The Falling Man

  Praise for Patrick Quinlan’s novels:

  "Best of Crime Fiction 2006"

  -- January Magazine

  "Tarantino-esque first novel about the past catching up with an ex-criminal turned children’s toymaker, and by extension with his young girlfriend Lola. Lots of villains and violent deaths plus likeable characters and some quirky humour. The first chapter – in which Lola busts her way out of a thoroughly nasty rape scenario with karate-kicking panache – would hook anyone."

  -- The Bookseller (UK)

  "Graphic action and exhilarating chases ensue as Quinlan's characters play cat-and-mouse through Portland,...makes one hope that Smoke hasn't quit the life entirely. Lola is a fierce delight." -- Publishers Weekly

  "A fast and furious debut thriller notable for a vintage collection of really rotten bad guys. Characters to care about, even the no-goods. Readers… may be bearing early witness to the arrival of a major talent."

  -- Kirkus Reviews

  "SMOKED should absorb any fan of Bruckheimer blockbusters and everything else that goes boom."

  -- Entertainment Weekly

  "A fast-paced thriller...the story moves at warp speed, capped by a cinematic chase...before ending in spectacular fashion."

  -- Los Angeles Times

  "Watch out for [SMOKED]. A superb debut. A great crime novel. Brilliant is the word."

  -- The Independent on Sunday (UK)

  "With a limping middle-aged hero and a Kill Bill-style indomitable heroine, plus a wonderful gallery of grotesque baddies straight out of B-movie casting school, this debut is a pleasurable romp with strong echoes of early Elmore Leonard. A plethora of fights, knives, guns, explosions and every form of mayhem the author can summon from his sadistic imagination punctuate a nonstop narrative tempered by a strong dose of humour." -- The Guardian on Sunday (UK)

  "A sizzling crime caper paced at NASCAR-style velocity, SMOKED features a shillelagh toting bomb-maker on the run, an alluring martial arts vixen and a setting as exotic and unexpected as Portland, Maine. A turbo-charged tour de force."

  -- Port City Life

  "This first novel is wonderful! What makes [SMOKED] so wonderful is an author who can write great prose, great set-ups, great dialogue, and create characters that jump off the page. Can’t recommend this enough for those of you who like your thrillers on the very dark side." -- Bookaholic

  "SMOKED is one cool read. Tough, suspenseful, gritty and raw. I enjoyed the hell out of it."

  --Victor Gischler, Edgar-nominated author of GUN MONKEYS and SUICIDE SQUEEZE

  "A tight and compelling novel. You will not be able to put SMOKED down. My shaking hand was turning pages. What a debut. Patrick Quinlan is a wonderful new writer."

  -- Carolyn Chute, New York Times bestselling author of THE BEANS OF EGYPT, MAINE

  "Explosive hardboiled Irish-US debut in the Elmore Leonard mold. Great characters and dialogue and well worth more than a detour."

  -- Murder One

  "SMOKED is a compulsively readable, confidently cool tale of criminal shenanigans that should satisfy those in need of a fix between novels by the likes of Elmore Leonard or Charlie Stella." -- Crime Spree Magazine

  "[A] breathless sequence of abduction, car chases and con jobs. Just what the doctor ordered for a Hollywood flick."

  -- The Calcutta Telegraph (India)

  “SMOKED is a first novel rich in characters lovingly drawn and mercilessly executed. Often literally. Gives the whole expression "character assassination" a brand new meaning." "Admirers of James Ellroy or the films of Quentin Tarantino should find much to enjoy in Patrick Quinlan's debut, which is as fast-paced, and as bloody as either...."

  -- The Times of London (UK)

  "[A] strong cross between Elmore Leonard and Quentin Tarantino doing Elmore Leonard. The result is tightly plotted, confidently written and very hip."

