Slow Fall

by Edgar Warren Williams

  Millie got out, and Pickett scooted over into the driver's seat. She caught the door before he could pull it closed.

  “You wanna come in for a minute?” Her eyes held his for a second then moved nervously away.

  “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

  She opened the cottage door and turned on the light—a furnished efficiency, cheap and anonymous. Pantyhose hung over the bedstead, and on the floor beneath, a crumpled terry robe. That and dirty dishes were all to indicate that someone lived there. Millie dropped to the creaky bed, kicked off her shoes, and lay back. She sighed, then pushed up on one elbow. She crossed her legs, slowly and theatrically.

  “Get you anything?”

  “An answer or two maybe.”

  Millie's brow tensed slightly, then, with an effort, relaxed. She reached behind her head and loosed her hair. She shook it, still looking at Pickett. The hair was long. “What sort of answers would you like? Mister… ?”

  Pickett ignored both questions. “You wanna tell me about it?”

  “Nothing to tell.” Millie drew limp fingers up and down the bare skin at the base of her neck. She looked at Pickett from the corner of her eyes. “My hero,” she crooned in a Betty Boop voice. She tried to giggle—it sounded obscene; she tried to flutter her lashes but her brow was to tense to allow it. Millie pushed up to a sitting position, pulled her crossed leg over the other thigh and onto the bed, and looked down. She drew languid designs on the spread with her finger. “How can I possibly repay you?” she pouted in her cartoon voice; but her face froze. In her own voice she added: “That's what I say now, right?”

  Her legs, pale and bare, were almost blue in the artificial light. Pickett shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What's the matter, mister?” Her lips curled. “You won the prize. You ran off the other bulls. The cow's yours.”

  “Come off it, will you? I just wanna talk—”

  “Sure, Mister. And your wife don't understand you, right?”

  “Look—”

  “Well come and get your understanding, Mister.” Millie yanked open her Krispy Krunch dress. Buttons clattered to the linoleum like coins in the bottom of a tin cup. Her heavy breasts pushed at a dingy beige brassiere, the elastic frayed in the center, an appliqué‚ rosette hanging lose to the side. “It's yours mister.” She yanked off her belt. “Come and get it.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Ooo… Like it rough, huh, want me to beg…” She climbed onto the bed on all fours and crawled toward Pickett. “Come on, now…” The dingy green uniform slipped down off her hips; frazzled elastic dangled from her cotton panties. “Come an get it…”

  “Stop it, for Chrissake!” Pickett took the step to the end of the bed and cocked his left hand to hit her. He didn't.

  But Millie stopped anyway. She fell back on her haunches and glared at him through a curtain of straight black hair. “ Pickett picked the robe from the floor and threw it at her.

  “Just talk to me, will you?”

  The robe landed in Millie's lap. Drawing the hair off her face and to the back of her head, she held it there with both hands. Then she looked at the ceiling. She sighed.

  Pickett seemed to relax. “You can start by telling me what those two back there at the donut shop wanted.”

  “What is this—you a cop?”

  “I know, I look like one. But I'm not. Private.”

  “Private?” Millie pushed up from the bed and slid into the terry robe. “I need a drink. You?” She limped on tender feet to the kitchenette. “It'll have to be vodka cause that's all I got.” She handed him his drink and took a slug of hers. “Look, mister…” She paused to wipe her mouth with her finger tips. “I appreciate you stepping in tonight, but…” She gestured vaguely with one hand, then took a drink from the other.

  “But what?”

  “But I got nothing to say to you, that's all. If you aint no cop, then…” She bobbed her head back and fourth. “Well, then drink your drink and thanks for helping tonight and all, but, well… So long. There aint nothing to talk about.”

  “We could always talk about Herb Purdy.”

  “Look, I don't have to…”

  “Know him by any chance?”

  “I don't have to—” But her heart wasn't in it. She put her drink on the nightstand and dropped back onto her bed. “Yeah…” She took a deep breath, braced her left ankle on her right knee and began massaging her foot. “Maybe I know him. So what?”

  Pickett shrugged. “So he's dead.”

  “Dead? You're kidding.”

