The Falling Man Read online

  Good God. His skull was cracked, he was sure of it. It was Christmas Eve Day, he had a fractured skull, and the phone was ringing.

  He picked up the receiver. “Hello?” With his free hand he rubbed his temples.

  “Dick. I want you to know something. Okay? You think you can treat me like shit because of how I am. But you can’t. You can’t leave me sitting by the telephone all fucking night. You can’t do it, okay? You can’t do it.”

  Oh, shit. Desiree.

  “Desiree, look…”

  “No, you look.”

  Desiree went on and Dick tuned it out. The voice was sultry, deep, almost masculine. He pictured the person it belonged to. Desiree Milan, a transvestite, a transsexual, a tweener, Dick didn’t know what Desiree called herself and didn’t really care. She had a dick and thought she was a woman. She dressed like a woman, and she looked like a woman – a beautiful black woman. It was a crazy situation. She was a convict like him, but she was a mess, and he was trying to help her. That was all. He was trying to get her some skills so she could keep a job and stay out of the joint. The joint was a bad place for people like Desiree. Dick had seen it. The thought of it made him cringe. Jesus. They passed the Desirees around like candy.

  He was supposed to have met Desiree for a drink the night before, a date he had meant to keep and had evidently missed.

  “Desiree,” he began again.

  “Fuck you, Dick.”

  The phone clicked off. Desiree was gone. In a moment, that loud, annoying buzzing sound would start. He didn’t think he could stand it. Somehow, he managed to get the phone back onto the hook.

  He looked out the window. The snow was still falling, giant grayish flakes floating slowly past his window onto the fire escape. The window was open a crack, and from outside came the quiet of snow piling on snow. Somewhere below, a car passed by with chains on its tires. Usually there was noise, any time of day or night. He had grown used to it. The quiet was unnerving.

  He closed his eyes and tried his best to melt back into the pillow. But now that he was awake, the pain would not let him rest. He needed to get up, at least to take some aspirin and drink water. A sudden spike of pain pierced his head, and with every beat of his heart, the spike was driven deeper toward the base of his skull. He tried to piece together the events of last night. But nothing would come.

  “Shit,” he said.

  He was sprawled across the mattress, fully dressed, as if dumped there. He had one shoe on. He sat up again, more slowly this time. Then he gathered his strength and stood. When he glanced at the clock, he wasn’t surprised to discover that it was already past noon. Out the window he could see the street three floors below. The gray streets were blanketed in white. It was a peaceful scene.

  Everything was okay.

  Slowly, he undressed, right down to the skin.

  It was a thousand degrees in that room. New York heat, the kind that makes you open your windows when it’s ten degrees outside. The kind of heat he didn’t need, with his cottonmouth and his pounding headache and trembling hands. He dressed in sweatpants, put on a jacket, boots, and went out into the street. He was hungry. He wanted a bagel, milk and juice, and also some painkillers. Tylenol. Advil. Whatever was extra-strength. He headed along his street, a street of old industrial buildings, shuffling his feet through the thick snowfall. Then he noticed his car. It was a big gold Oldsmobile from years gone by. It was parked in a tow-away zone, in front of a small factory. The front end stuck out a good four feet from the curb, and the rear end was practically on the sidewalk.

  He didn’t remember driving the car. He didn’t remember coming home.

  He walked over to it. The street was deserted in every direction, and it was a good thing that it was. The front passenger side window was smashed in. Blood stained the yellow seat.

  His heart added a counter rhythm to the pounding in his head. He caught himself and leaned against the side of the car. He closed his eyes and an image came to him. He was running through deep snow in a forest, running between the trees. He tripped and fell, and then he was falling through the sky, his arms frantically pin-wheeling.

  When he opened his eyes, he was sitting in the snow by the side of the car. His head rested against the quarter-panel, his hands rested on his knees. The snow had soaked through his sweatpants. That was what had awakened him. He looked around. No one. The windows of the warehouses and factories were dark. Everywhere the late afternoon shadows deepened. He was alone. Suppose the snow hadn’t awakened him? It was cold out, and now he was chilled. It would be a shame to freeze to death across the street from his home.

  “Better get moving.” He wasn’t sure if he said it or thought it.

  Very slowly, using the side of the car for balance, he stood up. He swayed, gave himself half a minute, and made sure he had his balance. He reached into the car, unlocked the door and opened it. It looked like someone had punched the window and cut their hand on the glass. He glanced uneasily at his own hands. The knuckles on his right hand were scraped raw. Now that he thought about it, his wrist was sore.

  I punched the window out. I’ve done that before. No problem.

  But it was a problem. It scared him. At that moment, everything scared him. He was badly spooked. Absently, he popped open the trunk. There was a blanket in there. Maybe he could duct tape it over the window – at least stop the snow from coming in.

  Something else was in the trunk. It was so big, he didn’t even see it at first. He tried lifting it out of his way, moving it, pushing it – but it was too damned heavy. Finally, he looked at it. It was wrapped in two green garbage bags, one going north, the other south. It was long and doubled over in order to fit in the car. He stared at it for a full minute. It was a body.

