The Long Fall (2 page)

Jimmy Coates knocks and then steps into Big and Bigger Jones’s office. It’s got a high stippled ceiling with exposed beams, hardwood floors with Navajo rugs, and a large picture window overlooking the main street of the Old Wild West Park. Dominating the center of the office is a long polished desk that looks like it’s been cut from a sequoia.

The Jones brothers stand up and wave him into a chair.

The brothers are twins who were born five minutes apart. The first was Big. The second was Bigger. From what Jimmy can see, they’ve managed to live up to their names. They look like massive balls of suet squeezed into identical soft gray Western-cut suits. They’re wearing matching gray Stetsons and monogrammed bolo ties. It looks like he’s interrupted snack time. Each of them’s holding a partially pillaged bag of Doritos.

“We appreciate you dropping by, Mr. Catz,” Big says.

“Coates,” Jimmy says. “The name’s Coates.”

Bigger slides over an open folder, and Big glances down and somehow manages to nod and shrug at the same time.

“It doesn’t appear you’ve been with us long,” Bigger says, tapping the file.

“One week and change,” Jimmy says. “You boys have something nice going here. We’ve been packing them in every day.”

“Families,” Big says. “It’s families who visit the Old Wild West.”

“Lots of families,” Bigger adds. “Families looking for family-type entertainment.”

“Families,” Jimmy says. “I’m with you so far, boys.”

Big squints at the file, then lifts his head. Jimmy finds it hard to make eye contact with either brother. Their eyes are small, the color of wet coffee grounds, and spaced wide and high in their faces. Even when you’re fronting them, it’s like they’re trying to look around you at something behind your back.

“While families are enjoying this family entertainment,” Big says, “they do not appreciate erratic or irresponsible behavior on the part of those providing the family entertainment.”

“Look,” Jimmy says, “if you’re referring to that brood from Terre Haute, I talked to the dad afterward. We got it all straightened out.”

“We’re referring to twelve-year-old children and mammary glands,” Bigger says. “Specifically, the grandson of the governor, who visited the Old West as part of his birthday celebration and who was in attendance at the twelve o’clock shoot-out.”

“And who asked you to sign his program,” Big adds.

“Which I did,” Jimmy says, puzzled.

“With this.” Bigger slips his hand inside his suit jacket and holds a pen aloft. On its side is a photo of Pete Samoa’s second wife, Doris, in a black one-piece. Bigger upends the pen, and the black one-piece disappears, giving Jimmy and the Jones brothers a glimpse at the wonders of silicone and Doris’s fabled chest.

Jimmy raises his hand. “An honest mistake.”

“Policy at the Old Wild West explicitly states that employees are to leave all personal items in the locker room during the performance of their duties.” Big pauses and looks at his brother, who’s still holding the pen aloft. “And concerning writing implements, personnel are to use and distribute, when appropriate, gratis to the public, only those writing implements bearing the logo and trademark of the Old Wild West.” Big pulls out one of the park’s pens and holds it up.

“There are no exceptions to policy, Mr. Coast,” Bigger says.

“The same size and shape there,” Jimmy says, pointing at the pens. “Easy enough to get them confused, you’re in a hurry.”

“Fortunately our general manager, Russ Crawford, was able to divert the boy with the promise of an additional tomahawk and thus regain possession of the pen without drawing the attention of the media covering the birthday visit,” Big says.

A
raw deal for the kid,
Jimmy thinks. A
plastic tomahawk for a perpetual titty show.

“Is that a smile, Mr. Cortez?” Bigger asks. “Is there something humorous or amusing that neither my brother nor I are aware of in the potential negative attendant publicity resulting from one of our gunslingers passing out pens festooned with bared mammary glands and advertising dubious enterprises like pawn shops to the grandson of the man holding the highest office in the state?”

“A man who before taking that office was an ordained Baptist minister,” Big adds.

“Relief,” Jimmy says, backpedalling. “My expression there, it’s relief because I’m relieved everything turned out all right.”

“As regards to the erratic and irresponsible behavior,” Big starts in.

“Thing of the past,” Jimmy says quickly. “Rest assured, boys.”

