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He doesn’t want it to end, but he can hear it ticking down and reads it in the way his body sometimes leaves him two months ill or crashed beside the sofa, head aching and unremembering. He reads it in his ever-shrinking list of clients and in the friends that drop him, one by one. In the way days gape empty and unwanted. And he reads it in his growing inability to find interest in a case, a conversation, in anything at all.
Bill Fallon used to care about an awful lot of things. Sometimes, on good days, he still does.
Other days, he drinks as much as he can stomach. Clings to Gertrude for dear life. Plays records incessantly, singing with them. Talking over them. And sometimes he simply wanders, hoping for answers or a familiar face, doing his best to avoid an empty apartment.
It’s thus that he finds himself in the park one afternoon, half-slumped on a bench and watching the world go by. He can’t remember why he sat down in the first place. He really doesn’t like sitting… But it must have seemed like a good idea at the time. Maybe he’d been tired. (That doesn’t make sense, Bill Fallon being tired, but it seems to happen these days. He tries not to think about it.)
There, though. Something catches his eyes, and suddenly, there’s a figure he recognizes, sliding furtively through the crowd.
Fallon wonders if he should leave.
He’d sworn off Arnold Rothstein almost a year ago. It had been a long time coming, in Fallon’s opinion; the wonder was that he hadn’t done it sooner. He’d endured more than his share of meddling and proselytizing, faced enough conceit to last a lifetime. And he could only take so many insinuations that his business depended purely on Rothstein. As if Fallon’s brain wasn’t (hadn’t been?) the best in the courts. He’d stood on his own merits, whatever Rothstein claimed.
The problem of what to do now – leave or ignore him or hail him first – has Fallon stymied. It takes a few moments to process anything these days. Drunk or sober, unless he’s having a particularly bright moment, he drifts just behind the world, catching up only once he’s rallied his faculties into focus. (If he thinks about it, it’s maddening. He used to be so swift, so lightning swift in everything.) So by the time he’s really begun to wrestle with the problem, Rothstein has appeared before him.
Fallon doesn’t like to be caught sitting, but he’s not about to jump up for Arnold Rothstein, of all people. So he stays where he is, wishing he had a smoke wishing he had a drink wishing everything made a little more sense, favoring Rothstein with a grin he doesn’t quite feel.
“You aren’t dead, after all.”
“And you’re still making a mess of yourself.”
“If I’m such a ne’er-do-well, I guess you’d better not be seen with me. I’d hate to tarnish your squeaky-clean reputation.” Fallon maintains his grin, because anything less would reek of defeat.
Rothstein stares down for a moment, giving an abstracted smile touched with amusement (and with – what? – with disappointment, with loss, perhaps resignation) before sliding onto the bench beside him. “I don’t think it matters.”
This is uncomfortable. Doubly so because something here almost feels natural. As if Rothstein ought to be here. As if on some level, Fallon welcomes Arnold’s presence.
Which is ridiculous. Arnold Rothstein is one of the last people on earth he wants to see. But Fallon always had been conflicted where this man is concerned. And it occurs to him that at least Rothstein has acknowledged his presence. Rothstein is here when so many others have turned away. And another thought strikes, as well: of all the clients he’s had – excepting Peggy – it’s possible that Rothstein understands him best.
Fallon backs away from the thought and feigns boredom. “Be it on your own head.”
Beside him, Rothstein seems still, subdued, though he hardly looks well. His pallor has somehow become more acute, and at a glance he seems distracted, only half here. “It’s been a while.”
“Has it?”
“You never call.” It’s supposed to be a joke, or whatever passes for a joke in Arnold Rothstein’s head. (That isn’t fair; Rothstein may have been a stick in the mud, but he hadn’t lacked a sense of humor.) Bill offers a half-smile in return, and Rothstein tries again. “I don’t see your name in the papers so much.”
“Maybe you haven’t been reading the right papers.”
“If you say so, Bill.”
“I do. I did.”
“How’s McGee?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He’s fine.” That isn’t any of Rothstein’s business, none of this is Rothstein’s business – McGee, the papers, what’s he getting at? – and Fallon’s not in the mood for having him nose about. “How’s Carolyn?”