  The thought gave him the nastiest sort of shock. Electricity thrummed through him, as though the current came up from the ground. His scalp itched; he was sure his hair was standing on end. Around the neighborhood, the buildings seemed to laugh, their darkened windows like eyes. He stood there, breath pouring from his mouth.

  Maybe she isn’t dead. Maybe she’s just been hurt very bad, and needs a doctor.

  Of course he didn’t believe it. That body was wrapped up nice and tight, ready for deposit. Without looking, he knew the body was dead, just as surely as he knew who it was before he had seen anything to indicate the identity. It was a murder, and he knew too much about it when he shouldn’t have known anything. His memory was a blank slate, and yet he knew.

  “Dot,” he said, and his voice came out small and shaky. He heard it, and it did not sound like him.

  He had to make sure. He reached for the plastic bag. It was fastened with duct tape, probably his own. It took him a few minutes to get it untied, working with numb hands in the cold. When the bag opened, blonde hair spilled out at the top. Dick glanced around one last time, assuring himself no one was around. He pulled the head out, got a look at the face, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  Dot’s eyes were wide open, staring. In death, she looked surprised, as if she didn’t expect to see him there. In the painful days that had just passed, he had thought often about getting back at her, about hurting her somehow. In his darkest hours, he had even been angry enough to… what? To kill her?

  Dick’s mind hurtled backwards, fifteen years into the past. A small man sat in the middle of an empty warehouse, bound hand and foot to a chair. His eyes gaped in terror. He shook his head, he moaned, he cried.

  “Don’t do this,” he said. “Don’t do this fucking thing.”

  “Gimme that fucking gun,” Dick said. He took the gun and pressed it to the man’s head. No hesitation. No sound. Every line etched clean, in a circle of bright white light. He pulled the trigger and…

  …stood alone on this empty street in Brooklyn, with this body stuffed inside the trunk of his car.

  Holy shit, he had trouble.

  *

  Things had happened fast with Dot.

  Too fast, Dick reflected now on the couch from which, hours later, he stared out at the blinking Christmas lights of the surrounding buildings. He grimaced and didn’t know he was doing it. The lights out there were supposed to give the windows – indeed, the whole neighborhood – a festive air, but somehow they made everything even more dismal. Despite his predicament, he could barely keep his eyes open. Sharp flashes of pain lit up his skull like lightning on the horizon line. He still felt like vomiting. Afternoon had given way to evening, and Dick was no closer to an answer. Dot was dead. In his car. Out in front of this very building. He had left her there. He had taped some cardboard and plastic sheeting over the broken window, but that was all he had done. That was all he could bring himself to do.

  Had he killed her? Any homicide detective in any interrogation room in the country would say he had reason enough. But he couldn’t remember.

  All his life, since he was a teenager, strange women had taken him to bed. It wasn’t that he had a way with them. He didn’t dress especially nice. He didn’t try to charm them. He often didn’t know what to say. He just liked them – women in general – and he let them do all the talking. So it never came as a surprise when he ended up with any woman. Which meant that one question he didn’t ask himself was why his boss had any interest in him.

  Of course, Dick was nervous that first morning – the day the BreakOut Program had sent him to interview at Feldman Real Estate. Normally, he was a late sleeper. But that day, a Monday, he was up with the sun. Half a dozen times, he decided not to go. It was his first job interview since the time he got the supermarket job as a kid, when they didn’t really interview him but sort of gave him the once over to see if he had a pulse or not, and asked him when he could start. He knew this would be different.

  He paced throu
gh his apartment, up and down and all around. Finally, he got dressed and walked through the bustling streets of Williamsburg to the office in Greenpoint. He got there on time, but she made him wait forty-five minutes in her outer office until she let him in to see her. He had bought a new tie for the occasion and it had taken him half an hour to actually tie it. Now he was sitting there on the couch with the damn thing strangling him. Again, he fought with himself. One minute, he was leaving without another word. The next minute he was staying and toughing it out. He must have looked like a yo-yo, the way he kept standing up as though he would leave, then changing his mind, and making a circuit around the waiting room. He pretended he had some interest in the cheesy paintings and photographs that hung framed on the walls. At one point, he got it in his head, maybe he should steal something before he left. Only there was nothing to steal except the paintings.

  Finally, a young woman poked her head into the room. “Mr. Miller?”

  “Yes?”

  “Ms. Racine will see you now.”

  The woman brought him down to the boss’ office and, of course, through his fog he noticed her skirt. He noticed these sorts of things. The skirt was short and she had some fine legs. She had black hair and big dark eyes. She smiled at him, but it seemed kind of a shy smile. He enjoyed watching her walk. It took his mind off the nervousness.

  “And your name?” he said as she dropped him off.

  “I’m Lydia.”

  He stuck out his hand for a gentle shake. “Well Lydia, I’m very pleased to have met you. I hope we’ll be able to work together.”

  The boss was behind a big desk when Dick came in. She was on the phone, but gestured to a small wooden chair in front of the desk. He sat down, and the chair was too low. He was barely at eye level with the desk itself, never mind the boss, who seemed to tower over him. This was a standard trick, and Dick knew it already. Put someone in a small chair and make them look up to you. Whatever. Dick wouldn’t succumb to feeling small. He stood as she hung up the phone.