Big fingers his bolo tie and looks at his brother. Jimmy keeps his eyes aimed at the wall behind them. It’s covered in framed photographs, a scattering of hostage celebrity shots, the brothers shaking hands with a bunch of has-beens, a roster of over-the-hill ballplayers, a choir of third-rate Vegas crooners, some television and movie zeroes, and a hearty salting of state and city politicos.

“Is there a problem with our cooling system we’re not aware of, Mr. Costs?” Bigger asks.

“Uh, I don’t think so.” Jimmy glances around the office. “Why do you ask?” He feels like he’s back in the fourth grade, Mrs. Dell about to swoop down and trip him up with some trick question, one usually dealing with the metric system. Mrs. Dell, she was a big fan of measurement.

“You’re sweating,” Big says.

“A lot,” Bigger adds.

“I got a quirky metabolism.” When Jimmy glances down, he notices he’d buttoned his shirt wrong on the way to the office earlier. It looks like a mangled kite.

That’s when he notices something else: His bladder’s begun to send out distress calls, some SOS action on account of all those sodas earlier.

Big reaches down and rustles a couple of papers in the file. “My brother and I have always prided ourselves on being community-oriented. Phoenix has been good to us. We like to believe we’ve been good for Phoenix. That’s the working principle behind our hiring practices. We believe in giving people a chance.” Big pauses, then adds, “We’ve had a number of ex-convicts on our payroll over the years.”

“They were grateful for the chance and our faith in them,” Bigger joins in. “No erratic behavior on their parts is how I’d put it.”

“You boys are known for giving someone a fair shake,” Jimmy says. “Absolutely. Your reputation precedes you.”

“Unfortunately so has yours,” Big says, “and you appear to have caught up with it.”

“I’ve paid my debt to society.” Jimmy shifts into contrition and presses the gas on the sincerity.

“We’d like to believe you,” Big says.

“You can take it to the bank.” Jimmy rises from the chair and nods twice.

“Good,” Bigger says. “Then we’re sure you won’t mind accompanying Ms. Wing to the nurse’s station.”

“Huh?” Jimmy says. “Not necessary. This sweating, like I was telling you boys, I got a quirky metabolism.” He steps up to the desk and extends his hand. “Nothing a good cold shower won’t cure.”

“We were thinking more along the lines of a urine sample,” Big says. “A little lab work.”

Oh, shit,
Jimmy thinks.

“Fine there. No problem,” Jimmy says, stepping back. “But what say, boys, we put that on the docket first thing tomorrow morning? See, I’ve already punched out, and I need to get cleaned up and going here. I’m running a little late for an appointment.”

“I think this afternoon would be better,” Big says.

“Won’t take more than a few minutes of your time.” Big closes Jimmy’s file.

Jimmy’s cataloging the probable results of a drug test. It’ll be the equivalent of a chemical spill that would make the EPA blush.

“I’d like to oblige you boys,” he begins slowly.

“Then do,” Big says.

They’re standing side by side, watching him.

If they weren’t so obviously enjoying this little session, Jimmy thinks, maybe he could hunker down and turn things around. He’s talked his way out of tighter places before. And he’s capable of doing it again. He knows that. But the thing is, they’re enjoying it so much, clamping him, and over a dipshit job barely a click over minimum wage.

Big clears his throat.

They’re waiting for him to beg. Jimmy can read it in both their faces. Beg them for the chance to keep dressing up in a black cowboy outfit and shoot it out six times a day for the amusement of the citizens. They’re waiting, looking forward to it. They want him to beg.

“Tell you what, boys,” Jimmy says, “why don’t you let me save us all a little time?”

Jimmy steps back in front of the desk. He plays the smile large.

The brothers glance at each other. Big clears his throat again.

Jimmy leans closer, then snags an Old West coffee mug and slides it to the edge of the desk. “Yes, sir,” he says, “let’s just cut right to the chase.” In two quick moves, he has the zipper of the black jeans down and his dick out.

“Whoa there,” Bigger says.

Big makes a stab at snatching back the mug, but Jimmy’s too fast for him. Or rather, all the sodas he’s guzzled this afternoon are. The faucet’s full on now, and Jimmy’s feeling good.

He’s also a little reckless with his aim.

Big and Bigger each make a grab for the phone, but finally retreat to the wall of photographs. Big is holding Jimmy’s personnel file to his chest like a shield.

