbit, she’d stepped into the stall. The horse made a low sound of welcome deep in its chest. Samantha reached into her coat pocket, pulled out the biggest damn carrot Greg’d ever seen.

  “Panama, you hungry, baby?”

  The horse nuzzled her, used the weight of its great head to gently push her against a plank wall. Samantha put her hand behind her back, teasing. The horse moved away, giving her room. She waved the carrot in front of his eyes and he snatched at it with big yellow teeth, missed. Laughing, she slapped him on the nose with the carrot. The stallion stomped a steel-clad hoof down on the concrete. Sparks flew. Samantha was laughing, turning to Greg and laughing. Those big yellow teeth snapped at the carrot again. The horse crowded her into a corner. All Greg could see was her lower body, the cowboy boots. She put her arm around the animal’s neck, pressed against him. Greg imagined he heard her say, “You want it, go ahead and take it.”

  The horse took the carrot, quieted, turned and stared at Greg with a thoughtful look in its big brown eyes, the massive jaws rotating slowly, ponderously.

  Samantha, breathing hard, grabbed Greg’s hand, pulled him into the next stall, slipped out of her full-length mink and tossed it down on the hay-sprinkled concrete as if it was an old army blanket — something that would do but nothing that mattered.

  *

  Afterwards, when she’d finished with him, Greg used the Samurai’s running board to scrape the worst of the mud and manure off his ruined shoes.

  Samantha said, “They’ll never be the same, huh?”

  “Or me either,” said Greg. He climbed into the little car and slammed shut the door. Samantha started the engine. She put the transmission in reverse. The backup lights made the white picket fence look like the carefully arranged bones of a huge skeleton. Greg lit a cigarette. The Samurai’s headlights swept across the shingled side of the house and then they were on their way back down the driveway, the car swaying crazily, Samantha laughing at him as he fought to keep his seat.

  They turned on to the main road, drove back up the hill to Marine Drive, all those enormous ugly houses that Greg would love to burgle, if he ever changed careers.

  Greg said, “That was your horse — you own it?”

  “Him.”

  “Right, him.”

  Samantha said, “He’s all mine.”

  “A present from the Panamanian dude, Mendez?”

  “You’re a smart cop, Tod.”

  “Hungry, too.”

  It was a straight run up Dunbar to the brick oven pizza joint. Inside, there were seven or eight tables, posters of the Mediterranean, blue water harbours crowded with white sailboats. The oven was huge but the fire was small. A twisty curving chimney arched over a narrow hallway that led to the kitchen and washrooms. The place was empty except for an elderly, exhausted-looking couple with two small children seated at a window table. Nobody paid any attention to them. Greg led Samantha to the table closest to the oven.

  A guy wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and lots of gold chain came out of the back drying his hands on a paper towel. He smiled at Greg, brought them menus and asked if they wanted anything to drink. Greg ordered a Kokanee Lite, Samantha a diet Coke. They sat across from each other like the strangers they were, in silence, studying their menus.

  After a moment, Samantha tossed her menu on the table and said, “I’m not really all that hungry. Why don’t you order whatever you would’ve had if I wasn’t here.”

  “Okay.” Greg caught the waiter’s eye. He ordered a large green pepper and pepperoni with mushrooms, a mixed salad and two plates.

  Samantha said, “Why two plates? You’re all alone, remember?”

  “I thought you might develop an appetite, once the food arrives.”

  Staring into the fire, she shook her head. “No, if I say I’m not hungry, then I’m not hungry.”

  Greg said, “Okay, fine.” He sipped at his beer, lit a cigarette. One of the kids sitting at the window table glowered at him and then said something to his mother, who turned and stared openly at him. Greg stared right back. Now both kids were watching him, and Daddy, too. Non-smokers. Greg didn’t like being stared at, didn’t like being noticed. He stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray.

  Finally, the salad arrived.

  “Sure you don’t want any?”

  Samantha nodded, didn’t say anything. Greg’s pizza was in the oven; he could smell it cooking. He picked at his salad, used his fork to push a few thin wedges of tomato to one side of his plate. When he’d finished with the tomatoes he went to work on the onions, shoving them out of the way where they couldn’t do any harm. The kid with the bulgy eyes had alerted him to the fact that there was something wrong with this picture. And no wonder.

  Greg went over the evening’s events in the slide show of his mind. The cruise down to the stables. Sloshing through the mud. The horse. Making love on a mink coat worth maybe twenty grand. Kinky — but what did it all mean?

  Greg glanced up, and caught Samantha looking at him. She asked him what he was thinking.

  “That for three dollars and ninety-five cents, they ought to give you more than one olive.”

  “You like olives?”

  “Not much. I like to get my money’s worth, though.”

  “What’s it like, being a policeman?”

  “Boring, mostly.” Greg speared a slice of green pepper, just to give his mouth something harmless to do.

  Samantha said, “What was your most interesting case?”

