Falling
by Tony Knighton © 2007
“Keep in mind, this kind of thing is not without problems, but in your situation you're almost guaranteed success.”
Ron opened a sugar and thought about that word—success. Success had eluded him for too long now. The small table wobbled slightly as he stirred his coffee.
The man continued, “All the necessary elements are in place: size, construction, proximity to other structures. And the major component—it's an occupied building.”
Ron looked at the man. Middle aged, medium build, tan windbreaker, black pants. The guy didn't look like what he was. He looked like the kind of guy that might do estimates for wall-to-wall carpet.
Ron twisted the red plastic stirrer. “The fact that the building's occupied is what's held me up.” He could hear the counterwoman prepare a cappuccino; the sound was vaguely like someone clearing their throat.
The man smiled and gestured as he spoke. “That's because you haven't thought about things the right way. It's good that Franny hooked you up with me. I can get this done. Nobody will even know I was there.”
Franny. What Ron wanted was to get out from under, not to fall any deeper than he was already. There didn't seem to be a choice, though. “How is that a good thing? The building being full?”
“Hey, you want this done, I can take care of it. I'm not giving a class.” The man sipped his coffee. Then he spoke again. “All right, you're nervous. I'll explain it to you: it's easy to prove somebody lit a match. The tough part is proving who . Now, knowing that, think about this: if your apartment house was vacant and it got torched, torched good enough to burn out, who do you think the cops would want to have a talk with?”
Ron glanced around the tight little shop. They were well out of earshot of any of the other Friday morning patrons, but he felt uncomfortable. “Me, I suppose.”
Warming to his subject the man said, “You would suppose correctly. They would want to talk to you.
Now, they may not be able to prove you did it, or had anything to do with it, but their interest in you would be reason enough for the insurance company to hold off on paying you. These investigations can drag on for a long time. That would not be good for you, right?”
Ron tried his coffee. He added another sugar. “That's right.”
The man was clearly enjoying the rare opportunity to explain his business. “All right. We, however, are talking about an occupied apartment house in a depressed neighborhood. Friction between neighbors, people in and out all day and night, maybe some drugs are bought and sold on the premises—if somebody decided to settle a dispute with a gallon of high-test, it wouldn't be much of a shock to anybody. Happens all the time. The police wouldn't look at you at all. They'd be looking for an angry tenant or rival drug dealers. The insurance company would have no reason not to pay.” The man picked up his cup but stopped before he drank. He raised his eyebrows. “You have kept up with your premiums, right?”
“Yes, I have. But what happens to the tenants?”
The man put down the cup, leaned closer and spoke quietly but emphatically, ignoring the small table's instability. “You're not looking at the big picture. That's the best part of the whole thing. A place that size, four stories high, blazing away with people hanging out of every window, the fire department has its hands full making rescues. Get it? Nobody's putting serious water on the fire for a long, long time. It guarantees a good burn out. The insurance company totals out the building and hands you a check. Problem solved.” The man looked around the shop, then back at Ron. “Remember the apartment house fire at 47 th and Warrington a few years ago?”
“Sure.”
“That was me.” The man took a drink of coffee.
“Didn't three or four people die in that fire?”
The guy put down his cup. “You're missing the point. Some mulignan on the second floor had had a fistfight with a guy down the hall the night before. Turned out, the moulie had a record. He ended up taking the fall for the whole thing. See, the fire marshal and the cops didn't look any further than the first guy they suspected. That's what'll probably happen with your place.”
“But what if somebody gets hurt?”
The man shrugged and sat back. “Look, you do whatever the fuck you want. It doesn't matter to me one way or the other. But you're the one who has to settle up with Franny. If you owe him the kind of paper he says you do, this is your only way out. Your building isn't worth anything near what you owe, not the way it is now, full of jigs. He takes it off you, you still owe him money. And I'll do the job anyway, but for him, not you.” He finished his coffee in one gulp. “You deal with me, you pay off Francis and walk away with money left over. He's doing you a big favor, putting us together. I think he likes you.” The man smiled.
Ron finished his coffee. It still tasted bitter. How had he gotten here, talking to a man like this, discussing this sort of crime? He blew out a breath and looked down at the unsteady table. “All right. Go ahead.”
“Franny tell you what this'll cost?”
“Yeah, he told me.”
“Up front, ok? The sooner I get it, the sooner things happen. Weekends are the best time, weekends and holidays. And go away for a couple days. Go down the shore. It's nice there after the season's over.” The man stood up and zipped his jacket closed.
Ron reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced a fat manila envelope, folded in half lengthwise.
“I have it here, Mister… I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.”
The man smiled as he took the envelope. “That's right, you didn't.”
Ron opened the office. He left the “Closed” sign undisturbed and picked up his mail. There was a letter from the bank, others from American Express, Visa, the collection agency the student loan people had turned his account over to, and more hate mail from some tenants rights group. He threw them onto his desk unopened and was hanging up his sports jacket when his phone rang. He answered, “Ruggieri Realty.”
