The Fall-Down Artist (21 page)

Dorsey and his partner had made the trip to Ebensburg and interviewed Sturgis at the jail. The plan had been to grill Sturgis with Dorsey's partner as the heavy, but one look at the man told them he was forty pounds overweight and fifty points below the average intelligence quotient. Sturgis told them not about an auto theft ring but, instead, how a single car had been stolen by his brother-in-law three years earlier: a '71 Impala taken from the Civic Arena parking lot during a hockey game.

In Ebensburg, which unlike Johnstown was set on a hilltop, Dorsey turned onto a side street lined with once-elegant homes, large wooden structures with wraparound porches. Halfway along the block, he pulled to the curb and directed Gretchen's attention to the house at the end. At the edge
of the porch, just out of the snow, two men dressed in heavy coats and woolen caps held handbills and searched the street for any interested party.

“Snow's put a damper on things,” Dorsey said.

“Well,” Gretchen said, “tell me what you have in mind.”

“We find the girl.” Dorsey shifted in his seat to face Gretchen. “You're at bat again. Go inside and snoop. Like I said, I've been there before. Through the door you'll be in a big central hall with a receptionist's desk and a waiting room off to the left. Looks like it might have been the living room once. Play your role and see what you come up with. Ask around for the girl if you have to.”

“Can't say I like this a lot, but it is interesting.” Gretchen smiled and slipped smoothly from the car, again covering her head with the comforter. The men on the porch, stomping their feet to keep warm, forced handbills on Gretchen and ushered her to the front door.

Moments after Gretchen had stepped inside, a late-model Omni came down the street from behind Dorsey, moving much too fast for the snow, fishtailing as it passed the Buick. Dorsey watched the driver, an attractive dark-haired young woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties, emerge from the car after accomplishing an awkward parking maneuver in front of the corner house. Dressed in close-fitting jeans and a belted suede jacket, she waved off the greeters and trotted across the porch into the building. Moments later, Gretchen stepped out onto the porch and hurried back to the Buick.

“Got her,” Gretchen said. To Dorsey she sounded as if she liked the hunt, now that she had a whiff of the prey.

“She's in there?”

“Just arrived.” Gretchen wiped snow from her lashes and eyebrows. “The dark-haired one who just walked in.” She grinned slyly. “The good-looking one.”

“You're sure?”

“Positive,” Gretchen said. “There were three guys at a card table looking pretty bored, complaining how the
weather had kept people away. But when the girl walked in they all snapped to, all smiles and optimism. Hi, Claudia, good to see you. How was the shore? She just smiles and drinks it all in and then mentions she can only stay a second, so many things to do. That's why I left. We follow her, right?”

Jesus, Dorsey thought, she
is
enjoying this! Early success, clean and easy, with the dirty work still to come. How will she like it then? Much less than you will, Dorsey.

“That's her.” Gretchen tapped at his forearm and gestured toward the union building. “Here she comes.”

Dorsey turned over the engine and watched Claudia Maynard give the man on the porch a quick good-bye and climb into the Omni. Recklessly, she fishtailed again as she pulled from the curb. Dorsey moved out behind her, slowly. The Omni made two left turns, then was forced to halt at a red light. With no cars between them, Dorsey had no choice but to pull up directly behind. It's okay, he assured himself. You can drop the precautions because the girl takes none. She's a fool, or chooses to act as one. Drives like a fool, and like a fool doesn't hide her association with the priest. Lording it over the men at the union local and spending the Movement's money on trips and clothes. She's ready to be taken with one sharp blow. Which you will deliver.

The light turned green. The Omni and the Buick both turned onto a street lined with shops and offices. Following the girl, Dorsey watched Gretchen from the edge of his vision. She leaned forward into the dashboard and studied Claudia through the Omni's rearview mirror.

“Something you want to share?” Dorsey asked.

“Look at her,” Gretchen said. “She's a live wire, primping in the mirror. I'll bet she's blasting the radio, from the way she's jumping around. Looks shallow, like she's in over her head and doesn't realize it. You won't have trouble talking to her.”

Really into it, Dorsey thought, aren't you? More than one young woman might be in over her head.

