The Long Fall

“Eighteen months ago I strayed with a little Asian girl named Annie,” Tim said. “It didn’t last long. It was like a forty-eight-hour bug. I was in Atlantic City for a seminar and she was staying in the hotel.

“She came up to see me in the city a few times but I was over her by then and looking for a way to cut it off. Finally I just told her that I loved my wife and that was it.”

“How’d she take it?”

“Pretty good.” He nodded. “Pretty okay. She looked sad but said that she understood. She had a serious boyfriend and was feeling guilty herselfÓ€guilty h.”

“Is this Annie the one blackmailing you?”

“It’s a man that called. But she might be putting him up to it. He says that he’s got pictures. He knows where we stayed and specific details about things we, we did.” Moore hesitated a moment, remembering. “You see, I got this rich aunt that died—Mona Lester. I got a little cash out of it.”

“Did Annie know about the aunt?”

Tim squinted the way some inexperienced boxers do when you hit them with a solid body shot.

“In that first couple’a days I told her almost everything. I thought it was love. I didn’t know.”

“How much they want?”

“Twenty-five thousand.”

“How much you inherit?”

“Two hundred eighty-six thousand, but I thought it was gonna be closer to a million.”

“Doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Seems like they should have asked for more.”

“I don’t know,” Timothy Moore replied. “The guy on the phone said that he just needed enough to settle a debt he had. He wants me to bring the money to this condemned building on West Twenty-fourth tomorrow night.”

“Why don’t you go to the police? They could grab this guy, twist his arm, and go after the girl. That would be easy and legal.”

“Yeah.” He looked up at me with miserable eyes. “But then there might be an investigation and a trial. Margot would find out. All she’d care about was the affair. I don’t wanna lose my wife, brother.”

It’s always odd when a white man calls me brother, makes me wonder if he’s trying to put one over on me.

But he sounded honestly upset. There was pain there, but still . . . that stench of lilac and sweat.

“So what do want from me, Mr. Moore?”

“I’ll give you five thousand dollars,” he said, as if that was an answer to my question.

“For what?”

“You go to the meeting and get the lowdown on this guy. You tell him that you’re a witness and if he ever shows his face again you’ll go to the cops. Then give him some of the money, and you, you keep the rest. That way I’ll have paid for what I did wrong and, and I can go back to my life with Margot.”

He was near tears.

“How’d you hear about me?”Ó€ut me?”<

“Luke Nye,” he said. “Luke Nye said that you might agree to do a job like this.”

“How you know him?”

“Prescott Mimer. I used to tend bar for a friend of Prescott’s on the weekends—for some extra cash.”

“Who’s the friend?”

“What does all this have to do with what I’m asking for, Mr. McGill?”

“Answer my questions, all of my questions,” I said, “or walk out the same way you came in.”

“Karl Zebriski,” he said. “His bar used to be at Fortieth and Second, but now he has a place in the Lamont Towers near Columbus Circle.”

I was nervous listening to the poorly put-together man. On the one hand, he seemed to have real feelings, but on the other someone had tried to kill me once already that week.

Everything he said was reasonable. It could have well been the truth.

My life was on the line, more than one line, but that wasn’t going to give me a break on the rent; only prison did that, because even in death your plot is only leased.

“Give me a number where I can reach you,” I said, pushing a notepad across the desk. “I’ll call you in a few hours.”

“But I’ve got the money right here,” he said, holding up the briefcase.

“Keep it. I’ll call you later and we will see what we shall see at that time.”

There was an argument in his eyes but he could see that there was a brick wall behind mine. He scribbled down a number, nodded, and rose to his feet.

“I really need the help, brother,” he said.

“And I really will call you,” I replied.

Ê€„

42

Crow and Williams,” a young man answered. “How can I help you?”

“I’d like to speak to Timothy Moore, please.”

“Mr. Moore is out on personal business. Do you want to leave a message?”

I hung up.

I’d met Prescott Mimer before. He was a construction foreman who liked to hang out in wise-guy bars. I doubted that he’d recognize my voice, so I called him saying that I was a headhunter for office managers and was considering doing some work setting Timothy Moore up with a positioÖ€…n.

“He’s all right,” Mimer told me. “I never worked with him or anything. But he seems like a good guy. Did he give you my number for a reference?”

“No. Your name came up in a discussion with a gentleman named Luke Nye. I’m sorry to bother you.”

“That’s okay. It’s just that I can’t help you with his work habits or anything.”

“Is he married?”

“What’s that got to do with a job?”

“It’s an organic grain and cereal company from the Midwest,” I said. “Family business. They like a wholesome picture.”