  “Not hardly.”

  “What from?”

  “A bullet in the face best I could tell.”

  “God—the guy in the paper…” She froze, narrowed her eyes. “You sure you're not a cop or something?”

  “Not a cop. Something. I'm trying to help a girl. She isn't mixed up in this yet, but if I don't get some help from you—”

  “Well this girl didn't have nothing to do with it. Not no bullet in nobody's face, I can tell you that, Mister Something or whatever you are.”

  “I wasn't talking about you. But if I can track you down you can bet the Sheriff can. And will. You'll be telling one of us about Herb Purdy eventually.”

  “I don't have to tell you nothing, mister.” Millie walked across the room, shoulders hunched, sloshing her drink onto the dirty linoleum.

  Pickett still hadn't touched his.

  She opened her purse, her hands shaking. She produced a pack of Kools.

  “Why—” He took a long drink. “Why was Purdy following Amy Mooring?”

  Millie froze, her back to Pickett, an unlighted Kool hanging from her lips.

  “What did you and Amy Mooring talk about yesterday afternoon, then?”

  Millie's eyes glazed. “I need a match.” She pulled a book from her purse. The first folded as she struck; she broke a nail trying to strike the second. “Dammit!” She threw the matchbook against the wall and spun around to face Pickett. “I don't have to—” She stopped and took the cigarette from her mouth. Her brow wrinkled. “You don't work for Kemp. Who the hell are you?”

  “Those guys in the donut shop, they were Kemp's men, weren't they?”

  “Kemp's got nothing over me.”

  “What is it? Does he want you back?”

  “I don't know what you're talking about, Mister.”

  “He doesn't like his employ-ees running off without permission, right? Anymore than he likes them fooling around with his bag men.”

  “Jesus, I wouldn't of fooled around with Herb if… God.”

  “Is that why you shot him? He was trying to make time?”

  “You better just get out of here or I'll… I'll—”

  “Or you'll give it to me the way you gave it to Purdy?”

  “God dammit, I told you—”

  “Where's the gun?”

  “I don't have it. I mean… I don't know nothing about it.”

  She paused, looked at the floor, her face pink.

  “Look, I worked for Kemp. So what? Girl's gotta make a living. And I knew Herb. Last time I heard there wasn't no law against that.”

  “There's one against blackmail.”

  Millie blanched. “That wasn't my idea. I just asked Herb to… I should've known I couldn't trust that asshole. God. I didn't tell him anything. He just put it together from—” She stopped, her mouth still open.

  “What did he put together?”

  “Nothing. It was nothing.”

  “What did you two have on Ayers?”

  “It was Herb, not me.”

  “That why you shot him?”

  “I told you—”

  “Was he cutting you out?”

  “I told you—”

  “Were you the badger, is that it?”

  “God damn you!” Millie lunged toward him, swinging wildly with both fists. Pickett grabbed a wrist and pulled. She spun around and he pinned her arm
s to her side, crushing her breasts beneath his forearms.

  “Get out!” Millie screamed. She kicked at Pickett's shins with bare heels. “Leave me alone! You've got no right—no right, you goddamn son of a—” Her voice broke, and Millie went limp in Pickett's arms. “Just leave me alone. Please.”

  Pickett let her go.

  But she remained where she was, her back to him, her shoulders quivering. She crossed her arms, holding herself, as if to still the shaking. “Whataya want from me?”

  “The truth, Millie, that's all.”

  “The truth?” Millie laughed a very unfunny laugh. She shuffled back to the bed. “You don't want the truth, mister, you want a piece of the action. That's what everone wants. You may not know it yet, but that's what you want.”

  Pickett stared at Millie, his features soft, but blank. “You hired Purdy to follow Amy, didn't you?”

  Millie smiled and shook her head. She watched her big toe draw conclusions on the linoleum.

  “Didn't you.”

  Millie looked up, amused. “No, I didn't. I hired him to find Amy.”

  “Why would you want to find Amy Mooring?”

  “You wouldn't understand.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know, mister—believe me—you wouldn't understand. I know men,” she said as if she did.