  -- The Sunday Observer (UK)

  "The breathlessly violent farce that follows is an unabashed cut-and-shut job, cobbled from the debris of a collision between an Elmore Leonard novel and a Tarantino screenplay. Patrick Quinlan claims no originality. He's transparent about imitating the masters of hardboiled irony and pays homage with style and gusto."

  -- The Daily Telegraph (UK)

  "Patrick Quinlan writes with such panache and skill that it's hard to believe this is his first novel...the ending reminds me of Elmore Leonard at his best."

  --The Mail on Sunday (UK)

  "An engrossing thriller that takes an aging bomb-maker on the lam, a couple of very dangerous hit men, some small-time crooks and a girl who was paying attention in self-defense class, and weaves a can’t miss sizzler of a story."

  -- James Seigel, New York Times bestselling author of DERAILED (recently a hit movie) and DETOUR

  "Quinlan's prose is as smooth as his character's dialogue and when the action hots up, its hard not to find yourself grinning with pure joy. Quinlan… does it with an infectious enthusiasm and a confidence that makes SMOKED a pleasure to read."

  -- Crime Scene Scotland

  "One hell of an exhilarating ride. Certainly one of the better debut thrillers I’ve read this year."

  -- Shotsmag (UK)

  "Despite its seeming simplicity, this is not easy fiction to write successfully. Patrick Quinlan has delivered a terrific new addition to the genre with his first novel. We may well be looking at a name for the future."

  - - The Courier Mail (Australia)

  "Hitmen, heists and high speed chases ensue in this absorbing debut. Quinlan has created an endearing cast of characters. In a word: Explosive!"

  - - The Herald Sun (Australia)

  "Smoked is a shocking, violent read jam-packed with action and a cast of incredible characters who are so much more than they first appear. Smoked is written in a Pulp Fiction sort of style where all the disconnected characters circle around each other's lives with devastating consequences. It's one of those gripping books that will take you to another world, far removed from any safety net. It's also a book you'll probably want to read slowly because you won't want it to end. Amazingly, it's also author Patrick Quinlan's first novel." 4½ stars out of 5

  - - AAP Newswire (Australia)

  "Cue kidnappings, explosions, beatings, murders and car chases aplenty. Pacey, Punchy and raw, this is one self-assured debut." - - In the Air – inflight magazine of Qantas Airlines (Australia)

  "[A] thrilling ride that will keep you hanging on the edge of your seat. It will make you curse the fact that you need sleep."

  -- Bullz-Eye.com

  "The story combines vicious villainy with threadbare morality to produce a bang that movie producers and script-writers would be sorry to miss. Once you've picked it up, it's hard to put it down." -- Channel NewsAsia (Singapore)

  “THIS is the stuff – violent, pacy, stylish and funny.”

  -- The Daily Mirror

  “Quinlan delights in wrong-footing the reader. A fast-moving, hugely entertaining thriller.”

  -- The Observer on Sunday

  “[A] Leonardesque thriller. For this top-notch noir entertainment, think Coen Brothers (Blood Simple) in print.”

  -- Mystery Scene Magazine

  “Quinlan brings to glorious life several offbeat, deviant characters from roads less traveled. [THE FALLING MAN] hurtles along like an express train to its smashing climax.”

  -- Publisher’s Weekly

  About the Author

  Patrick Quinlan was the youngest child in a big, noisy, New York Irish-American family. Ten minutes late to dinner and the food was all gone.

  Other kids in the neighborhood wanted to become cops, or firemen, or crime kingpins. He wanted to become Jimi Hendrix.

  He has been a journalist, a political operative, a copywriter, and now a novelist.

  He is the author of four novels: SMOKED, THE FALLING MAN, THE HIT and THE DROP-OFF. He is also the co-author, with Blade Runner star Rutger Hauer, of Hauer’s memoir, ALL THOSE MOMENTS.

  Quinlan lives on the coast of Maine.