“Hey. My guy says he talked to you—that's good. He'll do it tonight. We'll readjust your note—give you a break on the juice. You might even see something for yourself out of this.”
Ron sat down. “Franny, I appreciate your patience in all this. I just wish I had a little more time to do what I wanted to do originally. There would be a small fortune in the place. It's so close to Center City. You know the old cigar factory? Two blocks from my place? Wister turned it into condos. They're starting at three thirty-nine. All I need is a little more time--”
“And a lot more money. And you don't have either, kid. We've talked about this before. You had bad luck— chalk it up. I'm giving you a way out.”
“I understand, Fran. I'm just nervous, that's all. If somebody gets hurt--”
“If somebody gets hurt, be glad it's not you.” He hung up.
Ron looked at the receiver, then cradled it. Franny and the other guy were right. He was in way over his head and this was the way out.
He had been badly in debt before he'd gone to Franny. Bad luck at the casinos, bad luck with football—bad luck.
The apartment house on Girard Avenue had seemed like the answer. Artists had moved into the neighborhood a few years before, and the yuppies followed. Ron had looked at the place last year. Built in the twenties— big rooms, oak floors, high ceilings—it had been neglected but was structurally sound. Unable to secure a loan at the bank, he'd borrowed from Franny—brutal interest, but the deal had seemed like a sure thing.
He hadn't anticipated the difficulty of moving the tenants out. He'd offered to buy them out of their leases—most refused. Some stopped paying rent. He'd spent the money he needed for renovation on lawyer's fees and court costs. And all the time his debt to Franny grew larger.
Tonight. Ron would take the man's advice and go to the shore. He wouldn't go to the casinos; he'd get a room in one of the little towns nearby. Maybe just run over to A.C. tonight and catch a show.
Sitting down at his desk he checked the calendar; he had no appointments until this afternoon. He'd cancel them and leave early. Picking up the letter from the bank, he started to open it. A thought stopped him: Leonetta.
Ron met her when he'd bought the building. A pretty black woman in her early twenties, she was on welfare, had three kids and no man—probably be a grandmother by the time she was thirty. Not stupid, just a product of the neighborhood. Ron had spoken with her that day, introducing himself. She'd smiled at him as they chatted.
Later, when she'd had trouble making the rent, they'd come to an understanding. After that Ron visited her apartment a few times a month. Sometimes, while he was knotting his tie in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, she would stand in the doorway and say, “You don't have to hurry away. The kids are at my mom's. I could make us some dinner.”
“I'd love to Lee, but I can't. I've got stuff to do. I have to show a house tonight. Another time maybe.”
He'd look back and forth between her and the mirror.
“Sure, some other time.”
A few young males gave him ugly looks as he went to and from her apartment, but no one from the building liked him much, anyway.
Leonetta and her kids would be up on the fourth floor tonight when it happened. Her apartment was in the back, facing the alley. It would take longer for the firemen to get back there, raise ladders and carry the kids and her to safety.
But if he told her to go out tonight and take the kids with her, she'd ask him why. Afterwards, she'd know. If anybody knew that he was involved with burning out the building, he'd go to prison.
Ron read the letter from the bank, and the others, then typed post-dated responses to their inquiries, thanking the men and the institutions that they represented for their continued patience, informing them that there had been a change in his situation, but assuring them that he would satisfy all of his debts shortly. Then he made phone calls to cancel his appointments for that afternoon and called ahead to the White Briar to reserve a room for the weekend.
Finishing up in the office, he went to lunch at the restaurant down the street before going home to pack. He sat at the bar and had a martini as he looked at the menu, then another with the chef's salad that he ordered and picked at. He got into a discussion with a fellow patron and the bartender about the Eagles and their chances against the Redskins on Sunday. That lasted long enough for him to have two more, and he had a final drink as he chatted up a couple of young women whose boss had let them out of work early because it was Friday. He teased them. “Must be nice.”
The blonde smiled. “You're playing hooky, too.”
“Not really. It's my own business.” Automatically, he took a card from his jacket
pocket and held it out to her.
She steadied his hand while she read it. “Oh, real estate. You must do well for yourself.” Then she put it in her bag and smiled at him.
He sipped his drink. “I do what I have to.”
He left and started for home, but halfway there he changed his mind and drove straight toward the bridge. It was rush hour. Traffic moved like forty-weight oil on a cold day. At the bridge, there were flashing red lights on the roadway. A cop stopped his lane's progress while opposing traffic crawled around an accident up ahead.
Waiting, Ron looked up through the side window and saw stars peeking out of the darkening sky. A horn sounded behind him, and he snapped his head back down. Traffic was moving again.
Feeling dizzy, he rolled down the window for some air, but instead smelled the odors from the nearby refinery. He looked over. The plant's lighting and warning bulbs illuminated the weird looking structures. Cracking towers were lit up like otherworld Christmas trees. Lights rimmed the huge tanks as well. He saw the flares, tall towers, higher than anything else in the facility, each with a bright flame at the top, like huge candles. Ron stared at the flames. He thought about what he was driving away from.