  “You knew Herb Purdy anyway. He's dead.”

  Anger darkened Millie's face like a cloud the moon, then was as quickly gone. “Why you wanna mess in my life, huh? Aint got enough problems of your own? Or you working on a merit badge or something?”

  “No merit badge. I just wanna help Amy. She's in some kind of trouble.”

  “And you think I don't wanna help her? You think I wouldn't—wouldn't walk over live coals to help her?” Millie's face flushed. “I'm her mother aint I? Aint she my fuckin kid!” Millie glared at Pickett defiantly, then laughed: “Yeah, I know. That was just about Amy's reaction too.” She stood, weary and suddenly very old. “Now, will you get outta here, huh? This got nothing to do with you.”

  Pickett simply stared at her. She grew nervous, and her eyes shifted from under his gaze.

  “You're Roger Mooring's wife?”

  “Look, Mister, I don't need this—”

  “Tell me.”

  “Get out!”

  Pickett stayed where he was, in the same attitude of amazement. “What's this got to do with Ayers—Amy being your daughter?”

  “That bastard Ayers, he done nothing but fuck-up my life, and now… Look, what the hell you think it's got to do with him, you're so goddamn smart?”

  Pickett remained, staring; but said nothing.

  “Now, get out.”

  Pickett opened his mouth.

  “Get out. Before I—”

  “Before you what?”

  The color bled from Millie's face. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Softly, she said: “Please. Just. Go.”

  And Pickett went. The door slammed almost before he was through it.

  15

  The crack of the door echoed from the bungalows across the drive. Bodie Pickett looked up at the sky and let the close, hot air of the evening into his lungs. Low clouds covered the moon.

  He dropped into the Nova's front seat and stared into the street. The traffic was light. Putting both hands to his eyes, he rubbed vigorously. Then he blinked into the street light that hung above the drive.

  “Right,” he said aloud. He fired the engine and turned left out of the motor court in the direction of Belle Haven. He hadn't gone a block when he slowed before a dark Exxon station on the corner. He turned at the intersection, parked, and walked back past the pumps to a dark phone booth next to the vending machines.

  When he closed the door behind him, the booth remained dark. Pickett angled the phone book toward the street light, then dropped 2 dimes into the phone and dialed 7 numbers.

  “County Sheriff.”

  “Yeah—” Pickett glanced toward Millie's place. Her door opened, and Millie emerged from the light and closed the door.

  “Whataya want?”

  “Uh… the Sheriff—Sheriff Beane.” Millie had changed into jeans and a t-shirt. She was walking toward the street with a large leather handbag over her shoulder.

  “He aint here, he's out on a case,” the telephone said, the tone adding, he aint got time for you. “Who wants to talk to him?”

  “What?” Pickett watched a man—the one with the soft voice—step out of the shadows behind Millie.

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “Yeah, sorry, I—” And an engine started across the street. “Yeah, tell Homer that Pickett called.” A dark Buick drove past, and Pickett could just make out Tom's pink head behind the wheel, before it turned into the motor court.

  “Yeah? Well the Sheriff's been trying to get you, Pickett—”

  “Look, I gotta go. I'll see Homer tomorrow.”

  “Wha—”

  Pickett let it fall to the end of its cord, and pressed himself against the door. It wouldn't open. Millie suddenly turned to the man on foot, saw the car coming, and ran for the street. Pickett pulled, and the door gave. He sprinted into the street.

  The soft man caught hold of Millie's arm; she swung the bag and caught him in the face. He yelled in pain, his jaw still tender from Pickett's punch. Tom got out of the car, leaving it running, and circled the front of it toward Millie.

  Pickett reached the other side of the street just as the soft man recovered and blocked her retreat. Pickett hollered. Tom turned. Millie pushed past him around the car. Tom went after her. They were in front of the headlights when Pickett caught Tom square in the nose with a left jab. Tom fell back out of the lights into the path of the soft man. The car door slammed, the engine roared. Pickett leaped back as Millie skidded into the street and squealed around the corner in Tom's Buick.

  Pickett watched a moment too long.

