The Fall-Down Artist (19 page)

“Go on.” Dorsey knew the defense, which was no defense. Just try to settle as low as possible. With a pen, he underlined the total on his electric bill. “How bad was the hand?”

Bernie shook his head. “Total functional loss. Two fingers they couldn't sew back on and severed tendons in the thumb. Total washout. So, liability and damages are established. And the plaintiff's attorney, guy named Kendall, he plans on hitting us extra hard on the issue of lost future wages. He makes it clear up front that he considers his
client disabled for life. No more working, period. The guy was a drugstore pharmacist for eleven years, and supposedly that was all he could do. Bunch of bullshit is what it was.”

“Had a point.” Dorsey grinned. “No more diet pills, no more Ortho-Novum products to hand out. But he could fall back on his other skills, like selling Styrofoam coolers and hair dryers. From what I see, that's half the job.”

“The man was educated and could've used his skills elsewhere,” Bernie half shouted. “Knows the sciences, chemistry and all. And he knew enough medicine not to poison anyone for eleven years on the job. Think he couldn't do anything else? Tell you what, he could've been great claims examiner. The man could save an insurance company a bundle doing hospital audits. We had to pay; shit, that was obvious. But this Kendall, he wanted to soak us.”

“So the vocational expert was to show that the lost future wage figure was unreasonable. He was to prove the guy could get another job.”

“You got it.” Bernie, in a movement made awkward by his anger, pulled himself to a sitting position and faced Dorsey. “And it was Corso's job to hire the expert. Kendall let the voc expert evaluate his man, no problem. Which should have tipped me off. The court would have made him comply, but he should have put up a fuss for appearances, show his client how tough he is.”

“So, how'd it turn out?” Dorsey moved on to a notice from the county tax assessor.

“Prick crossed us,” Bernie said. “Corso finds this hack with a master's degree and all those little letters behind his name that lets him charge a fee. This master's degree interviews the pharmacist for a couple of hours, runs him through some aptitude tests, and files a ten-page report and a six-hundred-dollar fee. And the report says the pharmacist will never work again unless he is completely retrained. Any chance of a fair settlement was gone. We paid through the nose.”

“Got stiffed. It happens.” Dorsey shrugged his shoulders and looked back at his sports photos. Involuntarily, he flexed his arthritic fingers. “By and large, Corso is an asshole, you'll get no argument from this corner. And in your case he picked the wrong guy. Unless you think there's more to it.”

Bernie rose and paced across the front of the desk, reminding Dorsey of a schoolboy being forced to admit a prank. “I figured the same: we got burned by our own expert. And, yes, it does happen. But early this year, February, I was having lunch with this other guy in the firm, name of Millender. He handles divorces. So we're bullshittin' and he tells me he's got this case where the husband is being hit for child support payments so high he needs a second job. And the payments are based on an earnings-potential study done by a vocational expert hired by the wife's lawyer. And the lawyer is Kendall. And the voc man is the same one who burned me on the pharmacist.”

“Keep going,” Dorsey said. “You've captured my interest.”

“Millender tells me Kendall has been using this vocational hack for years. You know, the hack estimates the husband's wage potential, and he and Kendall cook up a high child-support demand. But the point here is that Kendall and the hack have been in cahoots. And the hack is the guy Corso hires.”

Dorsey watched Bernie move about the room; he felt Bernie's eyes cutting through him. So Corso maybe sold a case, Bernie's case. He just fucks up, or so it looks. And Kendall provides a kickback. “Ever tell anybody about this?”

“Tell somebody what?” Bernie gazed out the window at the street, aglow with the light of mercury lamps. “No proof, just the association between the hack and Kendall.”

Dorsey leaned forward and planted his elbows on the corners of the blotter. His chin rested in his cupped hands as his fingertips worked at his fatigued eyes. “I know, Bern, I know. But in the meantime, I'm stuck with Corso,
who you tell me I can't trust. Maybe on this one he'll be too frightened of Munt and Cleardon to put out a palm to be greased. Hopefully.”

