Slow Fall Read online

  “You're hurting me.”

  “Amy, please, just let me t-t-talk to you.”

  “I don't want to talk to you. There's nothing to talk about.”

  “Please, Amy—”

  “Let—me—go.”

  Mark and Amy glanced up simultaneously as Pickett approached.

  Mark released her arm, and Amy dropped into the seat and slammed the door. She fired up the engine and threw it into reverse. Mark jumped back.

  “Amy! P-p-please—”

  The blue Volkswagen bolted, leaving a rubber scar on the hot asphalt.

  Mark stared at Pickett for a moment, wheeled around and headed for the Annex. Pickett got going just as the blue bug turned onto the main drive.

  He took the turn too fast for the suspension on his Nova, but recovered before hitting the median. He accelerated down Gateway to Heaven Drive.

  He looked back over his shoulder, through the hot rippled air above the parking lot. The white dome of the Temple of Glory writhed like a bald head in a fun house mirror.

  5

  He had a time with Amy's blue Volkswagen. It wasn't so much its speed as its abandon. She threw herself into the line of traffic with contempt, and careened between lanes with the arrogance of an eighteen wheeler, either sure of her immortality or suicidal.

  Possibly both.

  The blue bug shot through the I-4 underpass and east on 17-92. It cut a swath through the midday bustle that left irate shoppers and puzzled retirees in its wake. Pickett followed in a jangle of horns and blunt gestures. He was pulling around a large Ford station wagon when the Volkswagen swung off to the right.

  He put his foot to the floor. The automatic transmission down-shifted to second and the Nova accelerated across the prow of the Ford and a distraught young mother of two, barely making the turn and missing the steel and plastic signboard of the motel next door. The Nova thumped over several potholes, and skidded to a stop in the gravel parking lot of a donut shop.

  The Ford shot past in a flash of children's laughter.

  The Nova stalled. Pickett shook, clinging to the wheel to steady himself. He took a deep breath.

  A bronze Chrysler slid to a stop behind him, letting loose a horn like a freight train's. Pickett re-ignited the engine and backed into a space next to the blue Volkswagen. The front end bumped twice as it rolled in.

  A man emerged from the Chrysler and walked past Pickett's open window.

  “Got a flat, pal,” he chuckled, and walked inside.

  Pickett got out. His left front tire looked as though it had melted into the gravel. He looked up at a green signboard next to the highway that said, KRISPY KRUNCH DONUTS. Behind him, on the other side of a plate glass window, Amy talked to a woman behind a cash register.

  The woman, dressed in white, wore a funny little cap with something written on it in hospital green. The man from the Chrysler walked past Amy, the woman in white, and pushed himself up onto a stool at the other end of the counter. He buried his head in the menu.

  Pickett rolled a fresh tire to the front of his car, popped the hubcap off the dead one, loosened the wheel nuts, and pumped the jack. He glanced back over his shoulder at the plate glass window.

  Krispy Krunch Donuts was made of plate glass—that and a shoe box shell of white cinder block. A counter fronted by fixed, round stools ran its length. Amy stood, her weight on one foot, her elbows at her side, palms upturned moving as if juggling hot potatoes. She was having trouble getting what she wanted from the woman in white. Impatiently, the woman listened, with an occasional nervous glance at the man from the Chrysler who sat four stools away.

  He studied the menu as if it were his last will and testament.

  The woman in white finally tired of whatever Amy was dishing out. She slammed her hands down on the counter and leaned into Amy loud enough that a few words made it through the plate glass.

  “Who do you think you are… Where do you get off…”

  Amy's shoulders dropped, her hands fell to her sides. She wheeled around while the woman in white still spoke, and fled through the door into the parking lot. She threw herself into the blue beetle and slammed the door.

  Pickett finished tightening the wheel nuts, and rolled the flat back to the trunk. Amy was rigid as he passed. She stared blankly through the windshield, cheeks glistening.

  Pickett slammed the trunk closed.

  Amy turned. Her eyes focused in recognition. She opened her mouth, thought better of it, fired up the engine and slammed the bug into reverse. Without looking back, she popped the transmission into first and hit the gas hard enough to machine-gun the Krispy Krunch Donut sign with gravel.

  Before he could move, a stubby elbow flattened Pickett against his Nova.

