Things Fall Down Read online

  THINGS FALL DOWN

  KEITH TAYLOR

  Copyright © 2018 by Keith Taylor

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  First Printing, 2018

  CONTENTS

  ABSOLUT AND MACADAMIAS

  IF DADDY'S SICK...

  GOD DAMNED MAUI?

  MOVE WELL CLEAR

  CONDITION BLACK

  SCARED OF NEEDLES

  BATTLE ROYALE

  DO WE HAVE WEAPONS?

  CRUEL AND SELFISH MEN

  HEAD EAST

  FUMES OF THE FUMES

  ABOVE THE GRIDLOCK

  DAYS OF THUNDER

  GOD DAMN METH

  BREAK DOWN THE GATE

  THAT'S YOUR RIPCORD

  GOODBYE SAN FRANCISCO

  STOP, DROP AND ROLL

  EMERGENCY EXIT

  DON'T MOVE A MUSCLE

  DEAD AIR

  I GUESS IT'S JUST US NOW

  CHAPTER ONE

  ABSOLUT AND MACADAMIAS

  RAINING AGAIN. ALWAYS RAINING.

  Jack Archer slumped on the edge of his fourth bed in a week, bleary eyed and head pounding, gazing morosely through the rain streaked window to the mountains beyond.

  At least there should be mountains there. The booking site had promised in breathless tones that his suite on the eighteenth floor would offer a stunning, once in a lifetime, you'll tell your grandchildren about this view of the distant snow-capped Mount Rainier, but Jack could only take their word for it. All he could see was his own hungover reflection staring back at him, unpleasantly fractured and distorted in the double glazed window.

  From the moment he’d touched down in Seattle a thick blanket of fog and a constant sheet of depressing drizzle had obscured everything further than fifty yards, like a video game map that had yet to be revealed. What lay beyond the window was a complete mystery. For all Jack knew his suite could be facing out onto an alleyway.

  It had been much the same story all week. Boise. Portland. Spokane. Wherever he’d gone the rain and fog had beaten him there and followed as he left, a constant companion whispering his failures back to him, dragging his mood back down whenever he felt the slightest shred of optimism.

  It had been a week since he'd last seen the sun as more than a dull, shapeless glow, trying and failing to burn through the mist, and as he looked out the window on the dawn-lit city it felt like he was suffocating beneath the thick, leaden clouds. Even now the rain pattering on the canvas awning above the window sounded like a long, sarcastic slow clap. Way to screw up your life, Doc.

  Jack let out a sigh and pulled himself to his feet, tugging his starchy, slightly too short hotel robe tight around his waist to keep out the chill that crept through the window. He trudged over to the mini bar, the depressing cabinet of overpriced single serving sadness that had kept him fed for the week he’d been away from home, and as the cold light cast its glow across the room a $12 tub of macadamia nuts caught his eye, but it was the $15 miniature of Absolut behind it that drew his hand, without giving his brain a chance to butt in with a warning.

  He wasn’t stupid. He knew he shouldn’t. It was far too early for alcohol. Somewhere on the other side of that thick bank of fog the sun hadn't even begun to creep over the mountains, but…

  Screw it. It’s 5PM somewhere. Definitely not here, but somewhere.

  Jack twisted the cap off the bottle, tipped it back and took his first belt of the day, wincing as the vodka hit the back of his throat. Harsh alcohol, unbrushed teeth and morning breath that already reeked of last night’s whiskey. It tasted awful, but he didn’t drink it for the flavor. Vodka made things better. Vodka always made things better.

  That was the problem.

  That’s what had gotten him into this mess.

  He slumped back down to the bed just as the customary self loathing began to bite, the shame that he'd already opened a bottle before he'd even taken a shower, and with a trembling hand he popped the lid from the nuts and peered inside. Two dozen nuts. Fifty cents a piece.

