Fall Down Easy

by Laurence Gough

  Sitting on the roof with his back against the wall of the house and the flight bag and duffel bag in his lap, he turned his head slightly and looked across the street and empty park towards the city. How strong the wind must be, to make the highrises shift and sway like that, as if they were dancing.

  Dancing buildings.

  Greg suddenly remembered why he’d frisked the cop who thought he was a pussy cat.

  It was because he was out of cigarettes, damn it. He stared bitterly at the dancing highrises, then gasped with delight as a two-hundred-foot monster suddenly broke free and rose slowly above the skyline, hovered for an endless moment and then accelerated, a blur of light that veered into blackness, dwindled and was gone.

  Greg sat there on the roof, eyes full of pupil, mouth agape. Was it the coke, or the blow to his head — was he hallucinating? Maybe, but somehow he doubted it.

  Down in the alley, Willows almost shot the cat as it rushed him from the darkness of the garage. Oblivious to its brush with death, the animal tried to wrap itself around his leg.

  Willows slowly moved deeper into the garage. He had a pocket flashlight, but didn’t want to risk using it for fear of giving his position away. The cat stayed right beside him, the roar of its purring loud enough to wake the dead. His foot bumped into something that was soft and yielding. He switched on the flashlight. Farley Spears’ eyes were shut tight. His skin was the colour of a new moon, and a trickle of blood had run down the side of his head into his ear. Willows aimed the flashlight beam a little lower. Farley’s throat had been slashed from ear to ear; torn flesh shrinking from the perimeter of a slit trench overflowing with blood.

  In the house, Parker curled up in the overstuffed leather chair in the den. The walkie-talkie lay in her lap and her finger rested lightly on the trigger of her second-best friend.

  The bathroom window was double-glazed, in a cheap aluminium frame. Greg opened his bag, shoved the spreadsheets to one side, found his all-purpose scalpel and went to work on the window until he felt the tongue of the lock, then pushed upward, steadily increasing the pressure. The metal bar started to slip, then suddenly popped right out of the socket. He pulled the window open as far as he could, tossed the flight bag and duffel bag inside. Another highrise was launched into the heavens. Spectacular, but distracting. He took a deep breath and half-dived and half-fell through the window, into the house.

  The first thing he noticed was that the bathroom door was shut. Good, fine. He hauled himself to his feet, rested a moment and then swung shut the window and turned on the light. The bathroom had all the warmth and charm of a train station. The thought gave Greg pause. Maybe it would be best if he abandoned his plans, moved on. Somewhere, there had to be greener pastures. And if the ugly truth were known, he couldn’t even remember what he was doing there, what his plans were. Grab Samantha and the money and run. Was that it? Greg peered into a bronzed mirror over the sink. He looked pretty good for a strung-out, doped-up, terminally concussed killer.

  He swung open the medicine cabinet door. Aspirin. 222s. Industrial-strength Tylenol. A vial of little yellow pills, a smaller vial of red and blue pills, a medium-size vial of orange and black pills striped like a barber’s pole. He helped himself to four or five of each, washed the lot down with a mouthful of tap water and then, bobbing and weaving, went to work on his face.

  The fighter, the pug. Rodeo rider. Norman Mailer. The postman, the beggar and the blind man. Cop. The artiste and bus driver. Liquor store clerk. Motorcycle racer. The guy who worked in the gas station and had a face like a cobblestone road; covered in warts the size of marbles. Working furiously, Greg tried them all and couldn’t get any of them right.

  He pulled an auburn wig from his head, tore bubbles of latex from his face. Ripped blue contact lenses from his eyes. Latex, artificial blood, and a dozen wigs lay scattered on the tiled floor. The bathroom looked like a slaughterhouse for small animals. Greg yanked a handful of hair from his head. His scalp stung. A trickle of blood ran down into his eyes. His fingers clawed at his flesh. The coke had filled him with manic energy. The aspirin and red and blue and orange and black and yellow pills had killed the pain, numbed him.