  “Outta the way, pal.”

  Pickett turned to see the man roll into the bronze Chrysler and pull out of the driveway after Amy.

  As he slid into the Nova, he glanced back over his shoulder into the donut shop. The woman in white stared down at the counter. Now, she was alone.

  #

  The drive was easy compared to the one that morning. The bronze Chrysler would have been hard to miss even without the blue vapor trail. Pickett stayed well behind it, changing lanes frequently to avoid the Chrysler's rear-view mirror. He only caught an occasional glance of Amy's VW.

  He followed the Chrysler through town past the 5-and-10, DeLeon Building, and Otley's Rexall. The beetle turned right onto Magnolia, and the Chrysler pulled up at the corner. Pickett drove past, averting his head.

  The man from the Chrysler loped down Magnolia on foot.

  Pickett took the next right, and then the next; he pulled to the curb before reaching Magnolia. A concrete pillar on the corner said, HIBISCUS DRIVE.

  Pickett walked to the corner of Hibiscus and Magnolia, and turned right toward Main.

  Large oaks grew at regular intervals on both sides of the street. Their branches met, creating a cave-like channel from which depended stalactites of Spanish moss. Magnolia Drive flowed beneath like a slow black river.

  The street was empty. Pickett continued toward Main.

  There was no curb, only a shoulder of sandy grey dirt that merged into the front lawn of small stucco bungalows. Vaguely Spanish, with arched windows and red tile roofs, they rose behind the elephant ears, Spanish bayonets, and hibiscus shrubs that surrounded them like parts of the landscape. Fresh paint couldn't hide their rotting sashes and sagging porches. Mission Revival the architects called it; Boom Day Bungalows was the local's term—from the twenties, when land and labor were cheap, and when everyone North and East of Virginia was going to be a millionaire by thirty, buy a Sunshine State dream home, and retire. Developers were ready for them, but they never came—at least not for another thirty years, and none were millionaires.

  The sharp slap of a screen door broke the silence. An engine spluttered to life. The blue VW pulled out of a driveway on the next block and swerved down Magnolia in the opposite direction.

  Pickett stepped quickly around a large oak back towards his car. His foot caught. He fell face first into the dirt. He scrambled to his feet with a mouth full of sand, and whirled around into the muzzle of a small black automatic.

  The man from the bronze Chrysler held it. He was a head shorter than Pickett, but twice as wide and better armed.

  “This jus aint your day is it, pal?” He flashed a smile made to sell toothpaste.

  The scars of adolescence pitted his face. He dusted off Pickett's jacket with his free hand, and patted Pickett's lapel. Then, still smiling, he grabbed Pickett's jacket, jerked him forward, and stuck the automatic under Pickett's chin. The smile disappeared.

  “Now, pal—” The man thrust his face toward Pickett's. “-- who the hell are you and what the fuck you think you're doing?”

  Tiny blue veins latticed his red nose.

  “Gas company. Florida Gas and Electric.” Pickett smiled. “I read meters.”

  The man pushed the pistol deeper into Pickett's neck.<
br />
  “All right, I lied. I'm not with the gas company. I'm a nuclear physicist.”

  The man's eyes narrowed, and he peered at Pickett's, as if trying to read his mind.

  Pickett shrugged, still smiling. “I split atoms.”

  The man from the Chrysler frowned; then his eyes flickered nervously, and he almost smiled. “Yeah?”

  Bodie Picket smiled blandly back at him.

  Releasing Pickett's lapel and making a show of smoothing it, the man from the Chrysler relaxed, and laughed. The gun moved to Pickett's stomach.

  “Shit, that's pretty good.” He laughed again at what he took to be the other man's joke. But the smile froze on his face. “You say your name was what, funny man?”

  “Bohr, Niels Bohr.”

  “Yeah?” He loosened up again. “Well, Bohr, since you's a nuculer whachamacallit, you aint got no business with this here girl, do you?”

  Pickett smiled broadly, his lips tightly closed. He raised his eyebrows in response.

  The man from the Chrysler set his chin and leaned forward, jamming the gun deeper into Pickett's stomach. “Right?”

  Pickett coughed then said: “Would you repeat the question?”

  And the man from the Chrysler buried a heavy fist into Pickett's abdomen. Pickett dropped to his knees, his mouth and eyes open wide, unable to suck in air. The man grabbed the shoulder of Pickett's jacket and pulled him to his feet.

