The Fall-Down Artist (20 page)

“Sam, I must state right now that I do not believe there is a man alive who is evil.” Father Jancek's eyes cut to slits and he pointed at Hickcock as if instructing a student. “Blind, yes; we have those men among us. I think our corporate leaders number among the blind. We are trying to give them vision, to enable them to see the misery that surrounds them. We have invited them to Braddock and Homestead to see the houses of the dispossessed, but they decline. So we have to bring the poverty and despair to them.

“The demonstrations at the mills were originally conceived as symbolic acts of our purpose and resolve. But we realized that if we wish to rebuild the area, we had to save the physical plants. Otherwise, there would be nothing to build on. The mills must remain standing. Without them, we might as well throw in the towel.”

“Lately, we've heard some distinctly political sounds coming from your camp.” Hickcock shifted in his seat and smiled at the priest. “As we understand it, you're a resident of Westmoreland County, in Congressman Dayton's district. He's been a supporter of yours.”

“In word only,” Father Jancek said. A little too eagerly, Dorsey thought. “His actions have been disappointing. His office has not generated any new legislation to protect the jobs and homes of his constituents. I don't think he can count on the workingman's vote any longer. The seat is up for election next year. Perhaps a more responsive candidate will emerge, I don't know.”

Hickcock thanked the priest and turned to the camera. The screen jumped as the videotape ended, and the live Hickcock reappeared and was followed by a dog food commercial.

So the priest goes to Washington, Dorsey thought, on Fidelity Casualty's money. Maybe it wasn't the original plan, but Father Jancek's going to run. He and Stockman have a war chest, and they'll kill Dayton in the May primary. All that dough, and it goes for TV time, billboards, buttons, and straw hats. Jesus Christ.

The telephone rang. Thinking it might be Gretchen having changed her mind, Dorsey picked it up on the second ring.

“The priest is very convincing.” It was Cleardon. “Better get going. Don't let me down.”

Pacing the
office carpet, Dorsey checked his wristwatch for the third time in five minutes. C'mon, Corso, he thought, jiggling his car keys in his pocket. You're late. You're slow and you're late. It suddenly struck Dorsey that it was silly to worry about being late to a job he was sure to detest.

Sixteen minutes later, at half past noon, Dorsey watched from the window as a bicycle messenger pedaled his way down Wharton, braking to a stop at the front steps. Dorsey met the boy at the door and recognized him as the messenger who had delivered the dictaphone.

“Do I gotta wait again?” the boy asked. “Last time you held me up a long while. Beat hell outa my schedule. Work on volume, ya know? Only make money when the wheels are rolling.”

The boy was thin with a deeply pocked face. Dorsey watched him adjust some greasy blond hair under a railroad bandanna and was reminded of a junkie he had run across while with the sheriff's office. He had met the guy twice, the first time in a Braddock housing project when the junkie denied any part in a string of East End burglaries. The second encounter was in the morgue, all blue lips and frozen limbs. He had died in a sitting position, and the coroner's crew had had to break his legs to straighten him onto the stretcher.

“Hey, kid. You got any relatives in Braddock who
were—” Dorsey held his tongue. “Skip it and hand over the package.”

The delivery consisted of a fourteen-by-eleven-inch padded envelope. Dorsey slit the edge and allowed the contents to spill out on his desk. Stapled to the front of a manila folder was a two-line memo from Corso reminding Dorsey that clipping services were expensive. Flipping through the pages, Dorsey found articles on Father Jancek from the two Pittsburgh dailies, a local Catholic weekly, newspapers in Beaver and Westmoreland counties, and a feature article from
The New York Times
. He was tempted to sit down and review the material at length, a temptation born from both his curiosity and his wish to avoid the work he had cut out for the afternoon. He overcame the urge. After checking Wharton Street by peeking through the curtains, Dorsey left the house. On the way to the Buick to pick up Gretchen, he formulated an excuse for being forty minutes late.

As he had promised Gretchen, Dorsey took the scenic route to Johnstown, along U.S. 30 and through the Laurel Mountains and the Ligonier Valley. He drove in an anxious silence, oblivious to the panoramic views. At the far end of the front seat, huddled under a quilted comforter, Gretchen paged her way through the fourth edition of Cawle on
Fractures, Strains, and Sprains
.

Intimidation—frightening people—had never been Dorsey's bag, and he knew it. During his days as a county detective he had left the role of heavy to his partner, choosing to be the understanding cop, willing to listen to the suspect's story. Now he had no partner to play the villain, making threats that were based only loosely on truth. You've got to scare the shit out of this girl, he reminded himself. She's got what you want, and you have to get it.

“There may be a new procedure in here,” Gretchen said, mercifully invading his thoughts. “For your hand, I mean. You know, to give you more flexibility. A second coming for the running hook shot.”

“Thought you wanted to see the foliage. That's why we came this way.”

“Sorry.” Gretchen pulled the comforter tight at her chin against the mountain cold. “Can you get a little more out of the heater? I'm freezing.” She reached from beneath the comforter and poked Dorsey in the ribs. “And another thing. You owe me some explanation as to where we're going and how I'm to help.”

Dorsey slowed the Buick to thirty-five as he passed through Jennerstown, then gunned it to sixty once past the village limits. At the junction of U.S. 219 he headed north. “Here it is,” Dorsey said. “Remember me mentioning a girl named Claudia Maynard? Well, I want to talk to her. I want her to confess to a few things. Not to everything she may have done in her life, but certainly to a few things. And she won't do that just by me asking her to. I've got to make her think she's in hip-deep shit, maybe even looking at some jail time. Which isn't likely, but what the hell? It's the only way I know to do it.”

