Prologue
Have you ever had one of those dreams where you’re falling and you can’t stop yourself? It can start any number of ways. Falling from a plane. Falling from a roof top. Falling off a bridge. Doesn’t matter how it started, the result is the same. You fall…and as the story goes, you wake up before you land and all is right with the world again.
For most people, dreams like these happened randomly. Maybe they’ve experienced two or three times throughout their lives. Some more often. We have been led to believe these dreams are common representations of our shortfalls of the average human being trying to deal with the internal struggles of everyday life.
So, whether it is a Loss of control or Fear of Failure, (I Like that one) or letting go, sometimes, we all fall. Then just before we hit the ground. We wake up. In a manner of speaking.
This morning I woke up from one of these dreams. I had the same dream the night before also. Actually, I’ve had the same dream for the past twelve years. I’ve come to embrace the fall so to speak and use it as I navigate through my slumber. I talk to it. Curse at it. Make deals with it, and hope, sometimes, that I hit the ground. Just so I can put and end to the dream. But quite possibly, if I did die, I would probably trip while talking to Saint Peter and spend eternity waiting for the earth to catch me.
I don’t intend to put a damper on the whole idea of having a good morning, but something’s got to change. So, I’m going to get up off the sofa here in my office as soon as I hear those lovely words, ‘Morn’n, Harry. Here’s your coffee. Why are you still sleeping on the couch?’ Meanwhile, ‘Since I Fell for You’ crackles softly from a radio somewhere, like the universe is trying to rub it in.
I heard Elle before I saw her—heels clicking down the hallway like a metronome set to “disappointment.” She never knocked. She said doors were for people with boundaries, and I hadn’t had one of those in years.
“Morn’n, Harry,” she said, and the smell of burnt chicory hit me before the cup did. “Here’s your coffee. Why are you still sleeping on the couch?”
I sat up, bones complaining like tenants behind on rent. “It’s not a couch,” I said. “It’s a convertible bed. Converts my spine into a question mark.”
She didn’t laugh. She rarely did at my jokes. I think she saved her smiles for people who paid their bills on time.
“You know,” she said, setting the cup on the only clean spot on my desk, “most men would take the hint after three years.”
“Hint?” I rubbed my eyes. “She didn’t give me a hint. She gave me an eviction notice.”
Elle sighed. She had a way of sighing that made you feel like you’d personally lowered the bar for humanity.
“Harry, your ex is engaged to the assistant district attorney. They announced it in the Times. There was a photo. She looked happy. You looked—”
“Where’s my shoe?” I cut in, patting around the couch cushions like a man searching for lost dignity.
Elle didn’t even blink. She’d known me back when she was slinging bad coffee at the corner café on my beat—back when I still had a badge, a home, and a spine that wasn’t shaped like a pretzel. Interruptions were just part of the Harry Lisgar package.
Something rolled off the sofa and clinked across the floorboards. An empty bourbon bottle spun lazily, pointing its neck toward her desk like it was giving directions.
“Never mind,” I muttered. “It’s under your desk.”
She continued as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “—you looked absent.”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” I said.
“Not in your case.”
I swung my legs off the couch and planted my feet on the cold floorboards. The laundry downstairs had been running its steam press since dawn, and the pipes rattled like a skeleton with stage fright. The whole building smelled faintly of starch and regret.
“Any calls?” I asked.
“No.”
“Any clients?”
“No.”
“Any mail?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
I perked up. “Good news?”
“It’s from your landlord.”
I slumped. “Bad news.”
“Depends on how you feel about being evicted from your office.”
I took a sip of the coffee. It tasted like someone had filtered it through a trench coat. “Well,” I said, “looks like today’s the day something changes.”
Elle folded her arms. “Harry, you say that every morning.”
“Yeah,” I said, staring at the window, watching the sunlight fight its way through the grime. “But today I mean it.”
She stepped closer, brushing dust off my shirt with the same brisk efficiency she used to wipe down café counters years ago. Then she straightened my collar, tugged the wrinkles out of my tie, and gave me a look that said she wasn’t doing this for me—she was doing it so I wouldn’t embarrass her in front of a potential client.
“You should at least look like you haven’t slept in your clothes,” she said.
“I haven’t,” I replied. “I slept next to my clothes.”
“Harry,” she said, softening just a hair, “you’ve been falling for a long time. Doesn’t mean you can’t land on your feet once in a while.”
I didn’t answer. I never did when she got like that—gentle, honest, the kind of friend who sticks around even when the world doesn’t.
She stepped back, gave me one last once‑over, and nodded. “There. Presentable enough.”
And that’s when the knock came—three sharp raps on the door, the kind that belonged to someone with money, trouble, or both.
Elle raised an eyebrow. “Client.”
“Could be,” I said, straightening my tie. “Or it could be the landlord with a hammer.”
The knock came again, louder this time.
I stood, smoothed my newly‑straightened shirt, and walked toward the door.
“Let’s find out who’s falling today.”
Harry Lisgar’s Notebook — July 3, 1946 Unscheduled Visitor — 8:12 a.m.
Observations — Knock
• Three raps. Sharp. Confident.
• Not the landlord. He pounds.
• Not a client with money. They tap like they’re afraid of catching poverty.
• Not a cop. Cops knock like they own the door.
Interpretation Someone with trouble. Someone who thinks I can fix it. Someone who doesn’t know me very well.
Personal Notes Elle thinks today’s the day something changes. Maybe she’s right. Maybe the fall finally has a landing.