  Books by Patrick Quinlan

  SMOKED

  (Book 1 of the Stolen Millions series)

  THE DROP OFF

  (Book 2 of the Stolen Millions series)

  THE HIT

  THE FALLING MAN

  Copyright © 2007 by Patrick Quinlan. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  www.patrickquinlan.com

  THE FALLING MAN

  BY

  PATRICK QUINLAN

  Life is not a spectacle or a feast; it is a predicament.

  - George Santayana

  AVON CALLING

  The van was still there.

  Dick Miller glanced through the blinds again, looking for the pizza man. No pizza, but the white Time Warner Cable TV van was parked about fifty yards away, in front of a house across the road. It had been there for at least forty-five minutes, since Dick had started looking out the window. Something about that van didn’t seem right. He would be glad when it was gone.

  He let the blinds drop back into place.

  He was out at Fat Sam’s place in Stinson Beach. The house was a tiny saltbox shack that sat, beaten by the Pacific winds, high on a bluff overlooking the ocean. Sam had ripped out the back wall of the old house, and replaced it with a huge bay window. Next to the window was a sliding glass door to a small wooden deck Sam had just built. The house was so small that Dick co
uld stand by the front door and look out the back window. You could not beat that view. As Dick watched, a white speedboat came into view, cutting from left to right across his field of vision. If the view wasn’t enough, you could leave the deck and walk a quarter of a mile down a sandy trail to the beach.

  A full hour had passed since they ordered the pizza. Nothing. No delivery. Just that cable van. In the meantime, Dick returned to the living room couch. He had been sitting on the couch since this morning, smoking grass, counting money and drinking beer. His mind floated somewhere above the task. His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten all day.

  Business was good, and getting better. It seemed like it could go on forever. They had so much goddamn pot, they couldn’t keep it at Dick’s place in town anymore. They had rented an extra apartment under the name of Sam’s grandfather, just to have a place to store the stuff. They had a voicemail drop where their dealers (Sam called them “associates”) could place their orders for the next day, and they had another voicemail drop where their special customers – their money people – could place orders. Two weeks into January, and it looked like it was going to be their biggest year yet.

  Dick had so much money, just counting it made him tired. He finished the joint he was smoking, and lit up another from the small pile on the weathered coffee table. He smoked them back to back these days, high quality shit. Success had gone to his head. He sucked this latest one deeply.

  The more grass he smoked, the more he got to thinking about the strawberry blonde girl Sam had with him. She was a bouncy little thing, looked like she was made of hard rubber or something. That girl made him nervous. She had come in from the beach wearing a bikini a while back, but now she paraded around the place, wearing nothing but a tiny pair of white panties and a T-shirt that showed her belly button. She kept floating in and out, laughing about some damn thing or another. She was deeply tanned, that girl. She moved around the living room, shaking to the constant beat of the jungle rhythm music Sam liked so much.

  Dick couldn’t take his eyes off her. His eyes had a mind of their own. They followed her around like two orphaned puppies. The thing about her was her face. She was so beautiful it could make a man cry.

  “Hey Sam,” Dick shouted. “You think we could turn down this music for a while? I’m trying to do something here.”

  He’d been trying to count the money for a long time. It was hopeless. Music shrieked from the speakers, the sexy girlfriend danced around, the pizza wouldn’t come, there was a suspicious van parked outside, and twenty plastic baggies of grass sat in front of him on the coffee table. Pounds and pounds of grass were bundled into white Hefty kitchen bags and piled up like a small mountain in Sam’s spare bedroom. Add to all of that the joints Dick had smoked, the beer he had drank, and the spectacular view out the bay window. He just couldn’t concentrate.

  There might’ve been nine thousand dollars in his hand. There might’ve been twelve thousand. Stacks of money sat across from him on a chair, waiting patiently to be counted. They were rich. He didn’t know how much money he had. He didn’t care.

  “Sam! Turn down that fucking music!”

