The Long Fall by Lynn Kostoff Page A

little rusty.”
    Don lays a hundred down on the bar. “Jimmy’s tab against that. He’ll do the Titties.”
    “I told you, I’m out of practice, Don. I don’t think this is such a good idea.” Jimmy’s seen it before, Don wagering the weekly grocery money. Ditto with the green for the electric and water bills. “If we lose, Teresa will do more than clothesline you.”
    “I have faith in you,” Don says. “I’ve seen you work.”
    Winston’s looking at the hundred. “What do you mean, he’ll do the Titties? What kind of bet is that?”
    By now, word has started to snake through the bar, and a number of regulars have left their stools and tables and drifted over, standing in a clump behind Winston.
    “Jimmy can give you fifty—” Don says, concentrating. “What you call them, Jimmy?”
    “Synonyms,” Jimmy says quietly.
    “Yeah, okay,” Don says. “Here’s the deal. Jimmy can give you fifty synonyms for titties in a minute.”
    “No way,” Winston says. “He can’t. No one can. Not in a minute.”
    “I say yes.” Don reaches up and lightly scratches at his stitches.
    Jimmy shakes his head and sighs, but lets it ride.
    Winston’s fidgeting, his broad forehead sheened in a light sweat. He keeps tugging on his suspenders and then glancing at his watch. When he bites his lower lip, the slug of a mustache perched on his upper twitches and dips. Winston cranes his neck, looking around, taking in the crowd watching him, then resolutely dips into his pants pocket.
    “Tell you what,” he says. “Double or nothing.”
    “Don,” Jimmy says, but he’s waved off.
    Don’s nodding at Winston. “How about a little side bet, too? Five bucks for each one over fifty.”
    Winston takes off his wristwatch and sets it between Don Ruger and him. Then he pulls a small calculator from his shirt pocket and presses a couple buttons, clearing its face.
    “You ready, Jimmy?” Don asks.
    Jimmy looks at the door, but stays put. He nods.
    “Ten seconds and counting,” Winston says, looking down at the watch. “And it’s fifty synonyms besides ‘titties.’
Titties
don’t count in the total.” He smiles and points at Jimmy. “Go.”
    Jimmy leans back on the stool and aims his face at the ceiling, closing his eyes. “Silos. Jugs. Hooters. Tubes. Boomers. Torpedoes. Milk Steaks. Little Debbies. Melons. Rockets. Knockers. Bazooms. Saddle Bags. Paps. Milkshakes. Mammals. Jigglers. Snuggle Puppies. Headlights. Cushions. Squeegees. Pods. Balloons. Softies. Fixtures. Slope Heads. Tomatoes. Milk Duds. Meat Pies. Bags. Dynamic Duos. Hand-to-Mouths. Nipple Condos. Pillows. Tubes. Saucers. Chesties. Bouncers. Lamps. Dairy Products. Cha-Chas.”
    Winston’s loudly marking time, trying to break Jimmy’s rhythm. Jimmy, though, is in the zone, auctioneer-overdrive.
    “Home stretch, Buddy,” Don Ruger says.
    “Full Moons. Dinner Plates. Tongue Twisters. Bra Babies. Three-Sixties. Bay Windows. Peaches. Sugar Bags. Badges. Butter-balls. Twins. Hang Gliders. Plums. Knobs. Roundtables. Soft Touches. Chest Antlers. Cheese Keepers. Holy Rollers. Pies. Mommies. Peaks. Hat Racks. Front Lines. Handles. Ear Muffs. Chubbies. Tourist Attractions. Safe Harbors. Grillwork. Sno-Cones. Tahitis.”
    “Seventy-three,” Don Ruger says, slapping the bar top after Winston calls time.
    Winston looks at Jimmy, picks up his watch, and then stalks off to his office. He’s back in a few minutes with the money and Jimmy’s tab, which he rips in two and drops on the floor.
    Jimmy snaps his fingers. “Satellites,” he says. “I forgot Satellites.”
    “Man,” Don Ruger says, fingering his forehead. “I wish you’d been the dog running in the third at the track the other night. Would’ve saved me a whole lot of grief and green.”

SEVEN
     
    F rankie Coronado was the best jailhouse lawyer in the Perryville branch of the state of Arizona State Prison Complex, and Jimmy had driven out for early afternoon visiting hours and passed on two