Bernie took his suit jacket from the back of the chair, slipped it on, and straightened his tie, concentrating on the empty far wall as if it held a mirror. Dorsey tore open the last piece of mail and read the two-line message.

“Hold it a sec,” Dorsey said, rising from his seat and holding out the letter for Bernie's inspection. “Before you're out the door, look this over. You know a lawyer named Preach, Louis Preach? He's called a couple or three times leaving messages on the tape. Sounds black on the phone.”

“Naw, he's new to me,” Bernie said, taking the letter. “Says you two ought to get together. It could be of mutual benefit.”

“Figured him to be representing one of the Movement people,” Dorsey said. “That's why I haven't bothered returning his calls.”

Bernie folded the letter and dropped it on the desk. “Lemme ask a friend, a guy I know at the county Bar Association office. See what Preach is all about. I'll call you when I have something.”

“Don't forget the TV program tonight,” Dorsey said. “Gonna catch it? Might want to pick your brain about it.”

“Can't say.” Bernie was in the hall, fishing in his pocket for his car keys. “If I'm still awake at ten-thirty.”

In the kitchen, Dorsey put a cassette into the portable player, spent a few calm moments resting against the counter admiring George Shearing's touch at the keyboard, and then dug into the refrigerator for half a used onion and some bologna wrapped in white butcher paper.

So maybe Corso sold a case, he thought, slicing down the onion. Just maybe, now; there's no proof. You always figured him for lazy, maybe he's a thief too. Dorsey took an iron skillet from the cupboard. Maybe he's ambitious, like most everybody else. You always figured he moved from company to company to cover his incompetence.
Maybe it was his crimes he's trying to avoid. Naw, that's impossible. Nobody could keep that up for long.

Dorsey broke the sliced onion into thin rings and tossed them into the skillet, allowing them to pop in their own juice. He stripped the skins from the bologna slices and cut four tiny slits in each slice, then added the slices to the onion. Watching the meat brown and curl evenly at the slits, he gently turned the onion with a fork. George Shearing glided through “Lullaby of Birdland.”

Concentrate on Cleardon now, Dorsey told himself. You're his choice, not Corso's anymore. He's the man to please. And if you do, you're his man, right to the end of the line.

Dorsey made two sandwiches of bologna, onions, bread, and ketchup and ate at the table. From his hip pocket he took the torn page of notebook paper and again read Claudia's telephone number. It was a start, he decided. The only way to go, as a matter of fact. Claudia Maynard was the obvious choice. She's in no danger of losing the house or having to feed the kids from the food bank. And she gets a couple of months at the seashore for faithful service to the Movement. Tipping Radovic to a layoff doesn't rate that kind of payment. There must be others she helped out. And Fidelity Casualty is the carrier at the mill.

Dorsey went to the office and wrote himself a note to call Corso in the morning and ask him to pull all the comp files on Carlisle Steel employees. Let's see how many friends Claudia Maynard has made, he thought. He also played with the idea of asking Corso if he'd had lunch with Attorney Kendall lately, but decided to stick to business. While writing the note, the telephone rang and Dorsey allowed three rings to pass, listening to the metallic click of the answering machine. It was Gretchen's voice.

“Hold on,” Dorsey said, grabbing the receiver. “It's me, I'm here.”

“Thank God. I love you, but I hate your voice on tape.”

“You're running awfully late.”

“Four-car pileup on the Fort Pitt bridge,” Gretchen said.
“Ambulance drivers brought them all here; worked on six people myself. Lucky we were so close. Otherwise, two of them wouldn't have made it.”

“You ready to get out of there? Should I come for you?”

“One of the nurses is giving me a lift to my place. I'm beat, done in. Tomorrow's an off day and I may spend it in bed.” Gretchen paused. “So tell me, how'd it go?”

“Still on the job,” Dorsey said. “The head man, he gave me his seal of approval, and the rest reluctantly fell in line.” Now Dorsey paused. “You and the nurse keep an eye out, okay?”