Taking out his phone, he punched digits with his thumb as he inched along the bridge. It rang, then a phone company recording informed him that the number he dialed was no longer in service. He tried again but got the same message; he had dialed correctly the first time. He cursed. She hadn't paid her bill.
Ron looked around. Traffic was crawling in both directions. He maneuvered his car to the far left lane and U-turned, oblivious to the disapproval of the other drivers.
Off the bridge, he picked his way north through the city, running stop signs and red lights, swearing and beating his fists on the steering wheel when traffic stymied his efforts.
He reached his building. There was no parking anywhere nearby. Ron pulled into the mouth of the driveway, left the car and ran to the front door, past a group of young men lounging on the steps. He let himself in and took the stairs two at a time. On the top floor, he ran down the hallway to Leonetta's apartment and banged on the door. When there was no answer, he unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The apartment was empty. Her furniture and things were gone. Ron stared, and walked around the apartment, confused.
“What you want in here, Mister Landlord?”
The apartment door closed. Ron turned around; the speaker was one of the young men from outside. He came toward Ron. He was big. “I asked you a question. What you doing here in Leonetta's apartment?”
Ron took a step backwards. “I, uh, I wanted to ask Miss Shaw--”
The man continued to advance. “Yeah, I know what you wanted to ask her. I know real well what you want. She ain't here no more. She's with me now. Looks like you out of luck.”
Ron took another step away and backed against a cabinet. “No, I just, I--”
The man's fist was a blur. Ron felt his head snap back, felt himself sinking to the floor.
Something was strangling him from the inside. It felt like knives, stabbing the lining of his throat as he tried to breathe. He was flat on his back; his head hurt and his ears rang. He cursed himself for having all those drinks. What was that smell?
He remembered where he was. Sitting up, he opened his eyes. He couldn't see a thing through the smoke. The ringing wasn't in his ears; it was the fire alarm. His eyes stung and started to water. It was difficult to breathe. He rolled over onto his stomach. There was a little air near the floor.
Crawling blindly in the direction he was facing, he hit a wall. He reversed direction—another wall. Tears and snot mingled and ran from his upper lip in one long strand. In the blackness, he felt along the wall for a door, a window. The bells rang on, and just under the ringing, through the walls, he heard screams. He took too deep a breath and started to cough.
He had to calm down, had to think. Turning left and crawling, he kept the side of his right arm against the wall, reasoning that he'd come to a doorway eventually. Soot condensed in his mouth; he spit it out. It was getting hot.
He'd been in the kitchen when the guy had hit him. He came to an open doorway and went through it, staying along the wall. One turn, two, and he felt the apartment's front door. Reaching up, he found the knob and yanked the door open. The hallway was ablaze. It glowed a deep, dirty orange. Fire rolled over Ron's head, snaking across the apartment ceiling. He slammed the door shut, choking off the flames, but not before feeling the sudden sharp pain on his face, ears, neck, and the backs of his hands, like the fire had reached out and smacked him.
His only chance now would be the bedroom window. Choking and spitting, he felt his way along, crawling through the hot black smoke. It clawed at his eyes.
Once he was inside the bedroom, he reached up with blistered hands and felt along the back wall until he touched the sill. He tore down the shade and pushed up on the window. It wouldn't budge. His fingers scrambled across the top of the sash, feeling for the lock. He undid it and tried again. The window wouldn't move. His lungs were screaming for air. He took off his jacket, wadded it around his right hand and punched out the glass, then the screen. He leaned his head out the window.
There wasn't much relief. Smoke from below billowed up into his face. Through gaps in the smoke, Ron saw people leaning out windows, screaming for help. Some had already jumped. Bodies littered the alley, some moving, some not.
He heard sirens, coming closer and closer, and then winding down as they arrived. He held on, knowing they would get back here with ladders in a minute or two.
It got hotter still, and harder to breathe. The smoke pushing out of the lower windows was getting thicker, darker, and then little bursts of flame were visible in the plumes.
Then it was all flame. It blew out of the windows almost horizontally, and seemed to twist, smoke coming off the top. It was almost too hot to keep his head out the window. He could barely keep his eyes open, they stung so badly. He could still hear sirens as more equipment arrived. The firemen would be back here any minute.
His car. He'd meant only to stop long enough to tell Leonetta to get out. Now it
blocked the way to the rear of the building. He realized what that meant and pissed his pants.
The heat was intense. Ron turned, and squinting through the dense, killing smoke, saw that the ceiling outside the bedroom had blossomed into a dull shade of orange. Then the bedroom brightened, and flames swirled over his head.
He stuck his head out the window again. Momentarily the smoke shifted and he caught sight of firemen hurrying around the corner of the building, pulling hoseline. They called to each other as they progressed, their voices revealing their anxiety.
He couldn't breathe at all now. The room was on fire. He tried to call, scream for the firemen to look up, see him, get him out. No sound came from his mouth. He leaned out as far as he could, but it wasn't enough. He leaned farther.
Then he was out, falling, tumbling, at the last moment catching sight of the cool concrete alleyway.