  “The one I’m on right now.”

  “No, really.”

  “Really and truly,” said Greg.

  She said, “What happened — making love — I hope you don’t think I planned it that way.”

  Greg helped himself to a chunk of cucumber.

  Her hands were on the table, twisting themselves into knots. “It just happened, that’s all.”

  “Me too,” said Greg.

  She gave him a quick look, fluttered her eyelashes. “You’re making fun of me.”

  “No way.”

  “All I wanted to do was show you my horse. Well, I showed you a lot more than that, didn’t I?”

  Greg covered her hands with his. He said, “Mendez and your daddy were friends?”

  She nodded, made a small sound of assent.

  Greg said, “You sure as hell showed me a lot more than a horse, all right. You and Marty don’t get along too well, huh?”

  “He expects me to cook for him, keep house, do the washing and ironing. Be there when he needs company and stay out of his way when he doesn’t.”

  The pizza arrived. Greg’s mouth watered. He said, “What’re you telling me, it’d suit you just fine if I fou
nd out Marty had a finger in the wrong pie, and sent him away for a few years?”

  “No, of course not!”

  What did that mean — that she’d wiggled her ass to save her daddy’s? Greg lifted a droopy wedge of pizza off the aluminium serving plate. He chewed, swallowed. “Why’d Mendez give you the horse?”

  Samantha smiled. “We were at the track. That’s where I first met him. They were in the bar. Daddy was drunk.” She poked delicately at the pizza, licked her finger. “Garcia saw the horse run, saw it win. He wanted it, so he bought it. And then he didn’t know what to do with it. So typical. After he got to know me, he asked me if I wanted it. And I said yes.”

  “Who’s paying the room and board?”

  “Garcia paid a year in advance.”

  “Pretty generous guy, huh?”

  “To a fault. Money meant nothing to him.”

  Greg bit into his pizza. He wished he’d gone for the anchovies. He said, “What was Senor Generosity doing in the bank when it was held up?”

  “Talking to Daddy, I suppose.”

  “About what?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Greg said, “Yeah? Is that right? You do, huh?”

  Samantha said, “While we were making love … ”

  He looked up, his mouth full.

  An expression of alarm crossed her face. “God, what time is it?”

  Greg checked his watch. “Eleven.”

  “I’ve got to get home!” She stood up, snatched the mink off the chair, leaned over and kissed him full on the mouth, ran towards the door.

  Greg started after her. His napkin fluttered to the floor. He said, “Just one more question. Why was Mendez dressed up like a cable vision repairman?”

  “That’s how he got into the house the first time he dropped by. He had a cablevision truck, a ladder. Nobody was home. Daddy said he broke in because he wanted to poke through the closets, look for skeletons. He parked the car in front of the house, did something to the security system and used the ladder to climb up to a bedroom window. I suppose the police would call it an ‘unauthorized entry’.”

  Greg, standing in the open doorway of the restaurant said, “Yeah, that’s what we’d call it all right.”

  The Samurai’s engine roared. The headlights bloomed and the stubby little vehicle lurched away from the curb, the knobby off-road tires squealing goodbye.

  Greg said, “God damn it!” He glanced furtively towards the family of non-smokers but they’d crept away unnoticed, were gone. He went back to his table, sat down hard. Had she really fallen for him — could it be as simple as that? Or was she trying to find out what the hotshot cop was up to so she could cover her daddy’s ass? He rolled up a slice of pizza and stuffed it into his mouth. Or did she hate her father for turning her into his personal maid?

  Greg finished his beer and told the waiter to wrap the rest of the pizza, he’d take it with him.

  It wasn’t late but he was tired. It was time to go home, almost.

  Nineteen

  Julia Vail had blushed when she’d told Parker that Christopher’s last name was Smith. In retrospect, he’d seemed so transparent, his lies so clumsy and obvious. But at the time … The following morning, Parker got on the phone and started in on the list of victimized bank clerks while Willows put the computer to work on ‘Christopher Smith’. Naturally there were plenty of Smiths, the majority of them dumbass aliases. But no Christophers, not a one.

  Willows had come up empty.

  By noon, however, Parker had a different story to tell.

  “Whoever he was, it’s starting to look like he went out with every last one of them, Jack.”

  Willows sipped at a mug of lukewarm coffee, waited. Farley Spears leaned back in his chair, openly listened in.

  Parker said, “I’ve talked to eight of the thirteen tellers he’s robbed so far. Nine counting Julia Vail. All eight stories started out differently but have identical endings. Our perp usually made initial contact while his victim was having lunch or on her way home from work. He was always extremely charming, not in the least bit pushy. The next day, he’d be back at the cafeteria or bus stop or wherever. His style is deliberately non-threatening. He comes across as shy but determined. It’s a great scam — very flattering. He’s making an effort and it’s out of character. The message to his victim is that he’s really attracted to her.”