Dorsey followed the girl out of the business district, heading for an on-ramp leading to U.S. 219 southbound. Lagging behind but keeping the Omni's taillights just visible through the falling snow, Dorsey saw the turn signal flicker and the Omni climbed the on-ramp, accelerating. Dorsey did the opposite.

“Why are you slowing down?” Gretchen asked. “You'll lose her.”

“It's okay.” Dorsey moved up the ramp in low gear, letting the right tires dig into the berm for traction. You smell blood, Gretchen, and you're getting overanxious. Wait until you taste it. You may have other thoughts. “Once we're on the four-lane we'll catch her. Even in the snow, we can keep her in sight. We can sit in the lane right next to her and she'll never guess.”

The two southbound lanes were snow-covered but empty of traffic, so Dorsey moved to their center, where the dotted line would be. Now he hit the accelerator, taking comfort in the extra space on either side of him in case of a spin-out. At her end of the front seat, Gretchen slapped at the dashboard and urged him on. A mile farther the Buick fish-tailed, but Dorsey went with the slide and corrected his course. “It's okay, we're all right,” he said and realized only he needed reassurance.

Just north of the Sidman exit, one exit before Johnstown, Dorsey spotted the Omni's taillights, bright red against a white backdrop. It was a downhill grade, and Dorsey slipped the Buick's transmission down a notch, wanting control instead of speed. Both cars ground out the last two miles to Johnstown.

“I was afraid that with the weather she might be heading home,” Dorsey said. He drove down the exit ramp and watched as Claudia Maynard took a local road into the outskirts of Johnstown. “But this could work out. Better stay close.”

“So, close up the gap.” Gretchen had a so-why-are-you-telling-me tone to her voice.

Dorsey got the Buick close, slowing only at curves the
Omni slid through. There were two rights and then a left-hand turn before the Omni slowed and slipped over to the curb. Dorsey took the first parking spot on the street, half a block behind. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “We're back where we started from.”

Coming from the opposite direction and knowing only the route he had taken while shadowing Radovic, Dorsey was startled to find himself a block up from Movement Together's Johnstown office. Radovic's place, he reminded himself. Dorsey let the motor run and the wipers cleared the windshield. They watched Claudia Maynard leave the Omni and carefully make her way to the store-front door and work the key into the lock.

“Now,” Gretchen said, “I suppose we wait some more, right?”

“Really into it, aren't you?”

“Can't help it,” Gretchen said. “And you knew I wouldn't be able to.”

“Well, pay attention, because the waiting is over.” Dorsey shut down the engine. “You're an apprentice in the field, so allowances can be made. But did you see what the girl just did? She unlocked the door, which means the door was locked. And that door is never locked when someone is inside because the office is full of posters and handbills and a glass jar for donations. They want the public coming in. Catch the foot trade.”

“The point, please,” Gretchen said irritably.

“Unless the toilet's broken and Radovic locked up shop to go take a leak, Claudia Maynard is in there all alone. Now is our chance to have a talk.”

Gretchen entered the office first, followed by Dorsey, who backed his way in, hunched over and brushing snow from his hair. “Excuse me,” Gretchen said, removing the comforter and folding it over her forearm. “Are you Claudia Maynard?” Dorsey kept his back to the woman, waiting on the reply.

“Yes, I am, and I'm very busy. I have to leave.”

Turning, Dorsey realized that Dr. Tang's receptionist
must have envied Claudia Maynard for more than her easy life. The girl was striking, and much younger than Dorsey had thought. No longer bundled against the cold, she was exquisitely thin, almost fragile. And her hair, Dorsey thought: it's so dark, nearly coal black. He found it hard to believe he had come this far to take her apart. She's too young, he thought again. Yeah, just like the bicycle messenger's look-alike who was a housebreaker at fifteen, in Camp Hill State Correctional Institution at seventeen, and in the morgue at nineteen.

“I'm ready to close up, just stopped to drop off a few things.” Claudia Maynard stepped around the church basement folding table and attempted to shoo them out. “Tomorrow we're open early. Come back then, and there'll be somebody here to answer all your questions.”

