The Fall-Down Artist (13 page)

“And he wants something done,” Dorsey said.

“Quickly,” Bernie said. “He's very concerned about corporate image. He wants something done fast, and that something involves a meeting with you.”

“Just me? To find out if I'm loyal, trustworthy, and brave?”

“Not by a long shot,” Bernie said. “They're going to circle the wagons this Friday at two-thirty. Cleardon and Munt are flying in. Corso will be there too, sweating bullets, I'm sure. Everette may attend and bring me along as caddy. And a guy from the DA's office.”

Dorsey set down his beer, so startled he nearly toppled it. “Why the DA's office? Nobody's preferring charges. There's no complaint filed.”

“His attendance will be strictly informal,” Bernie said. “But face it, if your reports are right, we have insurance fraud, a conspiracy. This is Mr. Everette's idea. The DA's rep will also be sitting in for the DA offices in Westmoreland, Washington, and Beaver counties. And anywhere else you've been snooping lately.”

“So I appear before all the big guns.”

“That's right,” Bernie said. “So you better get your shit straight.”

“And how do I go about that?”

As Bernie filled him in, Russie appeared at the booth and tapped Dorsey's shoulder. Bernie looked annoyed but Russie waved him off and spoke to Dorsey.

“Al says you gotta leave inna little bit. And you gotta use the back door, through the kitchen.”

“How come?”

Russie leaned in closer. “Al said to remind you about the three guys who were on your ass when you came in. He expects them to be out front waitin' on you. Al says you should be expectin' that, too. So like he says, use the back door.”

“Thanks, Russie, thanks a lot and tell Al thanks, too.” Dorsey turned back to Bernie. “And you ask me why I take care of the guy?”

At five
the next morning, the alarm clock sang out and Dorsey flopped over onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. Gretchen rose immediately from the far side of the mattress, punching the alarm switch as she went naked down the hall and into the shower. Dorsey listened to the pipes rattle as the hot water struggled up from the basement tank.

They had made love fiercely the night before, Dorsey erasing the previous day, Gretchen alternately responding and initiating with the passion that never failed to surprise him. But even the serenity that followed their coupling could not take the edge from Dorsey's dream, a repeating flight from men chasing him and, worse, catching him. On any other morning when Gretchen had early rounds at the hospital, Dorsey would doze until just before six and then throw on whatever clothes were handy and drive her to work. This morning was different. His dreams had one foot in reality. From all sides, he thought; they're coming at me from all sides. Won't even let a man get his sleep.

By the time Gretchen returned from the shower wrapped in her terry-cloth robe, Dorsey had on his gray cotton sweatsuit and was sitting at the edge of the bed lacing his Brooks walking shoes, the ones with paint splattered on them. “You're up,” she said. Her tone mimicked wonder.

“Sleep seems suddenly to be bad for me.” Dorsey stood
and tested the strength of his legs with a few deep-knee bends. “I'll be back in plenty of time to run you to work.”

Dorsey took Wharton to South Sixteenth Street, then made a right onto Carson, his arms and legs pumping in unison. The trees along Carson were few in number and widely spaced, but collectively they had produced enough brown and yellow leaves to overflow the gutter and litter the pavement. On the outward leg of his walk, Dorsey kicked at the leaves and thought of Gretchen and money, his father and money, and the investigation—which could also be money. Future cases and new accounts and maybe an exclusive with Fidelity Casualty. That's money! Dorsey thought.

The return trip, after the turnaround at the foot of the Smithfield Street bridge, went quickly, now that the pace was set and the joints well oiled. The body moved on its own while Dorsey cleared his mind with a daydream of Benny Goodman's clarinet. Finished with “Don't Be That Way,” he moved on to a fantasy of Ellington's piano with the horn section as backup. He was so immersed in the last bars of “Mood Indigo,” when he crossed the alley bisecting the block between Carson and Wharton, he almost missed the first sign of surveillance. A few doors up the alley, its left wheels on the curb, was a radio van with the Channel Three logo across its rear double doors.

Dorsey moved cautiously down the alley, nearly doubled into a crouched position, until he was certain the van was unmanned. Peering through the passenger-side window he saw the citizen band radio and police scanner and wished he could remember the name of the thief who had sold him the telephone answering machine. Cleaning out the van would help even things, Dorsey told himself, for the shit they plan to put you through. He also wished for an ice pick to do in the tires.

He left the alley and moved down to the corner of Wharton and South Sixteenth, again crouching and staying close to the red brick of the corner house. Craning his neck past the building's edge, he saw yesterday's cameraman huddled
in the doorway across from his own. Dorsey figured him to be alone until he spotted a second man sitting in a car parked halfway down the block at the far-side curb. Dorsey wondered if there was a third man on the back door.

Trotting back to the alley, Dorsey shaped his plans. Keeping at a brisk pace but mindful of his knee, he crossed South Sixteenth and took the alley for three blocks, then went back to Wharton on South Thirteenth. After waiting for a truck to pause at the intersection's stop sign, he sprinted across Wharton and continued down to the next alley, running parallel to Wharton and back to South Sixteenth. Carefully, he approached his own thin back yard. Nobody's on the back door, Dorsey decided. So they're watching the car, not the house. Simple bastards.

Dorsey entered the house through the back door and found Gretchen at the kitchen table, dunking a tea bag in her cup. She wore her work uniform. “Forget the front-door key?” she asked, smiling over the rim of the cup.

“Company out front.” Dorsey continued on through the kitchen and hallway to the front office.

Gretchen followed and watched as he peeked through the drawn curtains. “Seems like you do a lot of window peeking these days.”