  Willows said, “But the subtext is that from day one he’s manipulative as hell.”

  Parker nodded.

  Spears said, “The guy went out with bank tellers and then robbed them?”

  “Made them fall in love with him,” said Parker, “and then robbed them, traumatized them and dropped them. He must’ve been incredibly smooth. None of his victims ever knew where he lived. They’d ask and he’d put them off. Tell them he was about to move, staying with a friend, or make a joke and change the subject. If he had a phone of his own, it was unlisted. When they called him, there was rarely any direct contact. Unless it was close to the end of the relationship and he was getting ready to move, all they ever got was his answering service. It looks like he changed apartments every two or three months.”

  “And none of these women realized the guy who robbed them was the same dude they were going out with?”

  “He’s very good at disguises, Farley.”

  Spears nodded. “Yeah, I know, I’ve seen some of the tapes. The women know what they’ve got in common?”

  “Not yet.”

  “So what’s your next move — send a circular to all the banks and credit unions? You must have a pretty good general description, by now. The guy couldn’t have worn much of a disguise when he took them out, went to bed with them … ”

  Parker said, “If they asked him how tall he was or how much he weighed, he always gave them a different answer. Sometimes he wore elevator shoes, sometimes he wore flats. Whatever helped. He wore his hair various lengths and dyed it brown, black, red, blond, and black with a grey streak. His eyes were dark blue, icy blue, sea green, pale green, dark green, and brown.”

  “You sure you’re dealing with just the one guy?”

  Parker said, “He walked with a limp because he broke his left leg in a motorcycle accident when he was a kid. Or tore the cartilage in his right knee playing high school rugby. Or he suffers a partial loss of hearing because his father beat him.”

  “All stuff that happened to him during his youth,” noted Willows.

  Parker nodded. “But this is what impresses me the most. One woman described him as seriously overweight, two as average, one as kind of pudgy, and the others as very slim or skinny.”

  “So?”

  “But not in any particular order” said Parker. “He gained and lost weight at will. One minute he’s fat and the next minute he’s thin.”

  Spears sucked in his stomach. He was down to the last two holes in his belt, and his shirts were getting tighter with every passing day. Maybe it was time to cut out the chocolate donuts, stick with plain or cinnamon flavour … Willows dialled Windfelt’s extension. Windfelt answered on the first ring. Willows told him what they’d learned. Windfelt swore vigorously and at length. When he finally ran out of breath, Willows picked his phone back up off his desk and gave Windfelt the names and addresses and home phone numbers from the bottom half of the list of busted banks and broken-hearted tellers.

  Then he and Parker signed out an unmarked car and went to work on the top half of the list.

  With the slight exception of Julia Vail, the tellers they spoke to were cut from the same cloth; all of them were young, attractive, a little unsure of themselves.

  Little by little, Willows and Parker learned about the man they were pursuing. But the more they learned, the less they knew.

  The perp was a jazz fan. Loved classical music, too. Especially Mozart. Or was it Beethoven? Thought it was really too bad that Roy Orbison had died, and could watch Dolly Parton sing all day long.

  Ate out all the time. Loved Chinese food.
Italian. Greek. Vietnamese and Thai. Or mostly shopped at the frozen foods section of his local supermarket, knew how to program a microwave oven and that was about it.

  Was an expert on California wines, knew the Sonoma Valley like the back of his hand. Could knock back a mickey of gin and you’d never know it. Was a passionate teetotaller and never drank anything stronger than warm milk.

  Went to church regularly. Was a Christian, a Jew, a converted Muslim. Agnostic, but wavering.

  Earned a decent buck as a Porsche mechanic and had a hard time keeping his fingernails clean due to the nature of his work. But enjoyed the annual tour of the Porsche factory in Stuttgart.

  Was a between-jobs car salesman.

  Or he’d been a travelling salesman who sold barbed wire by the mile until, demonstrating how you could twist it every whichway and it would snap back at you, he’d had an eye plucked out of his head like a grape from a bowl. That was five years ago, and he’d worn the patch ever since. Looked kind of piratical, didn’t she think?

  Geneticist.

  Piano tuner. Xylophone player.

  What he was and perhaps all he ever could be, Parker and Willows eventually realized, was an expert at turning himself into whatever kind of man the woman he happened to be with wanted or needed him to be.

  When the banks closed, they started calling on the victims at home. It was past eleven by the time they’d interviewed all seven women on Willows’ list.

  Parker yawned as she leaned against a field of bright orange wheat on a muddy brown background.

  Canadian wallpaper.

  Willows bumped his thumb up against a plastic button that glowed luminescent green. From twenty-three stories below them a dull metallic clank sounded as the elevator shuddered and came to life.

  Parker said, “Priest. I’m surprised he never tried that one on for size.”

  “Maybe he did, and Windy and Fireplug’ll tell us all about it.”

  “In the morning,” said Parker, and covered her mouth with her hands as she felt another yawn coming.