  Thank the Lord this goes on expenses, he thought, tipping half the tub into his mouth and chewing without tasting. Without wanting to taste. He didn’t like macadamias, but experience had taught him that if he didn’t send something solid down with the Absolut he’d be doubled over with stomach cramps by lunchtime. With a gun to his head he couldn’t remember the last time he'd eaten an actual meal.

  Painkillers. Now that’s what they should stock in the mini bar. A few green and yellow Tramadol capsules, or maybe a handful of chalky blue Percocets to chase the booze. The vodka would be enough to get him through the day, but a fistful of opioids would let him float along until bedtime without a care in the world. Hell, with a couple of Vicodin he might even be able to muster a genuine smile

  But no. He knew all too well that he couldn't afford to go down that road again. If he started up on the pills the next time he'd see his daughter she'd have kids of her own. Karen’s lawyers had made that painfully clear as they bent him over a table, handed him a pen and ordered him to sign over his house, car, dignity, self respect and mint condition 1955 Sandy Koufax. Even a legit prescription would mean the end of his visitation rights until he could produce six months of clean tests. They’d been sharp enough to include that clause in the agreement. An addict with a medical degree can always get hold of a script from a buddy.

  Jack sighed, his head falling back to the pillow as the vodka kicked in and the sharp pain in his shoulder began to fade to a dull throb. It didn’t take much to get rid of it. Just a slug every now and then was enough to numb the nerves and give him a little relief. The only problem was figuring out the timing and dosage, drinking just enough to smooth out the pain but not enough to get hammered. He hadn’t quite worked out the second part of the equation yet, because when it came to pain relief it always seemed to be now, and when it wasn’t now it was then.

  He let his eyes drift closed, embracing the warmth of the alcohol in his throat and the welcome respite of the stabbing pain. These were the really good moments, just as the gnawing ache began to dissolve into the background and the shame had passed, but before the first drink of the day turned into the fifth. These were the moments he could fool himself that tonight would be different. He wouldn’t end up drunk. He could be sensible. He could control it.

  That thought always seemed like a cruel joke by sundown, when his vision doubled and the world felt fuzzy and distant.

  The silence of the room was suddenly disturbed by the piercing trill of the phone on the bedside table. Jack cracked open one eye and scowled at the handset, reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed, but he knew who was on the other end of the line. If he didn’t pick up they’d come knocking at the door in five minutes, and he wasn’t ready to face people this early in the morning.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah” he muttered, reaching over to scoop the receiver from its cradle. “Hello?”

  A bright, chirpy voice sounded like fingernails down a chalkboard. “Good morning, Doctor Archer. This is your 8AM wake up call.”

  He winced at the reminder. “Yeah, thanks, I’m up.” The next words came out without any thought, a knee jerk reflex kicking back at the chirpiness. “And it’s not Doctor. It’s just Mister.”

  A confused pause. “Oh, I’m very sorry, Mister Archer. It’s just the ID you used to check in…”

  “It’s an old card,” he snapped, his voice a little too harsh. He scolded himself. “Sorry, it’s just… Forget about it. Thanks for the call.”

  He replaced the rece
iver and pulled himself back to the edge of the bed with a grunt, looking back at the soft warmth and ahead to the cold day. He wanted nothing more than to fall back to the mattress, to lose himself in the thick, fluffy duvet and spend the day cosseted in warmth, but he knew the world wasn’t that kind. He had a job to do.

  He forced himself to his feet, but not before draining the miniature of Absolut, and as he trudged to the bathroom to brush his teeth he played his schedule out in his head, just as he did every morning, trying to figure out the best way to handle what was to come.

  Dosage and timing. That’s what it’s all about. That’s the key.

  He had a meeting at nine with the head of procurement at Tacoma General, then lunch at noon with a board member of a conglomerate that owned a chain of upscale retirement communities, the kind of places where an extra ten grand a year bought a nurse who'd change grandma's diaper with a smile, or at least not with a scowl.