  His hands slapped at his face. Did this face belong to him? Was this his face? He couldn’t quite remember what he was supposed to look like. He tried to conjure up an image of his features. Bits and pieces of various adopted personas floated in the mirror. Such a weird sensation. He remembered that he wanted Mendez’s money, Samantha, a cigarette.

  And not necessarily in that order, either. He drove his fist into the mirror, head-butted the silvered glass until it shattered.

  Outside, Willows’ head came up as he heard the mirror break. He was fairly sure the sound had come from inside the house. Switching off the flashlight, he made his way out of the garage and across the alley.

  Take it easy, take it slow.

  He stayed close to the fence as he moved through the backyard, checked the narrow, dimly lit space between Ross’s house and the neighbour’s. Cautiously, he worked his way around to the garage. Had the top-floor bathroom light been on earlier? He didn’t think so. It seemed to take him forever to find where Greg’d scrambled up on the garage roof, his weight bending the aluminium gutter out of true.

  Willows yelled at Oikawa and Orwell. Oikawa drew his revolver and ran towards the house.

  In the house, Parker heard the bathroom door swing open, thought for a moment that it was Willows returning but then remembered that the door was deadbolted and that Willows didn’t have a key. A moment later she heard what sounded like someone falling down a flight of stairs, and then a shouted oath.

  Out on the front porch, Oikawa threw himself at the door, grunted in pain. Willows sprinted for the parks board pickup. He started the motor and backed across the driveway and swung wide on the lawn. Eddy Orwell, still caught up in his sleeping bag, rolled helplessly off the back of the truck and into a flower bed.

  Inside, Parker was half out of her chair when Greg suddenly appeared in the open doorway. He held on to the doorframe with both hands, as if for dear life. Rivulets of blood slithered down the white-painted wood. Parker bisected his chest with the front sight of her revolver.

  Greg said, “Hello there, Samantha.”

  Parker said, “What?” The guy was slurring his words, and no wonder. He looked, at best, dead on his feet.

  Greg said, “I want the money, honey.”

  Parker said, “What money?”

  Greg frowned, scratched his scalp. There was blood beneath his fingernails. He’d worked everything out but it was hard to remember how it went. After a moment he said, “Your daddy was working for Mendez, laundering all that Panamanian drug money. Mendez dropped by the house one night, didn’t he?”

  Oikawa jumped clear of the porch as Willows slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The truck bounced up three steps. The right front fender hit the door. The fender crumpled but the door held.

  The house shuddered. Greg glanced over his shoulder, turned back to Parker.

  She waited.

  Greg said, “Met Daddy’s little girl and decided he’d rather have her do his wash. Fired Daddy.”

  Greg leaned heavily against a wall. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and blood — or something that looked like blood — spurted. He said, “Tell you what.”

  Parker said, “What?”

  “Gimme a cigarette and we’ll call it quits.”

  Parker said, “I don’t smoke.”

  “Be reasonable, Samantha!” Greg lurched towards her. His left ear had been hanging by a thread. Now it fell off.

  Parker stared at the ear lying there on the carpet.

  Greg said, “Gimme a cigarette, dammit!” Piqued, he stomped the ear into the rug.

  Parker said, “I’m not Samantha.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  Parker said, “What happened to you?”

  Greg smiled. “I got into a fight with a freight train.”

  Parker be
lieved it. She believed it all.

  “Eighty-seven cars,” bragged Greg. His vision was watery and badly blurred because he’d scratched a cornea trying to pluck out a contact lens that wasn’t there. He squeezed the damaged eye shut, stared in amazement at what he saw and then said, “Who the hell are you?” as he fumbled under his ragged clothes for the Charter Arms 44.

  Parker yelled, “Drop it!”

  Greg said, “My gun’s bigger than your gun.”

  The house shook again, as if struck by a giant fist. Wood splintered and glass shattered. Greg risked another look behind him. A very serious-looking guy was running down the hall towards him. The guy pointed a pistol and screamed, “Freeze!”

  Greg reached under his jacket for the 357 magnum. He was trying to thumb back the 357’s hammer when Willows and Parker tackled him and knocked him down.

