The Fall-Down Artist (16 page)

Dorsey slid across the sofa and folded his arms around her. “Like you said, the system goes down and takes all its information with it. Had it done what it's supposed to do, then you get a chance to do your stuff. Which is to do the right thing in an emergency.”

Gretchen nestled closer. “It's more than that. I had simply decided I had seen it all. This was just another drunk, and the all-knowing Dr. Keller without any medical history divined the proper course of action. I just did it and moved on to the next patient.”

“How'd he make out?” Dorsey asked. “Fiedler, I mean.”

“Fine, thank God. The aphasia was temporary. He'll spend tonight and maybe tomorrow in the hospital, and if all goes well he goes home.”

“No harm done,” Dorsey said.

“I know.” Gretchen's eyes teared and she dabbed at them with her sleeve.

Dorsey set his beer on the coffee table and cradled her. He kissed her curled hair and rocked her slowly. In this easy motion he realized that in consoling Gretchen he found his own peace. Here and nowhere else, he thought. You've got to keep her. Solve the case.

At his
row house on Wharton Street, Dorsey rose early the next morning, as if Gretchen had stayed with him. Just before sunrise he dressed in gray sweats and looked out through the window: the street was empty except for the paperboy. Regardless, he left through the alley. Once his exercise was done and he had returned home, Dorsey quickly showered and dressed without shaving. For the next few hours he paced the office and sipped coffee, waiting for the shops on Carson to open. At nine o'clock he checked the streets again, found them empty, and left, wearing a wool parka against the autumn wind, this time through the front door.

Strolling up South Seventeenth, he checked each doorway and continually glanced over his shoulder. No one's there, he told himself. But no one seemed to be watching yesterday either; the coast was clear. Yet they were there, all right, right on your heels. You just didn't see them. You old pro, you. At Carson he turned right, crossed three intersections, and entered a men's clothing store.

“Ivan, you around?” The lights were on but the sales floor was empty. “Ivan, c'mon, you've got a customer waiting. You in back? I need a few things.”

A very short and slight man in his early sixties pushed through a curtain separating the sales floor from storage. Carrying a Styrofoam coffee cup, he walked the length of
the shop, his free hand playing across the top of a glass showcase displaying ties, belts, and handkerchiefs. Ivan's pants were worn to chest level. Dorsey tried to remember the difference between a dwarf and a midget.

“Dorsey, good morning,” Ivan said, leaning back into the showcase. His voice was thick with the sound of Eastern Europe. “Coffee in back. Want some?”

“Had some,” Dorsey said, “half a pot, I think. Need a shirt, a dress shirt. Nice one. And maybe a tie. I still have credit, right? My account's paid up.”

“On the fourteenth of the month.” Ivan closed his eyes to calculate. “Eighty-seven dollars and thirty-one cents. A sweater and two sport shirts, bought on sale. Two months ago. You were late, but there's no interest charge so why argue? This shirt: wearing it with a suit?”

“Yeah, the dark gray with the pinstripe.”

Ivan pushed himself from the showcase and shuffled to a shelf loaded with broadcloth shirts still in their plastic wrappings. As he went, Dorsey could sense him picturing the suit in his mind. “You're the one with the long arms, right?” Ivan asked. “Sixteen neck and thirty-six sleeve, that's you. And button-down collar, Arrow or Hathaway?”

Ivan held out for his inspection a conventional light blue button-down. Having placed himself, sartorially, in Ivan's hands years ago, Dorsey immediately approved. Next, Ivan led him to the tie rack sitting on top of the glass showcase. He set his coffee near the cash register. “This dress-up: business or for the girlfriend?” Ivan fingered the edge of one of the neckties.

“Very serious business,” Dorsey said. “I have to impress. Keep the color of the suit in mind.”

“Of course. Try this.” Ivan held up a muted burgundy tie, spreading its full length between his hands. He then gently laid the tie diagonally across the shirt.

“Very nice with the suit,” Ivan said. “With the way you describe it, I mean. Give me the wrong colors, mistake's not my fault.”

“It'll be fine.”

Ivan produced a ledger from below the cash register and flipped through the pages to the D's. In a very clear hand, and with his nose almost touching the page, he recorded the sale. “Something else, socks maybe? Handkerchief for the breast pocket? You want to impress, the outfit gotta be right.”

“This is fine,” Dorsey said, scooping up the bag that held his purchases. I'm fixed pretty well for the rest.”

“Don't forget,” Ivan called after him. “Shave your face. Don't forget, for chrissake!”

Two doors down from Carson, Dorsey stopped at a dry cleaner and had the shirt unwrapped and steam-pressed. While it was run through the steam table, the sleeves taking on creases as sharp as blades, Dorsey paced going through the names in his head, cataloging each with cross-references. Radovic leads to Damjani, who loops back to Stroesser, who splits, going in two directions, to Stockman and the priest. Father Jancek encircles them all and doubles back neatly to himself.

Slinging the shirt across his shoulder on a hanger, Dorsey hurried back to the row house, where he sat himself down to work up a spit shine on a pair of Florsheim's. Kiwi cream polish was followed by twenty minutes of buffing with a clean chamois, and the shoes rivaled onyx.