“Seriously?”

“For safety's sake,” Dorsey said.

“Really, just try to relax.” Gretchen's voice was laced with fatigue. “What about tomorrow, you'll be over?”

“Sure,” Dorsey said. “One o'clock. How would you feel about taking a ride with me? Up into the mountains?”

Gretchen laughed. “What do you have in mind, a day trip to Wyoming?”

Dorsey returned the laugh. “Something more local, like Johnstown. Those are mountains, technically. You could be of help.”

“Business, huh?” Gretchen asked. “I'll sleep on it. Love you. Sleep well.”

Dorsey put down the receiver and checked his watch: ten-twenty. He stripped his necktie from beneath his collar and let it fall to the floor. She could help, he told himself. If you can't get through to Maynard, maybe Gretchen can, just by being there. Make you look like less of a monster. It's a shitty position to put Gretchen in, but this is for her too. She may not see it that way, but she's got a stake in this. Swing Maynard over, and the rest could fall into line. She gives up her part in the scheme, comes up with some names, and we can squeeze them. Or maybe at that point Meara can do the squeezing. Whichever, we win.

At ten-thirty, Dorsey turned on Channel Three, adjusting the volume. The screen showed a series of Pittsburgh neighborhood scenes followed by some quick frames of
farms and pasture. A voice-over announced the beginning of “The Western Pennsylvania Report.” The footage ended and Sam Hickcock appeared on camera.

Hickcock greeted his electronic audience, advising them that this was the local area's only magazine of the air and that tonight's report would cover the state milk pricing board's impact on local dairy farmers and a Clarion County man who sculpted heads from apples. Jesus, Dorsey thought, apple heads covered by Sam Hickcock, that no-nonsense reporter?

“Before we get to these stories,” Hickcock said, “we have another report concerning the area's vast numbers of unemployed. In this installment we'll speak briefly with Father Andrew Jancek, director of Movement Together.”

There was an awkward jump in the television screen, telling Dorsey it was a videotaped interview. Hickcock, in the same suit, sat in a swivel chair. After a few opening remarks, he introduced Father Jancek, who sat opposite him dressed in a black clerical suit and Roman collar, his silver beard well trimmed.

“Father Jancek, you are certainly no stranger to those of us in the media or, for that matter, to our viewers,” Hickcock said, gesturing to the notes held by the clipboard on his lap. “Just the same, give us a brief statement on the goals of Movement Together.”

“I'd be more than happy to do so.” Father Jancek spoke softly, conversationally. “Primarily, we are attempting to restore dignity to a large section of society. I don't want to bore you with figures concerning the local unemployed and homeless; I'm sure every member of the viewing audience knows at least one worker who has lost his job. We intend to reverse this trend and restore these jobs, which were needlessly lost because of the refusal of local corporations and banking institutions to invest in the local economy—to reinvest in the workers, the original source of their riches.”

Hickcock posed with a finger to his lips, as if taking a moment to absorb the priest's comments. Illusion, Dorsey
knew; the man is a master of illusion. And the priest runs a close second, gaining on him from the left.

“The jobs have been lost needlessly?” Hickcock asked. “Could you elaborate on that?”

“It's a matter of investment.” Father Jancek held out his palms, indicating the issue's simplicity. “Steel companies, other large manufacturers, and our banks are not reinvesting their enormous profits locally, profits that since the beginning of the Industrial Revolution have been generated by factory and mill workers. Mills are not repaired and modernized, and I would challenge anyone to name one large manufacturer who has recently opened a plant in western Pennsylvania. Granted, we had Volkswagen come here, but expectations were greater than reality. Rather than returning their profits to the local economy, businessmen have invested them in industry overseas. Movement Together wants to see the money come back here.”

“There has been some criticism of your methods.” Hickcock ran his finger through a number of items in his notes. “Rotten fish left in bank deposit boxes, pickets outside the homes and churches of executives, closed factories blockaded to prevent demolition.”