  He’d have to be on for both meetings, at the top of his game. These sales pitches were all about energy and enthusiasm. You couldn’t give the customer time to think, to rationalize, to doubt and find excuses. You had to rush them into a snap decision in a flurry of smiles and handshakes, and then get the hell out before buyer’s remorse set in. Before they realized they'd partnered with a Midwest upstart that had no reputation, and had only brought three drugs to the market.

  It was a manageable schedule. A quick slug before the first meeting should be enough to get him through, he thought, and nobody would raise an eyebrow at a glass of wine or two at lunch. After that he could grab a cab back to the hotel and try his best to resist the charms of the mini bar until it was time to catch his flight to the Vegas convention. He couldn’t fly drunk. Couldn’t risk the shame of being turned away at the gate, or the apocalyptic mess that would result if Karen found out.

  Once he was in Vegas, though, all bets were off.

  I can do this, he thought, spitting into the basin, clearing his mouth of the taste of Absolut and returning minty fresh. I can make it through the day.

  He shrugged his robe to the bathroom floor, strode back into the bedroom and grabbed a freshly pressed shirt from the open case by the bed, and as he slipped it over an arm he caught sight of himself in the mirror on the wall.

  He quickly turned away. He didn’t like the reminder of the ugly, puckered scar on his shoulder. For some reason it always seemed to make the pain stab just a little deeper, no matter how much the surgeons insisted it was all in his head. Pain was pain.

  When the scar was safely hidden he turned back to the mirror, tucked his tie beneath his collar and ran his fingers through his hair. He looked presentable enough. A little tired, maybe, but at least the face looking back at him didn’t look like one that had spent most of the night in an airport bar knocking back Jack Daniels.

  He looked… respectable. Dark hair slightly graying at the temples in a way some might describe as distinguished. A square jaw, without a hint of the soft, fleshy jowls that hit so many men as they left their thirties behind and began to collapse face first into middle age. Maybe the vodka was already clouding his judgment, but in this light he could almost convince himself he looked like a responsible adult, and not some guy who spent his days sneaking into stairwells with a hip flask to secretly numb himself with booze.

  Ah, that reminds me.

  Jack rounded the bed to the mini bar and grabbed another couple of miniatures, shoving them deep in his jacket pocket before pulling it on. He checked himself in the mirror again to make sure nobody could make out the shape of the bottles, and then he patted his other pockets, checking for his phone, wallet and clip on Baxter Pharmaceuticals ID tag.

  Finally he scooped up his briefcase from the chair beside the mirror and stared at his reflection for a moment. He flashed himself an empty smile, as if practicing an unfamiliar expression.

  “OK, Jack, put your game face on,” he muttered to himself, slapping his cheeks. “Let’s go sell some damned medicine.”

  ΅

  CHAPTER TWO

  IF DADDY'S SICK...

  KAREN KEANE REALIZED something was wrong as soon as Emily woke up. A mother always knows when her little girl is trying to hide something, of course, and Emily had always been a terrible liar, but this time she couldn’t have telegraphed it any more if she’d tried. She was siiii-iiiick, moooo-oooom.

  No fever. No clammy skin. Not even a token pitiful cough and puppy dog eyes to lend her play acting a little credence. She just didn’t want to go to school, and after the last few months of acting out that was more than enough to fill Karen with a sense of foreboding as she fixed breakfast for her sullen daughter, then herded her into the car. There was a reason Emily wanted to stay home, and it damn sure wasn’t that she’d forgotten to finish her math homework.

  “Are you sure there isn’t anything you want to talk about before we go in?” Karen glanced in the rear view as she hunted for an open spot in the parking lot.

  Emily was staring down at her shoes, refusing to meet her mom's eye. “Nuh uh,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “I just wanna go home. I feel really bad. My tummy hurts.”

  Karen pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to knead away the first fore-shocks of a killer headache. “Well, if you’re really sick I guess we can go see Doctor Farber. He can draw some blood and find out what’s wrong with you. You wanna do that?”

  Emily scowled. She was terrified of needles. “Nuh uh. Not Doctor Farber.”

  “OK, so you wanna go to class and see your friends?”

  Another scowl. “Nuh uh.”

