The Long Fall by Lynn Kostoff

have three or four unregenerates who are still laboring under the unfashionable assumption that a university is a place to explore ideas and enlarge the human spirit. Those papers are a reminder of why I got into this profession in the first place.”
    Howard pauses, quickly counts the number of dead soldiers on the table, and hollers to Leon to bring more reinforcements.
    “You still haven’t told me what’s wrong,” he says.
    “In a nutshell, I’m more than a little short in the time and money departments.”
    “You need a loan?” Howard asks, pulling out his wallet. “I can spot you a couple twenties.”
    Jimmy waves him off. “I appreciate it, Howie, but we’re talking Big, not Little, Picture here. And I’m running out of time.”
    “That’s where we always find and lose ourselves,” Howie says finally. “In Time. Always in Time.” He scratches his head. “Our compadre Kirkegaard knew that. You take the leap of faith knowing that sooner or later it’s going to become the long fall, because we’re stuck in time and can’t do anything about that, nothing. But for my money, the truth lies not in the leap or the fall, but precisely at the point where one becomes the other. That’s where you want to set up shop.”
    “I’ll keep that in mind,” Jimmy says.
    Forty-five minutes later, when Howard leaves for his evening class, Jimmy drifts over to the bar, and it’s not long before Winston, owner of the Chute, steps up next to him.
    “No tabs,” Winston says, crossing his arms and nesting them on his chest.
    Jimmy pantomimes deafness and waves him closer.
    “No,” Winston repeats, “tabs.”
    “Since when?”
    “Since I checked the books and saw the one you ran up after first getting out of Perryville.”
    Winston’s in his early fifties with a great sloping paunch avalanching against a pair of thick black suspenders and a wide round face that high blood pressure has shaded the color of wet bubble gum. There’s a small, lumpy gray mustache hanging around his thick upper lip.
    “I’ve also heard about your troubles with Ray Harp,” Winston says. “No way I’m going to let a potential corpse stiff me.”
    “Okay, okay,” Jimmy says, digging around in his jeans. He pulls out a crumpled wad of ones, all he has left from what he fenced out with Pete Samoa.
    Winston leans over and fingers his way through the bills Jimmy’s piled next to the ashtray. Jimmy can hear him counting to himself.
    Winston steps back and tells Leon, “You shut him down when those are gone, understand?”
    Someone calls Jimmy’s name, and he turns and sees Don Ruger working his way through the tables, all smiles, his gait with a permanent hitch from a knee injury he got in one of the long string of auto accidents he’s been in over the years.
    “What’s wrong with the forehead?” Jimmy asks when Don gets to the bar. “That’s some kind of nasty.”
    Don grins sheepishly and lightly fingers the dark mass of bruise and contusion running from above his right eye to temple. Through its center is a vertical line of ragged homemade stitches.
    “Got clotheslined by the Missus,” Don says. “She had it strung across the front steps, knee-level, when I came home late from the track, you know, the one on Washington and thirty-eighth?” Don drops his hand and grins again. “Porch light was out, and I walked right into the line, went headfirst into the storm door. Glass everywhere after. I guess I should stay away from the dogs.”
    Don lightly punches Jimmy on the shoulder and winks, then turns to Winston when he notices that Winston hasn’t moved off. “What’s up?” he asks.
    “What’s up is whether you’re going to pay up. I want to be sure you’re more solvent than your pal there.” Winston goes on to deliver the usual litany of complaint about Jimmy’s overdue tab.
    Don pulls out his wallet, then pauses. “You a betting man, Winston?”
    Jimmy sees what’s coming. “Not a good idea, Don. I’m a