“How am I supposed to help with that?” Gretchen asked. “Forget it, don't answer. I won't be part of it.”

“You could help the girl through it, provide a little comfort at the right time. Soften the blow. It could be rough on her.”

“That's crap.”

No shit, Dorsey thought, passing the exit to Scalp Level and watching for the one to Mundys Corners. It's crap, but it's going to happen. Give the girl your compassion, Gretchen; be the good guy to my bad one. She may tell you what she won't tell me. Protect her from me. Jesus Christ, help me.

In the high country around Johnstown it had begun to snow, and by the time Dorsey parked in front of the Maynard house a quarter inch had accumulated. The walkway was snow-covered, and Gretchen and Dorsey held on to each other for balance as they made their way to the front door.

“Go 'way,” Mrs. Maynard said. Only her right eye and
cheek were visible through the space allowed by the door's safety chain. “We see you on the TV. The news. Go 'way or I call the police.”

Dorsey moved away from the door and introduced Gretchen, hoping the sight of her would calm the old woman. “We're just following up,” Dorsey said, “on the job I was on before. I'd like to speak to Claudia about this Radovic fellow.”

“Bullshit, Radovic.” The eye at the door turned mean. “Trouble for Claudia because of that damned priest. She should stay away from that priest. I said that before, the last time you showed up. I tell her that too. But she don't listen.”

“Maybe we could talk to her about that,” Gretchen said. “For her own good.”

“Hell you would. She's not home anyway.”

“She go somewhere special?” Dorsey asked.

“That damned priest.” Mrs. Maynard shut the door.

Back in the car, after turning over the engine and adjusting the heater, Dorsey suggested to Gretchen that he just might know where Claudia could be found. “Like the old lady said,” Dorsey chuckled. “That damned priest.”

He drove south to the lip of the crater that held Johnstown at its basin and began the descent, playing at the brakes for both his and Gretchen's peace of mind. At the bottom, by a now-quiet foundry, they crossed a WPA-vintage bridge of gray steel that spanned an offshoot of the Conemaugh River and went left, pulling onto Otterman Avenue. Once he found Radovic's house, Dorsey retraced the route he followed on the day of the surveillance until he found himself in front of the Movement Together office. He pulled to the opposite curb, halfway down the block.

“Now you can earn your first private-eye solo hours,” Dorsey said, turning to Gretchen. “You're going inside because I can't; Radovic may be in there minding the store. And the girl may just be there too, based on what her mother said. If she is, we wait for her to leave and then we follow.”

“How am I supposed to pull this off?” Gretchen shook off the thought and laughed. “I don't even know what she looks like.”

“Neither do I,” Dorsey said. “So you have to snoop around a little. Play up to them and find out who's who. These guys love attention, so give it to them. Ask some questions. Play a role, like a small-town reporter; better yet, be a social worker. I like that. Somebody who could refer others to the Movement. Yeah, try that.”

Reluctantly, Gretchen left the car and crossed the street, using the comforter like a shawl to cover her head against the falling snow. Dorsey watched her in the rearview mirror as she entered the storefront, praying she would relax, coaching her. Take your time, check out the wall posters, look at the pamphlets. Cool and casual.

If this craps out, Dorsey reminded himself, you're in trouble. You may hate what you're about to do, but screw it up and you're in for a long haul. It will mean backtracking over old ground, looking for an opening in any of the claims you've handled since spring. The investigation goes flat and you'll be out on your ass. The only people willing to hire you will be lawyers and claims managers who have spent the last few weeks out of the country.

Again in the rearview, Dorsey saw Gretchen emerge from the storefront and make her way across the street. A part of him hoped she had failed, hoped she had come up empty. No, she learned something in there; she's too bright to have missed anything. She'll get us to the girl. And then you'll do your part. No choice.

“Had the pleasure of meeting Carl.” Gretchen slipped into the passenger seat and adjusted the comforter around her. “He's a tough one. I asked a few questions, but all he did was point at a stack of leaflets.” She held a handbill out to Dorsey. “But I think I found something. They're calling it an Outreach Meeting. It's this afternoon in Ebensburg. Where's that?”

“Just a little north, not far.” He looked at the handbill. “The address is familiar, too. It's the mineworkers' local.
Used to go there a lot. There's three attorneys with an office on the second floor. It's a large old house that's been renovated. The attorneys have a corner on the comp cases.”

“So what do you think?” Gretchen asked. “Are we going?”

“We're going.”

The snow was falling heavier now, and Dorsey slipped the Buick into second gear to climb out of the crater. Gretchen went back to her textbook, and Dorsey's stomach churned acid as the confrontation grew closer. To distract himself, he told Gretchen about his first visit to Ebensburg.

Dorsey was with the Allegheny County detectives at the time and had received a call from the Cambria County sheriff's office about a prisoner in the Ebensburg jail. The prisoner was named Sturgis and was serving a sentence of two years minus a day, the longest sentence allowed in a Pennsylvania county jail, for murder by vehicle. The Cambria sheriff had told Dorsey over the phone that Sturgis wanted to sell information on an auto theft ring in Pittsburgh. In return, Sturgis wanted someone to whisper in the sentencing judge's ear that he should get work-release privileges. “So he can work half a day,” the deputy said, “and screw his girlfriend the other half. You're welcome to him, but you'll have to come up here. Too expensive to deliver.”