  A large hand spun him around in time for him to catch a blow at his belt buckle. A knee flew to his face as he doubled over; his head snapped back and over, his eyes blankly scanning the moonlit sky. Pickett landed on his back, his eyes showing white before they closed.

  #

  He woke with a start, a bloodied mouth before him.

  “Not a pretty sight, huh?” said the mouth without moving. “But it could be worse. I could make it much worse.”

  Blood stained the lips like rust. The eyes squinted. They were Pickett's eyes, Pickett's lips.

  “Sit up.”

  Apparently, Pickett was speaking to himself. But he didn't move. The bloodied face wrinkled in pain. Pickett opened his mouth; so did the face. It said: “Mil-l-l—” but that was all.

  Pickett tried to spit; he couldn't. Pink saliva ran down from the corner of his mouth.

  Then the face before him fell away, and Ralph Kemp laughed. He got up from the side of the bed and handed the mirror to Tom. Tom glanced in the mirror at the white bandage covering his nose, then at his hand, covering a black .38. When he looked up at Pickett, he smiled.

  “Well,” said Kemp, “let's get started, huh? Let's make it quick and easy.”

  Pickett closed his eyes. Fingers closed on his chin; someone groaned. It was Pickett.

  “Now, time to wake up and listen.”

  Kemp shook the tall man's chin, and the eyes opened again. Pickett stared at Kemp. The grey stubble of Kemp's hair looked like weathered cypress planed smooth on top. Kemp's already tiny eyes narrowed.

  “This is the way it'll go. You answer my questions, and Tom won't hurt you. See? Simple.” Kemp lowered himself to Pickett's bed. “Now. Where's Millie?”

  “Car—Tom's car.”

  Kemp looked to Tom, then back. “You know Tom then?”

  “No, Mister Kemp, I never—”

  “Shutup, dip-shit.” Kemp stood, hitching up a pair of grey double-knit slacks, and walked toward the man with the gun. Tom's eyelids quivered, and he stepped back. Kemp turned back to Pickett. “Answer me.”

 
; Pickett sat up, knuckled his eyes, and looked around the room, blinking. “I ran into him. Tom, I mean. At the Temple.… I don't think it did him much good.” Pickett looked puzzled, as if unsure why he'd said that. Then he smiled and explained: “Didn't do him any good going to the Temple, I mean.”

  Pickett was making a joke.

  Kemp stepped forward and swung the back of his hand at Pickett's cheek. The jolt closed Pickett's eyes. When they opened again, they were brighter, less muddy.

  “You aint nearly so funny as you gonna look when Tom gets through with you.” Kemp took a deep breath and hitched up his trousers again. “Now. I got three questions, simple and straight forward. Just answer them on the level, and we can all go home to bed.”

  “You got one left.”

  “What?”

  “You asked me about Millie, then if I knew Tom. That's two. You got one left. One question.”

  Tom advanced on Pickett, pulling the pistol back over the opposite shoulder. Kemp put an arm in his path, but his eyes never moved from the man on the bed. “Funny boy. Now let's see if you're smart. I asked you the first question already. Now you answer it. Where's Millie?”

  “How would I know? I only met her this afternoon. Find her yourself.”

  “Where?”

  “Try the Personals.” Kemp swung the other hand at him, open palm. Pickett grabbed it with his own, and chucked Kemp across the mouth with his cast.

  Kemp straightened, his pink eyes smaller than they'd been before. Calmly, he wiped red from his mouth with the back of his hand. He motioned to Tom. “Bernie,” he called.

  Tom reached Pickett in two strides. Tom put a hand to Pickett's collar and a gun to his belly and pulled Pickett to his feet. Pickett looked down, apparently surprised that he could stand.

  “Bernie!”

  The un-soft man with the soft voice emerged from what must have been the bathroom. He held one finger to the side of his nose and inhaled sharply twice through the other. He squinted absently toward Kemp, then Pickett. As he moved toward the tall man on the bed, he dusted a smudge of white powder from the tip of his nose. Tom smiled at the prospect of violence, and turned to Bernie as he approached, a smart ass grin of expectation lighting his face. His revolver moved with his head. So did Pickett.