Walter Mosley - The Long Fall

While paying close attention to my every word, the detective still had the concentration to take a cigarette from a pack in his vest pocket. He picked up a lighter from the table.

“What was this detective’s name?”

He set fire to the cigarette. My nostrils widened, pulling in the aroma. I hadn’t had a cigarette in ten months and I missed them every single day.

“No names,” I said, “remember?”

“Okay. What do you have?”

“Toolie’s real name is Theodore Nilson. He’s doing eighty-six years upstate for aggravated assault.”

“Eighty-six years?”

“Ain’t that a bitch? Poor kid gets his day in court with a defense attorney just outta college and the judge gives him triple-time just for being stupid.

“Jumper’s name is Frank Tork. Frankie’s in the Tombs right now awaiting trial on B and E.”

Thurman was staring hard at me, submitting my words to memory. I wasn’t worried about being cheated; the money was on the table. The only problem I had was finishing the list.

“Big Jim was born, and died, under the name James Wright. He succumbed to complications from a hot spike on the same day that we invaded Iraq for the second time. I don’t know if the two had anything to do with each other—the heroin could have come from Afghanistan.”

I stopped there, inhaling the secondhand smoke as best I could.

“And B-Brain?” the detective asked when he could see that I was stuck.

The question tightened my eyes.

“B-Brain was the hard part,” I said, stalling now with superfluous information. “He had no record and so didn’t have a floater file in the police records. The other three had other friends. There was a gu CTheHe y named Thom Paxton who they called Smiles, and a girl, there’s always a girl, named Georgiana Pineyman. She called B-Brain Pops for some reason. Georgiana was Smiles’ girlfriend from September to June, but she hung with Pops in the summer because Smiles went away with his family during school break.

“I got it all right here,” I said, taking a thick envelope from my jacket pocket.

“B-Brain’s real name is in there?” the upstate detective asked.

“Yeah.”

Ambrose put out his cigarette and smiled. He lit up another and, taking a deep breath, I sucked up as much of the smoke as I could.

“You know this is just a normal job, don’t you, Leonid?” he said. “It’s not cloak-and-dagger. The client is known to me.”

“Uh-huh.”

At that moment Thurman proved that he was a shrewd judge of human nature. He offered me a cigarette. I really needed one right then. He lit me up and I was genuinely grateful.

Handing me the pack, he said, “Keep ’em. There’s some matches in the cellophane.”

I traded the history of four troubled young men’s lives for nine filterless Camels and eight red-tipped matches.

Ê€„

8

Igot back to my street, a block east of Riverside Drive, at a few minutes past eleven. Katrina was at the door before I could get my key out of the lock.

Her presence annoyed me. In all the years of our less than loving marriage Katrina never waited up. She didn’t want kisses or make overtures for sex. She never asked how I was doing or when I was coming back home. She maintained the house and looked after her children and mine. We had a balance, a home life that I could follow like a German train schedule.

“Leonid,” she said, putting her arms around me, kissing my cheek.

She was wearing a frilly pink nightgown and lime-green slippers. Katrina maintained most of the beauty that she’d generated for Zool. She’d put on a few pounds but didn’t look anywhere near her fifty-one years. Her green eyes were actually luminescent.

“I was worried,” she said. She had a slight Swedish accent, which was a little odd since she was born in Queens and, even though her parents were Scandinavian immigrants, they hailed from Minnesota.

“I come home late two nights out of three,” I said, moving away from the embrace. “What are you worried about?”

“You didn’t call.”

“I never call.”

“But you should. I was worried.”

She followed me down the hall to the dining room. I sat at the table, not knowing what to do in a house where I felt both welcomed and alienated.

“You want me to heat you something?” my bride asked.

Katrina could make anything in the kitchen, and it always tasted great. Even those years when we lived separately together she made a good dinner seven nights a week.

“What you got?” I asked.

“French beef, with those wide noodles you like.”

“Red wine sauce?”

“Of course.”

I nodded because I hadn’t eaten.

“I’ll get the children,” she said.

“It’s late, Katrina,” I complained.

“Children must respect their father,” she said, bustling off down the corridor that led to the bedrooms.

We had a big prewar apartment, more than large enough for our family of five. I had my own den, the kids each had a bedroom, and the rent never went up. The landlord and Katrina had an arrangement. I never asked what that was. I never cared.

In the momentary solitude, Roger Brown came to mind. I hadn’t even met him but still I sold his name for the money bulging in my breast pocket. I tried to convince myself that this wasn’t like the people I’d bushwhacked in the old days. It was just a job. Roger would probably thank me, or maybe he’d get a call from his old friend’s parents and politely decline the invitation.

“Hi, Dad,” Shelly said. She entered the room from the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

Shelly had dark olive skin and almond eyes, in shape and color. She didn’t look like me in the slightest but that didn’t keep her from expressing a daughter’s love. She hugged my head and kissed my cheek. Shelly had been a daddy’s girl since she was a baby. I loved her, after a fashion, even though we didn’t have much in common.

“How are you?” she asked. There was still sleep in her eyes. She wore a T-shirt and jeans thrown on quickly in her haste to welcome me home.

“Workin’ hard,” I said. “Just finished a case tonight.”

“We should celebrate. You want me to make you a martini?”

It was the one thing she could do that I enjoyed.

“Sure, babe.”< K“SuI e/font>

As Shelly ran off toward the kitchen, Dimitri rumbled in. He was a shade or two lighter than I, with my body type but taller. He was brooding and heavy-handed. Dimitri was my blood, you could see it in every aspect of his personality and demeanor.

“Hey, boy.”

He grunted and sat in the chair furthest from me.

“How’s college?” I asked, intent on engaging him.

“I need my sleep.”

“I know. Your mother seems to think that we have to eat together no matter when I get home.”

“I already ate,” he complained. “I was in bed at nine.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Really.”

The apology got me another grunt.

I wasn’t angry at the sullen junior. He didn’t like me, but he was my son and I would be a father to him no matter how he felt.

“Hey, Pop,” the youngest of the brood said.

He was standing in the doorway smiling and easygoing. Twill was a handsome teenager. Dark-skinned, he was sixteen but could have passed for twenty-one easily.

“Twilliam,” I said, saluting.

“You work too hard, Pops. If they paid you by the hour you’d make minimum wage look good.”

He took the seat next to me and slugged my shoulder.

“How’s school?”

“I got passing grades and my teachers are just about trained good.”

“You makin’ it to class?”

“Yes sir. Almost every day.”