  “Well it’s one or the other, young lady. So what’ll it be? A day in the doctor’s office or a day in school?”

  Emily refused to answer, and Karen was fresh out of patience. “School it is, then,” she declared.

  A spot opened up close to the front door of the school, and Karen almost dinged the fender of her Subaru Outback in her rush to grab it before one of the other hovering parents could swoop in. She shifted into park, killed the engine and climbed out of the car before her daughter could think up any more excuses.

  Emily climbed out from the back seat like a Death Row inmate being led to the chair, dragging her feet and carrying her lunchbox from a dangling arm as if it were weighed down with cinder blocks. When she angrily slammed her door with all the might her seven year old arms could muster Karen pretended she hadn’t noticed the little tantrum. She wasn’t in the mood for an argument.

  “Come on,” she said, taking Emily by the hand. “I'll walk you to the door.” Even now she could feel the little girl pull back against her hand, as if she might somehow be able to drag her back to the car.

  Damn. Karen's suspicions were confirmed the moment she saw Miss Jessop waiting by the entrance, greeting her with the tight smile and the awkward little half wave Karen had come to know all too well these last few months. She’d been met by that sight a half dozen times already this semester, and she knew exactly what was coming. When they reached the door Karen kissed Emily goodbye and sent her inside, and Miss Jessop – Sarah – followed Karen back to the parking lot where she could hide between the cars and light a cigarette.

  “I’m guessing you’re not about to tell me she won the regional spelling bee?” Karen smiled, but there was no humor behind it.

  Sarah shook her head, leaning against the Subaru as she lit her Camel. “Afraid not. She had another fight with Katy Lewis at lunch yesterday. It seems that sweet, precious pain in the ass thought it’d be hilarious to call Emily’s dad a crazy person. Said he was in the loony bin, so Emily decided to bean her in the head with an apple. I’ll tell you one thing, your girl’s got a hell of a throwing arm. Knocked that prissy little monster right out of her chair.” She took a long pull on the cigarette and smiled. “You should think about signing her up for little league. She could teach the boys a thing or two.”

  Karen leaned forward and rested her forehead on the cool side window of the car. The headache was beginning to throb behind
her left eye now, and Emily’s third fight in a month wasn’t helping. “How the hell do these kids know how to push her buttons? Where do they get this stuff? Is there a newsletter I'm missing?”

  Sarah shrugged. “You know kids. They overhear parents talking. They only understand half of it, and somehow it’s always the really dumb half.” She took a pull on the cigarette and glanced furtively back at the school, keeping a watchful eye for the Principal. “Don’t worry, I already spoke to Katy’s parents and convinced them not to take it further.”

  Karen turned her head from the window, surprised. Jan Lewis was a well-known troublemaker, a lawyer who'd sue if someone sneezed on her. “How—”

  Sarah cut her off. “I think they were just embarrassed that people might find out they’d been gossiping about you and Jack. Well, her mom, anyway. Doesn’t want a reputation as the PTA bitch, know what I mean?” She flicked her ash onto the ground. “Too little too late, but whatever. How’s Emily doing at home?”

  Karen shook her head. “No better than at school. Every night’s a battle. It’s like she forgot how to be seven and skipped right ahead to thirteen, throwing temper tantrums over the smallest things. She just misses her dad like crazy. She doesn’t understand why he isn’t around any more.” Karen felt her voice catch in her throat, and she took a deep breath to hold the tears back. They always threatened to come when she spoke about the divorce. “You know what they say, it’s always toughest on the kids.”

  Sarah tilted her head sympathetically. “Is it, though? How are you holding up?”

  “I…” Karen plucked the Camel from Sarah’s hand and took a long drag. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I want to bean everyone over the head too, but I’d get more than a stern word from the teacher if I started swinging.” She passed the cigarette back with a look of mock disgust. She’d been trying to quit for a year, but the stress wasn't making it any easier. “I’ll survive. Jack’s got Emily next weekend. That usually perks her up for a few days.”