“Channel Three again,” Dorsey said. “Two of them. One's the cameraman from yesterday. Probably want not only to follow me but also to get a few candid shots as I head out for another day of evil doings. Think I'll stay put.”

“I suppose that means I take the bus to work.”

Gretchen watched Dorsey seat himself at the desk and lift the telephone receiver.

“Take the car,” Dorsey said.

“Won't you need it today?” Gretchen asked, approaching the desk. “I thought you would. I can't see getting away from the hospital before five or five-thirty. And I wanted to go to my place tonight.”

“Please, take the car.” Dorsey dialed a number. “Park in the garage, like always, then give the keys to Bennie.
You know, the guy you pay on the way out? I'm sending Russie over on the bus to drive the car back here. I'll get you when the shift is over.”

Gretchen shook her head. “You're sending Russie? He drives? He has a license?”

“Yes and no, I think.” Dorsey listened to the ringing at the other end of the line. Looking at Gretchen, he said, “Guy lives on the second floor and you have to call on the bar phone. Takes forever.” Dorsey rested his elbows on the desk and spoke into the receiver. “Sorry to get you up. . . . Oh, you
were
up. Do me a favor? . . . Good, here's the deal.”

Ten minutes later Gretchen left as Dorsey watched from the window. The cameraman tensed at first and lifted the minicam but stopped halfway up, disappointment registering on his face. The man in the car, which was an LTD, showed no reaction at all. Cool son of a bitch, Dorsey thought.

Dorsey caught a quick shower and dressed casually in jeans and sport shirt. In the kitchen he brewed a small pot of coffee and reheated oatmeal that Gretchen had made earlier. With one long arm he retrieved the morning paper from the front doormat—the paperboy rarely missed—and with his meal he began to wander through the sports section.

Halfway through his second cup of coffee, Dorsey heard movement in the back yard. There were three knocks at the back door, a moment's pause, and then another three. “C'mon in,” Dorsey called. “It's open.”

Russie walked through the door with two sets of car keys in his hand. “Car's parked up in front of the bar. Al's van's just out back in the alley. He says it's okay, he won't need it today.”

Dorsey rose from his seat and pressed a ten-dollar bill into Russie's hand. “Cup of coffee? Something to eat?”

Russie accepted the offer of coffee and poured himself a cup. He took off his watch cap and opened his zippered jacket, then took a seat opposite Dorsey. “The guys outside,
they here 'cause of the stuff on TV?” Russie sipped at his coffee, bending to the cup instead of lifting it.

“Because of yesterday. That's right.”

“People like to hold on to hard feelings,” Russie said. “Get a hard-on for a guy, they don't like to let go. Gives them something to live for. Remember Tootsie Reagan, he was pissed at your old man for years? All 'cause Tootsie had a dumbbell of a son-in-law that he wanted made into a constable. Wasn't satisfied that your father fixed up the kid with a job onna public works truck. Tootsie took it as a pride thing, and when your father told him the kid was an asshole and he could take the truck job or nothin', Tootsie said forget it. The kid didn't get shit. And Tootsie got pissed.”

“Tootsie was a dipshit,” Dorsey said. “Tried his best to make trouble for the old man afterward, something about splitting some ballots, I think. But he never got anywhere.” Dorsey folded his paper and pushed it to Russie.

“And Tootsie just got hotter.” Russie took the paper and placed his cap over it. “And when he ended up out on his ear, all he had to live for was hatin' your father. How's your father doin', anyways?”

“Good, I think. Called yesterday, left a message. I'll get back to him today.”

“Still the same between you guys?” Russie asked. “Me and your father go way back. I know him good. Knows how to take care of a guy.”

Dorsey ran his eyes over Russie, examining the plain work pants and cotton shirt, looking into the guileless face and eyes. Maybe he's simple, but surely not stupid, Dorsey concluded. And Bernie wonders why I take care of him. As if he needed it.

When Russie had finished his coffee and was gone, Dorsey cleared the breakfast dishes and went to the front office to check the street. The cameraman was gone but the watcher in the LTD was still in place. Resigning himself to being on the opposite side of a surveillance, Dorsey put on some music and began to peck out a brief outline of the
previous day's events on the Olivetti. When he finished he took from the file cabinet the investigation reports on the four men and one woman who had shared the stage with Damjani and Father Jancek. He read slowly, taking notes on a yellow legal pad.

At ten o'clock, by Bernie's arrangement, a bicycle messenger delivered a portable dictaphone and three cassette tapes. They want to get your reports, Bernie had said in the back booth at Al's, fast as you can talk them. So they can digest them. Sounds like stomach trouble, Dorsey had told him. Try Zantac.

Dorsey turned down the music to a murmur and spoke softly into the microphone, hoping his spoken reports would play as well as his written ones. Working slowly through his outline, he touched on each of the investigations that had led to Midland. Radovic, fiercely proud of the manpower he could muster to back up his threats. Karen Stroesser, who examined bumpers like a researcher for
Consumer Reports
, looking for the safest car in which to have an accident. And Damjani, the master of ceremonies. Then there's Father Jancek, he told himself, a man you know very little about.

Twice during the dictation, Dorsey was interrupted by the telephone. He let the answering machine pick up the calls but set the volume so he could listen in.

“About yesterday,” Sam Hickcock said over the line. “Don't take the stuff I said on TV seriously. I couldn't come away from your place empty-handed. I'd've caught hell if I had nothing on the day's big story, especially if I came back without film. But the offer to hear your side of the story still stands. Call me.” Hickcock left his number.