The Long Fall

The police love gamblers who spend their nights with whores; juries hate that kind of guy. Scott’s involvement in the fraud, and his malicious intent toward the town of People, came out in the trial. Bowman Towne are still in court over the suit against them.

Beakman died in an armed-robbery attempt before the Scott case ever came before a judge. Fellows died of strangulation the next year in what the newspaper article called a sexual assault.

Gert told me that Fellows deserved what he got.

“Yeah, I know, babe,” I said. “But don’t we deserve it, too?”

THE PHONE RANG and I answered reflexively.

“Hello?”

“So what’s the answer, LT?” Tony the Suit asked.

“To what question?” I replied.

I knew that he’d never speak literally about something so serious over the phone. I guess I was feeling kind of mean and so without a fly to pluck the wings from I decided to torture Tony.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Sure I do, Tony. You’re looking for real estate and I’m looking for a new profession.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. I’m looking for a house all right. Can you find it for me?”

“No problem, man. I will do that for you.”

Tony was silent a moment, not completely understanding the meaning that underlay my lighthearted demeanor.

“But you gotta do me a favor, Tone,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“My secretary told me that you were kinda rough with her on the phone.”

“That bitch wouldn’t put me through.”

“If you speak harshly to her again our deal is off. Do you understand that?”

“She’s more than just a secretary for you, huh?”

“She means more to me than your whole fucking family,” I said, using every ounce of the iron in my jaw.

I wanted to see how serious Tony was about finding A Mann. If it was, as he said, just to have a talk about some old business sheets, he wouldn’t have allowed me to speak to him like that.

“Okay, LT,” he said. “You don’t have to get all upset. I’m sorry. I’ll leave the little girl alone. Scout’s honor.”

It was then that I knew what he had on his mind. Business as usual, in my world.

Ê€„

22

The best time to kill someone is when they’re going through a door. While passing from one place to another most people are a little off guard, distracted by the subtle displacement separating here from there.

He hit me on the upper part of my left temple as I was walking from my outer office into the Art Deco hallway. It was the hardest I’d been struck, by a fist, since Big Pink knocked me out of boxing. This was no weak-sister amateur like back-alley Jonah. No. Whoever hit me had a lot of practice and good muscle to back it up.

As I half-sailed through the atmosphere toward my fau¶ itx receptionist’s desk I passed from the real world into a limbo back over thirty years, when George Foreman bounced Joe Frazier around the ring like a fat kid thumping on a basketball.

I was that basketball, and somewhere Gordo was shouting, “Get up, kid! Get up! You can’t let him do that! Get in close! Cut off his power!”

I was in a supine pose and saw no reason to get up and let George hit me like that again. It was comfortable there on my back on the canvas, or maybe it was the floor. Flat on his back is the safest place for a boxer who has met his better.

The referee must have been distracted. Maybe he was trying to get George to go to a neutral corner. I started the count for him so when he got to me he wouldn’t have to recite all those numbers.

“One—two—three,” I counted but then I heard something slam.

I lost my place and had to start all over at one. By the time I got to four a clawless she-bear had decided to shamble into the ring and caress me by the throat. The problem was that this Ursus arctos horribilus didn’t understand that she was far too strong. The bear wanted to caress me but she might have choked me to death if she wasn’t careful.

I do believe that I would have passed pleasantly into unconsciousness if it wasn’t for those paws around my throat. It was an intimate embrace—until I couldn’t breathe.

Sparring and working out at Gordo’s gym was more than just an exercise regimen for me. It also kept me in touch with a boxer’s quick reaction time. Boxers can fight when they’re out on their feet; they can feel a blow coming from behind their heads. A boxer, like a chess player, sees many moves ahead. He has physical speed far beyond normal human reflexes. And, most of all, his profession is survival.

That was my job, too.

I brought my fists together on either side of the big bear, George Foreman’s head—at least that’s what my addled brain told me I was doing.

The man who was on top of me fell back, allowing me to get to my feet. Even squatting down on one knee he was nearly my height. I hit him with everything I had and all he did was stand up straight. I swung again but he took a step back with his long, pillar-like legs, crossing over to the front door, which, in my stupor, I heard slamming.