  Out on the front lawn, Orwell shucked his ruined sleeping bag and turned towards the house. Farley Spears stepped out of the shadows. Orwell’s mouth fell open.

  Spears said, “It’s okay, it’s me.”

  Orwell, staring at him, said, “Jeez, what happened to your neck?”

  Spears said, “Nothing, why?” His hand touched his throat. What the hell kind of allergic reaction was that? His fingers gently probed the wound. He pulled hard.

  The thing made a rubbery, snapping sound, and then let go-Orwell said, “What is it, some kind of leech?”

  Spears held the stretchy rubber thing up to the light streaming from the shattered doorway. He said, “What’s the matter with you, Eddy — don’t you know a gaping wound when you see one?”

  Willows read Greg his rights while Oikawa frisked and handcuffed him. Parker phoned for an ambulance. Spears and Orwell joined the throng. Spears retrieved his gun and wallet. Greg told him about the apartment buildings that had blasted into space, how beautiful they were.

  Orwell said, “That’s missing persons, pal. Nothing to do with me.”

  Greg made eye contact with Parker, and told her that she was an extraordinarily beautiful woman.

  She thanked him for the compliment and smiled sweetly at Willows.

  Greg asked her if by any chance she happened to work in a bank or credit union or trust company.

  Twenty-Four

  The bar closed at one. Martin Ross knocked back his sixth or seventh martini, fished around in his pocket for the key to his room, checked the number, signed for the drinks and an over-generous tip with an uncharacteristic flourish. He took the elevator up to his floor, paused by the ice machine. There were no buckets, so he carried half a dozen melting cubes to his room in his cupped hands. Inside, he unlocked the bar fridge and emptied a two-ounce bottle of vodka into a glass, added some ice.

  He thought about Garcia Lorca Mendez, and then he thought about the derelict, and the animal sound the man made as he was separated from his hand.

  He thought about how quickly the Panamanian had died, the animal look in his eyes.

  He thought about his gambling debts, how Mendez had taken care of them, but at the same time put him deeper in debt than he had ever been.

  He thought for a long, long time about the restless, hungry way Mendez had stared at Samantha, the first time he saw her.

  He thought about the way his daughter had stared back at the Panamanian.

  Later, when the two men were alone, Mendez dropped heavily to his knees, took Ross’s hand and begged for permission to ask Samantha out. Martin Ross didn’t want his hand chopped off, so he hadn’t said no. Pretty soon he didn’t need to worry about laundering Mendez’s money any more, because Samantha was taking care of it.

  When Mendez was shot and the briefcase containing the monthly statements were taken, Ross had panicked, but Samantha had remained calm and poised, assured him that the spreadsheets were useless, numbers in a void. She’d told him that the money was all hers, now, and that she intended to keep it.

  He told her about the machete. He told her Mendez was nothing but a small cog in a very large machine, that soon a replacement would arrive and that the money had to be in place.

  Samantha had laughed at him, told him he had a pretty lively imagination, for a banker.

  She seemed to believe Mendez was the only Panamanian in the whole wide world.

  By the time the phone started ringing Ross was well into his third miniature vodka bottle, and loss of motor control had considerably slowed the pace of his drinking. He fell across the king-size bed, grabbed the receiver and mumbled hello.

  “Daddy, is that you?”

  Ross mumbled his assent.

  Samantha said, “Have you been drinking?”

  “Jus’ a little … ”

  Samantha said, “I’m supposed to be up in Whistler, visiting friends. But I’m not.”

  Ross struggled to digest the information, divine its meaning.

  His daughter said, “I’ve decided to tell the police everything.”

  Ross said, “About what, honey?”

  Samantha’s voice suddenly changed. For the first time in years she sounded unsure of herself, vulnerable and very young. She said, “You know. Everything.”

  Ross said, “Baby, you promised … ”

  “Everything you did.” She was crying. He saw the tears falling down her cheeks, trails of slime, her face red and swollen. Distorted. Ugly. She said, “I was your little girl. Just look what you did.”

  Ross said, “Baby, listen to me … ”

  She slammed the phone down hard, cutting him off.