  “Now, you don't have to worry none bout that girl, do you?” There was real humor in his face now, and not the slightest trace of nervousness in his eyes. “Do you?”

  Pickett's long face swung to the side and back in answer.

  The man from the Chrysler released his jacket. “There, you see? We aint got no problem.” He chuckled.

  Pickett's legs buckled. The man from the Chrysler put the cold metal to Pickett's temple, bent over to pat Pickett's pockets.

  “Now Bohr—boring Bohr—I don't expect to see you again anyplace. Ever. Got me?” He pulled car keys from Pickett's coat pocket. “Got it, Bohr?”

  Pickett's head swung from side to side again. He coughed up dirt and blood. A string of pink spittle hung from his mouth.

  The man from the Chrysler laughed—from the belly this time.

  “Jus aint your day.” He dropped the automatic into his pocket and walked away from Pickett. “Boring Bohr…” He laughed at his joke, and headed back to Main. The man from the Chrysler reached the corner and tossed Pickett's car keys into a clump of Spanish bayonets, then disappeared around the corner. He was whistling.

  Pickett coughed up more sandy blood. He felt his ribs, stood up, and fell back against the trunk of a live oak, his face crumpled in pain. He closed his eyes, and opened his mouth, breathing deeply. When he stood the next time, his legs held. He walked slowly to the Nova. He leaned against the door, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out a soft leather wallet. From it he pulled an ignition key.

  Pickett drove slowly back to Main, and as slowly the three miles to Belle Haven Memorial. He turned into the parking lot, and stopped mid-lane. He closed his eyes, lips pursed, and exhaled. When his chin rose, however, it was set forward; when his eyes opened, they were narrow and hard, their hazel centers glowing yellow in the dusky light. Pickett dropped the transmission into reverse, and the Nova curved back out onto the street, leaning into the curve, dragging its tires, screaming, across the asphalt. He swung back onto main. He drove back into town.

  The Nova lurched to a stop in front of the 5-and-10. The suspension creaked as Pickett wrenched at the parking brake. He remained before the wheel, his lips bunched, his brow knit; then he pushed himself into the street and walked, shoulders slightly hunched over his damaged stomach, to the glass door that said, J. B. PICKETT/ATTORNEY AT LAW, and up the stairs of the DeLeon Building, and to his father's office. And the pint of Jim Beam 90 proof that he found, without a search, behind volume 2 of Mackelson's Florida Tort.

  6

  The window was dark when the phone rang. Bodie Pickett, his chest bare, lay on the waiting room sofa, a bruise the size of a softball emblazoned on his stomach. Two fingers of whiskey balanced there in a Dixie cup.

  He reached the desk and the phone after six rings.

  “Yeah, who is it?… Oh, hi. How are—. . . No. No, it's okay, I should've called first.… Well, sorry I missed you anyway.… Uh-huh, yeah. Some other time maybe.… Yeah? Well… Uh-uh.… Sure, if you think so, that'd be just fine.… Eight-thirty'd be fine too.… Sure.… Uh-huh, yeah, me too.… Right. See you then.”

  He hung up.

  A fresh shirt, a cup of Otley's coffee, and 30 minutes later, the white Nova rumbled over the short one lane bridge that spanned the Lake Anna canal, and turned right at a sign that said, PRIVATE DRIVE. It went for another hundred yards through a tangle of tropical foliage before it pulled into the circular drive of a pink stucco mansion. It rolled to a stop before a pair of massive mahogany doors.

  A white-coated Cuban appeared from the shadows and slid into the front seat as Pickett climbed out. The Nova and the white-coated Cuban disappeared through an opening in the profuse plantings that surrounded the house.

  Pickett stood in the middle of the drive for a moment, looking at the Spanish stone work that framed the windows on each of the three stories. Wrought iron filigree covered the windows. He put a set of long fingers to his stomach, and pressed gently against the white shirt. In response, he squinted with his left eye, bringing the left corner of his mouth up toward it. Pickett brushed at the sleeve of his blue-grey seersucker suit, pulled his open-necked shirt collar over the lapel of his jacket, and, with a sigh, launched himself toward the door before him, his shadow lengthening over the gravel drive as he approached it.