  Fat Sam came out of his bedroom, wearing a pair of tight red nylon shorts. He must have stuffed a sock or a washcloth in there. No way was Sam sporting that bulge. He stood about five feet, eight inches, and weighed well over two hundred pounds. His Buddha stomach hung out over his waist. He was covered with sweat, and he was breathing hard. He lit up a joint almost as fat as his stubby fingers. He had a hairy chest and back, like a bear.

  He stood in the doorway, smiling and playing invisible drums. “I love this music,” he said. “It’s so primal.”

  “Well, turn it down, will you? It feels like somebody’s banging a goddamn sledgehammer against my skull.”

  Sam smiled again. He was having a good time. He turned the stereo all the way down. Now the house was silent.

  “Dick, what are you upset about?”

  “I’m not upset. I’m hungry. I’m tired. I want to get everything done here, call it a day, and go home.” He lowered his voice. “Let me ask you something. That girl in there? She looks like she must be fifteen years old. I mean, what are we running here, a day care center? I tell you what. You’re gonna bring a Mann Act beef down on your head when she runs home to Idaho and tells her parents all about her forty-year-old boyfriend.”

  Sam cut Dick off with a calm wave of his hand. “Hey, Dick. What are you putting me in my grave for? I’m thirty-eight.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I know. I know how you like to save everyone – stray cats, old ladies, derelicts on street corners. But I’m here to tell you that not everyone needs saving. Chili in there? She knows what she’s doing. Anyway, she’s an adult. She must be, because I met her in a bar.” Sam placed his right hand over where his big fat heart must be. “I play it strictly legal around here, partner. You know that.”

  . And I’ll tell you something else,” he added, flashing that aggravating, ear-to-ear smile. “I think she likes you. I know she does. She told me herself.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh yeah. She says you’re cute. Thinks you look like an actor.”

  Dick sat back on the fluffy couch. He stroked his chin with the money in one hand, and took another sip of his beer with the other. The joint burned on between his middle and third fingers. He was like a one-man band, all the things he could do with his hands at the same time. What Fat Sam was saying could be true. The girl had smiled at him a few times already. She could want him.

  “I don’t know, Sammy.”

  “Why not? Just go ahead. She’s in there, waiting for you. It’s all in fun, anyway.” Sam took a mighty toke on the joint, then held his breath, letting all that good smoke seep into whatever was left of his brain.

  Dick stopped. “You know what? Nah. I mean, are we in business here? This is a business, right?”

  Sam let the breath out, and laughed, a short, rasping bark.

  “You’re too much, bro. Too fucking much.”

  Dick laid the money on the table. He’d have to start over again, the next time he got straight enough to think. The way things were going, there was no telling when that would be. He got up to use the bathroom. There was a heaviness in his bladder that hadn’t been there a minute before. Chili stood in the doorway to the bedroom now. Her nipples thrust from the ends of her firm young breasts, practically poking holes through the belly shirt. She had her hands behind her back and a shy grin on her face. She was a beauty, all right.

  Dick had to figure out a way to get rid of her.

  “Your eyes are so blue,” she said. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like a movie actor?”

  “James Dean,” he said. “But bigger. That’s what they usually tell me.”

  She frowned. “James Dean? I don’t know…”

  “I think he was before your time.”

  He went into the bathroom and shut the door.

  At that moment, the doorbell rang. It was loud, and Dick could still hear its echo for several seconds afterward. The house had become awfully quiet since Sam turned the music down.

  Chili squealed on the other side of the door. “That must be the pizza. Sammy, can you get it? I’m not decent.”

  “Yeah, babe,” Sam said. His voice moved away. “Let me just grab a beer.”

  Dick stood in front of the toilet and let out a long, steady line of urine. It was good to be alone in the bathroom with the house finally quiet. He noticed the tension in his neck and shoulders. There was tightness all down his back. He and Sam had been going nonstop, ten hours, twelve hours, every day. Working too hard. Maybe he needed some time away. Hawaii. Yeah, that was what the doctor ordered.