Dorsey took another and much slower shower, scrubbing his flesh nearly raw and methodically applying a cuticle brush to his nails. And all the time he did so, the opinions and the possibilities, names and dates, all fell into their pigeonholes to be kept at the ready. A slow and precise shave followed and then Dorsey dressed gently, respecting the fabric and the dry cleaner's skill. It took him three tries before his tie had the perfect knot.

Toting his suit jacket on its hanger, Dorsey went downstairs to the office. He laid the jacket smoothly across the chaise and went to his desk, where he again reviewed the case file. The phone rang. When he answered it, Ironbox Boyle asked him to hold for his father.

“Hello Carroll, how are you?” His father sounded particularly happy.

“Good,” Dorsey said. “A little on the antsy side, but good.”

“Nervous?” Martin Dorsey asked. “How so?”

Quickly, Dorsey gave his father a rundown on his talk with Monsignor Gallard, its aftermath, and the impending conference. Two-thirds of the way through, Dorsey realized his father's cheery tone had him spilling his guts, but he did it anyway.

“A lot of it will be their perception and your appearance,” Martin Dorsey said. “The meeting, I mean. You've testified in court; just conduct yourself like you're on the stand. No quick answers, just calm response. This reminds me of a fellow named Johnny Reardon. Maybe you remember him?”

“Don't recall.”

“Johnny was a lawyer, had a small office, I think it was in Morningside. He handled local small-time offenders, mostly kids. Played the clarinet and applied his music to his law practice. His young clients were mostly anxious types, the kind who make fools of themselves when they testify. So Johnny taught them a three-note downbeat. Answer no question until you count three in your head, he always told them. They said that when Johnny had a real dolt for a client, Johnny would stand in the courtroom waving his finger like a baton. A-one-and-a-two-and-a-three.”

“Nice system,” Dorsey said. “If the kids could count that high.”

“All systems have their flaws.”

Dorsey silently concurred with that thought. “So, Mrs. Boyle gets me on the line for you. I can't help thinking this is official, but you sound like you're looking for a chat. What's up?”

“The project we discussed the last time you were here? I collected several advances today, unexpected ones. This thing is off and running.”

“Congratulations,” Dorsey said. “You always knew where the money was.”

Martin Dorsey laughed. “I know where the money is. Are you going to let me show you the way? You said you might.”

“Give me a few more days,” Dorsey said, immediately thinking of Gretchen. “Things have been hectic around here, remember?”

“Find the time. Make the time,” Martin Dorsey said. “I never pretended I was doing this without strings. This is for me, I told you that. So I can sit here in my office and tell myself I'm a great father, thoughtful enough to make a fortune for you. I want that as quick as I can have it and for as long as I can have it. So make up your mind.”

At precisely twenty minutes before two o'clock, Dorsey left his house through the back and walked two blocks down the alley to where he had parked the car the night before. His steps were controlled and slow as he struggled with the tom-tom beat in his chest. In light afternoon traffic he cruised across the Tenth Street bridge and through the dim yellow light of the Armstrong Tunnel, emerging into the downtown area. He parked in a Ross Street lot near the courthouse and walked one block to his appointment, past the law offices that lined the sidewalk. Entering a large office building, he took the elevator to the eleventh floor. Bernie was waiting for him in the reception area.

“Good, we've got a few minutes.” Bernie took him by the arm and led the way through a clerical area where three secretaries typed from dictation machines. Bernie smiled and waved as the two men passed.

“Easy, Bern,” Dorsey said, freeing his arm and rubbing his elbow. Bernie closed the office door behind them. “It's been a rough couple of days.”

“Keep your sense of humor, it may be all you have left.” Bernie settled in behind his desk and motioned Dorsey into the visitor's chair. “No shit. I've been snooping around the halls for the last day and a half, trying to get some idea as
to how this thing is going to go, and I've come up empty. Really, you better understand. A law firm is like any other business. There are few secrets anyone can keep. All the boys bullshit after work, and the young ones have a whole officeful of secretaries they're trying to impress. A little bombshell dropped in the ear of your favorite typist might go a long way, but not this time. I haven't heard one thing, except that I'll be in the room with you. Not to add anything but just to put you at ease. Show a friendly face, I was told.”

“Jesus, Bern. Am I being bounced off this thing?”

“Who the hell knows?” Bernie said. “I can't find out dick about this one.”

The telephone on Bernie's desk buzzed twice. He depressed a flashing button and lifted the receiver.

“Okay, right away.” Bernie put the receiver in its cradle. “That was it, my friend. We're on.”

“Despite these
formal settings, of which I am rather proud, I think we should proceed informally. First names all around.”

George Everette depressed a blood-colored button on the arm of his chair, and a young secretary entered the room from a side door that blended into the sea-green wallpaper. She crossed the hunter-green carpet and took coffee orders from those seated at the table, which was cherrywood, matching the chair rail that circled the room. Everette, dressed in a double-breasted navy blazer with gold buttons, nodded and smiled around the table, as if approving each beverage choice. Bernie sat in muted light at the edge of the room. The secretary left.