  “You can sit,” she said.

  “That’s all right. I like to stand.”

  “Okay. That sounds like fun. Let’s both stand.”

  She came around the desk and leaned against it. She looked good. She must have been older than him, but it was hard to tell. She could have been younger. Her skirt – part of a skirt and jacket ensemble – was even shorter than the one on the woman who had let Dick in. A little higher and there was no reason to bother wearing it. She had a lot of ass packed into that skirt. Her high heels put her an inch or two over five feet. Her fingernails were long and red, and her long hair hung down in blonde curls. Her look alone probably put a lot of men on the defensive.

  “I need a good typist,” she said. “And they tell me you’re about as good a typist as there is. Ninety words a minute – that’s impressive. You learned to do that in prison?”

  Dick shrugged. “I was always a good typist. I just got caught up in other things.”

  “Well, we’re trying something new, being good corporate citizens by going with the BreakOut program. But I’ll tell you what I don’t need here, and that’s a felon committing crimes or causing problems in my workplace.”

  Dick waited a moment before responding. He gave his next words some thought. “Have you ever smoked pot?” he said at last.

  The question poked a hole through her act. She smiled. She held her thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart. “Maybe this much.”

  “Even though it’s against the law?”

  She raised her eyebrows. Shrugged.

  “Has it harmed you in any way?” he said.

  She seemed to enjoy back-pedaling from him. “Can’t say that it has.”

  “Ever think about the guy who sold it to you? The risks he’s taking?”

  “I have to admit, I never gave it much thought.”

  Dick smiled. “I was performing a public service. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “You’re hired,” she said. “Call me Dot.”

  A few weeks passed and then it was early October. By that time, any positive early feeling had faded. Dick was just hanging around, hoping to survive until Christmas. After that, he was going to think about getting a little something going. Jail be damned. Working nine to five, chained to a desk, was its own sort of jail, with the added detraction that once inside, it got its grip. It started looking like a life sentence. The options seemed to shrink away to nothing.

  Then the funny thing happened, and Dick’s plans changed.

  One day, he had just typed up about twenty pages of documents. He did it fast and clean on the computer. He even spell-checked it. He went in Dot’s office to hand it to her. She looked up as he came in.

  “You finished those already?”

  “Nothing to it.”

  “How are they?”

  “Done. Clean. Perfect.”

  She leaned back in her chair and Dick caught a glimpse of her skirt behind the desk. She had some legs.

  Dick turned to go.

  “Dick?”

  He stopped and looked back at her.

  “Can you shut the door a minute?”

  He shut the door.

  She looked over the top of reading glasses at him. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look just like James Dean?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “but bigger.”

  “I have a meeting today,” she said, “but do you want to have lunch tomorrow? It’s on me.”

  The next day they left the office early, 11:30, to beat the noontime rush. Dot drove them in her Lexus five minutes south into Williamsburg and pulled up in front of a nice-looking brownstone. There was a garage on the side and the door opened automatically.

  “This is the place,” Dot said.

  Inside her house, Dick took a moment to drink in the stylish luxury of the living room. The hardwood floors, the original art on the walls.

  “So Dot,” he said. “What’s on the menu?”

  She was already unzipping her dress down the back.

  “You are,” she said.

  *

  On the night before Christmas, some creatures were stirring.

  “Nobody ever dies,” Nestor Garcia said.

  He said it even though his antennae were twitching like crazy. He said it because death was on his mind. He said it because it just slipped out. He wouldn’t normally share information like this. Maybe he was pre-occupied – so many things were happening these days.

  The two men looked at him. The skinny one stood by the bar mixing up some drinks. The fat one sat on the couch across from Nestor. A fat one and a skinny one, Nestor thought, how lovely. Behind the two of them, a floor to ceiling window revealed a south-facing cityscape from forty stories up. The lights dazzled Nestor. He loved views like this. He loved a city like this – New York City – glittering like countless jewels in the darkness. Dozens of blocks away, the Empire State Building glimmered in red and green lights for the Christmas season. They could be in a helicopter up here – they owned the city. Nestor wanted a view to rival this one. He wanted this view. The view from his place was good. But it wasn’t this… panorama. It seemed somehow unfair that these silly men had this view and he did not.

  “Nobody ever dies?” the fat one said. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

  Nestor regarded the fat man and debated not saying anything. The fat man wore a three-piece suit and a silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. The man appeared to be sweating. How could you explain something so… complex… to a man like this?

  Nestor didn’t trust either of these men. Instinct told him something was wrong here. “It’s just something I read about,” he said with a shrug. “Modern science.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Atom theory. If you fire an atom at a wall, and you force it to choose between one way to go and another way, it doesn’t choose. Instead, it simply becomes two atoms and goes both ways. We are made of these things called atoms. This makes some scientists think that perhaps no one ever dies. They think that every time a decision is made, every time an event can go one way or another way, it doesn’t have to choose. Instead, it goes both ways. If I shoot you and you die, perhaps there is another place, another reality where I miss. Or where I didn’t shoot you at all.”