The Big Fall
by
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The door opened quietly, a noiseless thrush floating through the air for a few careless moments before dying amidst the dusty collection of chairs, cabinets and musty pictures that decorated the smoke filled room.
On one side, a dirty, grime covered window that faced out onto an uneventful piece of New York, on the other side stood second-rate filing cabinets, a nearly-leather leather chair, and a picture of Yankee great, Lou Gherig.
Soft heels clicked on the vinyl floor getting louder until they stopped at the foot of the desk, my desk.
My name, Gabriel Dixon, but you can call me “Dix,” everyone else does.
In a town where the only thing you want to claim as your own is a winning ducat at the race track, a name runs a distant second, especially if the tax guy is looking for you. I’m not really philosophical; it’s just that sometimes I get an itch that nags at me like a lovesick puppy. Usually a couple of scotch cures that nagging, but lately even that cure seems to be losing its punch.
So, instead of doing something about it, I sit here and wait, hoping the next big thing will come floating into my life, not really expecting it to though. At least not until the door opened ten seconds ago and the most beautiful piece of change that ever made a priest forget about celibacy walked in.
I looked up slowly, pulling my hat back pretending not to care, but not being too successful at it. My eyes felt like bare hands, touching everything as they worked their way up to a pair of big, blue eyes that could make an umpire cry like a baby.
I eased back my chair, a noisy creak slipping through the air like an accidentally spoken bad word.
The time between us passed like strangers at a bus stop, quiet and full of a strange discomfort that suddenly stabbed at me like a plate of beef at a knife convention.
“Yes, is there something I can do for you Miss…,” I asked, trying to do my best Bogie impression.
“Mrs….,” she emphasized, “Mrs. Anita Ramsey. You are Gabriel Dixon the private investigator are you not?”
“Some days I’m not sure, but for you, I’ll leave my fragile ego at the door and say yes,” I replied.
“I do not have the time or the patience for immature banter. Either you are Mr. Dixon or you are not. If you are not then you’ll forgive me for my intrusion and I will be on my way,” she said dryly.
She looked and spoke like a woman, a desperate woman. Under the layers of
“I said yes didn’t I? If that’s not good enough for you then there’s the door, don’t let it hit you on the way to the salon sister,” I said, pointing to the door casually.
Her ego took a few steps to the rear like a child who had just got caught with her hand in the cookie jar. The hardened features on her face smoothed out like a made bed.
“I apologize Mr. Dixon, it’s just that I’ve been under a great deal of stress. Please forgive my outburst.”
“Don’t think anything about it. Down in these parts an outburst is defined as two disagreeable parties beating each other over the heads with baseball bats. Kind of gives Babe Ruth a bad name, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I suppose it does,” she replied, slightly distractedly. I watched her closely as she stood before me nervously needing her hands together like a kid making a snowball.
“Mrs. Ramsey, why don’t you sit down and tell my why you’re here?”
She was class from head to toe; she was the Yankees, I was the Brooklyn Dodgers. She didn’t walk, she floated, and the graceful way she sat down was like water perfectly filling a glass. She had more curves that a coke bottle, and her legs could make a blind man see and the holiest of men reach across and give Satan a hug. Her perfume was like steak to a beggar; my heart growled as if understanding for the first time what a real woman smelled like.
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About the Book
Private Detective Gabriel Dixon’s world has always revolved around three things: Booze,
She was trouble and he knew it, but the attraction was too powerful to ignore. Trouble was nothing knew to
What follows is a fistful of beatings, car chases, dizzy dames that won’t quit and Nazi thugs bent on destroying everything that World War II New York is all about.
What
This story is laced with 40’s jargon and contains more twists and turns than a plateful of spaghetti.
This novel is reminiscent of the film-noir detective style movies and novels that defined much of that era. Guns were called “heaters”, and women were called “dames” and danger was nothing more than a badly cooked steak.
Take a trip back into the past and read for yourself.
About the Author
The Big Fall is Ivan Narayan’s first novel. He has a degree in English Literature from the University of British Columbia, and has written several manuals for marketing and promotion companies.
He is currently working on his second novel, tentatively titled “The Trigger Method,” for eventual release early next year.