There’s a moment of silence, and Fallon wonders whether he’d struck too hard. Well. That’s what Rothstein gets for inflicting his company on Fallon. Maybe. Besides, Fallon can’t just take it easy with Arnold; old habits die hard, or they don’t die at all.
Glancing over, it occurs to Fallon that he’s never seen Arnold looking more lost. Something is wrong with the man. Something has been wrong with Rothstein since before they’d split, and Fallon thinks it’s worse than his own shaking hands and worse than the way memories sometimes slide. (It has to be worse. Fallon can’t fathom a world in which he’s fallen behind Arnold Rothstein.)
After a moment, Rothstein clears his throat, though he keeps his eyes away from Fallon. “The leaves are starting to turn.”
For God’s sake— Fallon releases an audible sigh. He almost preferred the prying to small talk. What does Rothstein care about leaves? Why should Fallon care about them?
“I’m touched you came all this way to discuss leaves.”
“Would you rather we talk business?”
“We don’t have any business.”
“You don’t, do you?” Now Arnold is staring at him, and Bill squirms under the unwavering stare. As unwell as Rothstein has become, those eyes still possess a weight that demands attention. And he still knows too damn much. “It’s been a rough year for all of us.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really?” Now it’s Rothstein’s turn to sink back, shaking his head. “Of course you don’t. You never did.”
Fallon almost snaps back, but it wouldn’t be worthwhile. What does Rothstein want, a confession of some sort? An admission that he was right all along? He isn’t going to get any such thing. And anyway he was wrong. Dead wrong. For all his sermonizing, drinking isn’t so very awful. (Of course it is: Bill’s rotting from the inside; there’s no denying that. Not to himself.) As if it matters anymore.
If Rothstein dares to gloat, Fallon thinks he might slug him in the jaw.
There’s no gloating, though; Rothstein seems to be stepping lightly. When Fallon refuses to touch the subject, Rothstein moves onto something else, and they manage a few further words, saying precious little as they side-step explosive topics and personal matters. It’s safer to dance around the surface. Safer to avoid teeth and accusations and all the words that haven’t made it into thought. (And why. Why are they talking like this?)
Fallon’s own words feel a little stale in his mouth. Not exactly rehearsed, but not spontaneous, either. He should be doing better. There ought to be more life to his speech. He knows all the old cadences and returns, he remembers his lines, but he can’t compose anything new, and the look in Arnold’s eyes – is that pity? – says he knows it.
Of course he does.
Everything Fallon’s failed to do and everything he doesn’t have is written clear as day.
He doesn’t know what they’re talking about anymore. The words have blurred into worries and a wistfulness he doesn’t care to name. Never mind this conversation. Never mind anything. Fallon has had enough of this.
Fallon stands a little too quickly, and the ground rocks below his feet. Doing his best not to show it, he brushes at his jacket, glances away. “It’s been wonderful catching up, Arnold, but I have an appointment to keep.”
Rothstein blinks up at him for a moment before rising, and Fallon can see him accepting the lie, permitting it to exist. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from anything.”
“I guess you already have. I think I’m running late.”
“Has that ever bothered you before?”
Fallon smirks in spite of himself and starts to offer his hand, stopping only when Rothstein clears his throat again.
“Look, Bill, I—”
Then it’s silence, the words catching in Rothstein’s throat, and Fallon is faced with those questioning, too-steady eyes. He understands. Reads the meaning without hearing it, sees the plea of this man who’s always understood Bill Fallon a little too well, this man Fallon’s not been able to erase from his mind. And for a moment, Bill is tempted. To invite Arnold for a drink. To suggest that they walk together. To ask him to the apartment, just for company. What would it be, to have that companionship?
He’s certain Rothstein would take him up on the offer. Because Rothstein has lost too many people and lost too much of himself. Because Bill knows the feeling. Because there’s not much left to catch hold of, and because in the end it’s come down to an isolation neither of them can stomach.
But he can’t. Instead, Fallon gives a sweeping bow. “Adieu, Mr. Rothstein. Parting may be sweet sorrow, but I’d best take my leave. Some of us still have to earn a living, you know.”
Before he can read the ruefulness that crosses Rothstein’s face, before he can comprehend his own regret, Fallon turns and sweeps away, moving with a purpose that fades by the hour.