  Ross knelt in front of the bar fridge, helped himself to the last of the vodka. In the bathroom, he sipped at his drink as he stood in front of the mirror, fiddled with his tie and then brushed his silvery hair until it was exactly right. When he was finally satisfied with his appearance, he slipped into his suit jacket and then, still carrying his drink, left the room and walked down the corridor to a door marked “Fire Exit. Do not enter — alarm will ring”.

  He yanked open the door. Directly above him, a red light flashed and a bell rang shrilly. He stepped out on to the rusty metal grid of a staircase. He was twelve floors up — close to a hundred and thirty feet. The air was cold and damp. He heard voices and turned and glanced behind him.

  An elderly man in red and white striped pyjamas said, “For God’s sake, don’t do it!”

  Ross stepped over the railing. His shoes slipped on the rusty steel. He lost his balance and fell, twisted through blackness, all that screaming and the blurred jangle of the fire alarm fading as he tumbled, helpless and disoriented, into the void.

  He was still trying to figure out which way was up when he hit the asphalt.

  Twenty-Five

  Bradley pushed his window wide open and then did the unthinkable — lit a cigar. Much to his surprise, neither Parker nor Willows objected.

  He blew out the match and said, “Loverboy’s looking at thirteen counts of armed robbery, the Mendez shooting, kidnapping, assault and battery, possession of various unregistered firearms, arson, break and enter, whacking a guy with a freight train … Is that it, or did I miss something?”

  “Fourteen counts of armed robbery,” said Parker. “You forgot about Lorraine Flaviani.”

  “Right, right.” Bradley chewed on his cigar, blew a stream of smoke out the window. “How’s the suicide note look?”

  “It’s authentic,” said Willows. The undated note had been found in a locked drawer in Martin Ross’s office desk.

  Bradley said, “Okay, let’s say Ross writes and signs a suicide note in which he apologizes for his sins, and leaves everything he owns to his daughter. Then he takes a header off a five-star hotel in front of a small but select group of witnesses. What sins?”

  Willows said, “We don’t know.”

  Bradley peered out the window, looking down, flicked an inch of ash into the street. “What’s Ross’s daughter end up with?”

  Parker said, “She gets the house — the mortgage was insured — plus about two hundred thousand in stocks and bonds, six hun
dred thousand from Ross’s life insurance policy.”

  “Lucky girl. What’d she say when you asked her about the phone call she made to her father from Whistler, only a few minutes before he jumped?”

  “That he was drunk and seemed depressed.”

  “That’s it?”

  Parker nodded.

  Bradley said, “How much time did you spend with her?”

  “As much as her lawyer would allow.”

  “She pretty broken up?”

  Parker said, “Not really, no. Ross’ wife died when she was eleven years old. Ross never remarried. Jack and I talked it over. We don’t have any hard evidence and we can’t prove anything, but we agree that there was more than one heart-breaker involved in this case.”

  Bradley destroyed an inch of cigar mulling over the possibilities.

  Willows said, “It’s just a guess, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Samantha and Mendez had something going. It’d be a way for her to get back at daddy. Right now, she’s staying in a four hundred thousand dollar Whistler condominium that’s owned by a numbered company. Might be interesting to find out who or what’s hiding behind the numbers. “

  Bradley said, “Speaking of numbers, has anybody managed to decipher the spreadsheets yet?”

  Willows shook his head. “Fraud took a peek. Joey Chang said there’s no way of knowing what the numbers represent. It could be bank account balances or a numerical code for barbecue sauce. Without bank branch or account numbers it’d take them months to find out.”

  Bradley said, “If they had the time. Which they don’t. And by then the accounts — if that’s what they are — would probably have been cleaned out anyway. Right?” He turned to Parker. “Claire, anything you want to add?”

  “Martin Ross wasn’t pushed — at least not in a legal sense. I say let’s call it a wrap.”

  Bradley stared out the window. His jaw rose and fell as he took his frustration out on the cigar. “What’s new from Panama?”

  Willows said, “Nada. Mendez was an ace cop. No way he could have been over here laundering drug money.”