  He climbed the steps and raised his hand to the knocker. He paused looked at his watch, put the watch to his ear, then struck the door once with the wrought iron knocker.

  The door immediately opened.

  “Bo, old friend!” The Reverend Edmund Ayers lit his whole-life smile and pumped Pickett's right hand with both of his own. “It's so good to see you again.”

  Pickett smiled in return, and, after four pumps, tried to retrieve his hand. Edmund held on.

  He pulled Pickett through the front door and into a formal entryway. The murmur of a room full of people drifted down the hall.

  “I'm so sorry about this morning.” Deep concern etched Brother Ed's face.Pickett smiled: “Yeah?”

  “Yes, well, that is, I mean that I hope Tom didn't, well, put you off too much. He can do that.”

  The Reverend Edmund Ayers laughed a hearty laugh. It sounded forced.

  “He's, well, a man of few words, as they say.” He looked at Pickett, the good humor became wariness. “And a bit… Over protective sometimes.”

  Pickett said nothing.

  “I mean he… protects my time, you know, makes sure I get places, that my car's ready… That sort of thing. You know.”

  Pickett looked at Brother Ed as if he hadn't the slightest idea what the Reverend was talking about, but that it was okay by him. Edmund still looked concerned.

  “Look,” said Pickett, “it's okay. Don't worry about it.”

  Brother Ed apparently wanted to:

  “Tom works for Matt, really. Matt Cheatham, our business manager.”

  “Ah.” Pickett said it as if the name meant something to him.

  Brother Ed seemed encouraged: “He's the real financial brains behind all this—Matt is, I mean. The Lord provides, my boy, he provides, but you need to take care of it.”

  Brother Ed laughed. It was supposed to be good-hearted, but sounded embarrassed.

  “Matt's done amazing things, made it all possible in many ways.”

  Pickett waited, but Edmund didn't count the ways. Edmund seemed to find the silence awkward. His smile drooped.

  “We're all so sorry about your father—” His blue eyes became liquid. “-- so very sorry.” He looked mournfully at the bridge of Pickett's nose. “I didn't know h
im well, of course, but I understand he was a troubled man.”

  “He was a drunk, Ed.”

  “Huh? Well, yes, and we shall all miss him. Very, very much. There are travails and temptations for all souls in this world, but—”

  “Ed, he's dead.”

  “Uh—what? Oh, yes, I know—I know he's dead. I just wanted to say… Well, `the Lord giveth—'“

  “Look, he was a drunk for twenty years, and if he didn't shoot himself, he would've eventually.” Pickett closed the door, deliberately not slamming it. “He's dead, that's it. And to tell you the truth, I don't know if I'm sorry or glad—but I don't believe for a minute that anybody else is too broken up over it. So cut the crap, Ed, I've had a rough day.”

  The Reverend Edmund Ayers looked hurt, the fat little rich kid nobody liked, but who was put up with for his toys. A second later Brother Ed had rearranged his face, a grownup again.

  “Ah, Bo,” he laughed, “Bo, Bo, Bo. . . You're pulling my leg aren't you? You never were one for sentiment.”

  He slapped Pickett on the back again—not as though he wanted to, but as though one were supposed to. Pickett winced; Brother Ed pretended not to notice and smiled, sagely.

  “Still the cynic, huh? Some day, Bo—some day you'll see. There's more under God's blue sky than doom and gloom.”

  He hung an arm over Pickett's shoulder and guided him down the large paneled hall, past an arrangement of multicolored cut flowers and a black maid with a doily on her head.

  The maid was apparently awaiting Pickett's coat. Pickett didn't have one. The maid smiled, as if to say that no sane man would carry one in this climate anyway, but it was a living. Brother Ed smiled back.

  “Thank you, Annie.”

  “Yessir, Mister Edmund.” Then she curtsied.

  Pickett nodded his head in appreciation. Brother Ed urged Pickett toward the door at the end of the hall.

  “Come on in. There're some people I want you to meet.”

  Pickett pressed gently at his stomach as Edmund ushered him into a large rectangular room filled with people. One side of the room was glass, revealing an illumined flagstone patio and an impressive expansive of lawn. Stepping stones, like the footprints of some great amphibian, meandered down the lawn to a large dock and bathes silhouetted against a grey-blue lake.