“We asked for you by name, Claudia.” Dorsey leaned back into the closed door. “Movement Together? We know all we need to know about that. And we know about you.”

Dorsey ignored his cramping stomach and concentrated on the flash of recognition in Claudia Maynard's eyes. That's right, the guy from the TV and newspaper, Dorsey thought. The same guy Eddie Damjani probably warned you about.

“Jesus, have you got balls.” The girl turned about and went for the telephone. Gretchen pleaded with her not to be angry, they only wanted to ask a few questions.

“She should be pissed,” Dorsey said, disregarding the flush of excitement that drained from Gretchen's face. “And she should be scared.” He faced Claudia Maynard. “Didn't you think we'd figure you out? You're up to your ass in this one, and your friends have you stuck way out in front, all alone.”

“Bullshit.” Claudia lifted the receiver.

“Don't think so?” Dorsey moved to the table and leaned in, bracing himself with his arms, taking the pressure off his aching stomach muscles. “There's Carl Radovic and all the others you've helped. Insurance fraud, plain and simple.
You tip off a guy to a layoff and he does a fall-down, fakes an injury.”

The girl began to dial.

“You'll be indicted with the rest. And they'll all say they did it for a good cause, and so will you. They did it for the working-man. And they'll get off. But not you.”

The girl stopped dialing but held on to the receiver, as if for comfort.

“Naw, for you it won't work,” Dorsey said, his voice gathering heat. “Because some of the money stuck to your fingers. A nice trip to the seashore and who knows what else? That was your end of the deal. No high-minded motivation, so no judge will let you walk. I know, trust me. Ever been to the Women's Correctional at Muncy? A little cleaner than where they keep the men, but stocked with bull dykes. You'll be most welcome. Keep up the hard-ass shit with me, and you've got a future of broomsticks and Coke bottles.”

“Fuck you.”

But it was a weak fuck-you, Dorsey thought. So show her the ace, the hole card. The last lie.

“You're right, what's prison to a hard rock like you? But don't forget about all the rest. Father Jancek is a media personality, and this mess will get a lot of coverage. And so will you, as his girlfriend.”

“What?”

“That's how it will look.” Dorsey worked a fiendish grin across his face. “That's how it can be made to look. Your friends and family, they're going to love it the first time a TV reporter sticks a microphone in your face and asks when it was you first slept with the priest.”

Claudia Maynard dropped the receiver into its cradle and fell back into the folding chair near the table. Dorsey shoved his trembling hands into his hip pockets and turned to check on Gretchen's reaction to his performance. He found her backed to the far wall, a look of shock across her face. No time for consolation, Dorsey knew; he had to keep hitting at the girl's crumbled defenses. He found a
chair, one of several beneath the front window, and pulled it to the table.

“This is it,” Dorsey said. He sat and took a pen and a pad from his coat “If you want to avoid total fucking humiliation, give me a list of names, all the guys you helped out at Carlisle. Radovic wasn't the only one. Saving him doesn't rate a month on the beach. Take the pen and write out the names.”

The girl was crying now and spoke with difficulty. “I'll try, but please, I don't think I can remember them all.”

“How many are we talking about?”

“Seventeen,” the girl said. “I remember maybe thirteen or fourteen names.”

“Do what you can. Don't bullshit me.”

Claudia Maynard took the pen, shaky at first, and began to write. Gretchen came to her side and gave her a tissue to wipe her face and then gently squeezed the girl's shoulder for strength. Dorsey rose and paced the room, studying the posters of immigrant workers that covered the walls, as he had done on his first visit to the office. He concluded that the photos had all been taken at the shift change. Men with metal lunch buckets, their faces smeared with coal dust, walking away from the pit mouth. Other workers, again with lunch buckets, exiting the steel mill gate. And still other men, turn-of-the-century men, carrying lunch buckets across rail-road ties. And that plaster crack that ran from one poster to the next. My God, he thought, you're Carroll Dorsey, son of Martin Dorsey, champion of the workingman in so many elections, here to sink the workingman's boat. Look at the side you're on. As if anything as simple as taking a side made sense. As if either side had a clean case to make for itself.