Jimmy leans into the job, putting a sizzling head on the mug and then switching over to a nearby pencil holder.

Jimmy’s feeling good, yes he is, until he suddenly hears Ray Harp’s voice echoing in his head:
It’s not like you’re going to get a monthly statement, Jimmy. I’m not MasterCard. It doesn’t work that way.

And Jimmy, trying to avoid snagging his dick on the zipper as he tucks himself back in, knows that this time he’s really up against it.

This time he’s pissed more than a paycheck away.

E
velyn Coates struggles to locate and then resurrect her flight-attendant’s smile each time the bell above the door rings and a customer enters. The smile is important. It’s important never to forget that. People want to feel important, and therefore it’s important to give people what they want. Giving people what they want creates satisfied customers, and satisfied customers are repeat customers, and repeat customers are important, the lifeblood of any business.

She’s trying. She really is. The smile, though, just gets harder to find and hold.

Evelyn glances up at the clock and adjusts the neckline of the pale green smock she wears over her skirt and blouse. On the counter, bracketing her, are two cardboard placards, one advertising senior citizen discounts, the other detailing the store’s policy on unclaimed apparel.

Over the last month, Evelyn’s been rotating among the branches of Frontier Cleaners, getting a feel for the clientele and employees at each store, learning the basic duties behind running and operating the chain, soaking up the business from the inside out, as her husband likes to say, a portion of her evenings devoted to reviewing the long- and short-term plans Richard envisions, one of which is Evelyn eventually becoming a full partner in the business.

It’s not like she stepped into the dry-cleaning business expecting it to be glamorous or exciting. It simply made a kind of sense, after she quit the airlines, not so much a step as a half step, the type of decision, she now realizes, that has come to inform the life Richard and she have made together.

A comfortable life. A good life. A sensible life. One spent balancing the practical and the passionate.

Evelyn glances at the clock again. Three customers come in. Evelyn waits on them, tagging clothes, handing out claim checks, verifying names, addresses, phone numbers, and making note of any special instructions. She’s conscious of the manager, Maria Sandover, hovering near the revolving racks of the day’s pickups, watching her.

There’s another lull in customer traffic. Evelyn looks up at the clock. 1:27. The hands have moved, but the time hasn’t seemed to change. She’s supposed to stay until five today and then meet Richard for dinner.

Maria Sandover steps up next to the register. Evelyn figures she’s somewhere in her early forties, but everything in her bearing makes her seem older: the dark hair shadowed by premature gray, no makeup to speak of, a pair of heavy unflattering glasses, a dark blue checked dress falling to midcalf, sensible shoes.

“You forgot to mention the ten percent discount on Mondays,” Maria says. “With each transaction, you should remind the customer of the standard and special discounts for the week. It’s also important to wish each customer a good day. You neglected to do that twice today.”

For some reason, Evelyn thinks of the fan of fold-out photographs, school shots of five boys, that Maria had brought out to show Evelyn on more than one occasion as if she were demonstrating features on a car. The Sandover brood ranged from five to eighteen. Evelyn thought she made the appropriate murmurs of approval, but now she’s not so sure. She’s been doing that a lot lately, becoming impatient or distracted and making small missteps in manners and social niceties that she only becomes aware of much later, after the fact.

Earlier last week when she’d once again been late getting to the store, Evelyn had overheard Maria Sandover talking with some of the other employees in the break room. They’d been discussing Richard and her.

The consensus on Richard held no surprises. As a boss, he was demanding and exacting, but he was also scrupulously fair and even-handed in employee relations and had earned their respect and loyalty. He appreciated a job done well and was not afraid to roll up his sleeves and help out when things got tight. He made it a point to be on a first-name basis with everyone who worked for him and knew where they lived, the names of spouses and children or their boyfriends and girlfriends. He remembered birthdays and anniversaries. He paid above minimum wage and set up a generous benefits package. He was a good man, a hardworking man, who expected the best from himself and others around him.

What Evelyn had overheard about herself was a different story. She’s vain. Full of herself. Alternately aloof or condescending. Tempermental. She doesn’t pull her weight around the store. She flirts with customers. She ignores customers. She wears too much makeup. Her dresses are too tight. She laughs too much or too little. She’s pampered. Afraid to get her hands dirty. She’s headstrong. A pretty package with nothing inside.