The Fall-Down Artist (22 page)

When he returned to his chair, the girl had completed her list. “Let's see what we've got.” Dorsey took the steno pad and studied a list of unfamiliar names. By some she had written the hometowns. Holy Christ, he thought, fighting a headache. Seventeen men at maybe three hundred and fifty dollars per week. Just at Carlisle. Add that to workers
at other plants and the bogus auto accidents. It had to be big to be worthwhile? Well, it's enormous.

“All these guys,” Dorsey asked, “some old and some young, but all single, right? No married men on the list?”

“Because of the money.” Claudia Maynard wiped at the corners of her eyes and Gretchen stood behind, gently stroking the girl's hair. “Family men need their whole check to make ends meet. The single fellas, they can get along on much less. They kick in half their checks, sometimes more. To make up for it, they draw free groceries from the food banks.”

From behind the girl, Gretchen signaled to Dorsey. “She's had enough shock for the day. You've got the list, let's leave.”

Dorsey shook his head. “Just a few more things to cover.” He turned his attention to the girl. “When did it all start?”

“Not this summer, the one before. The first man was a guy who worked in the furnace, second helper.”

“Who asked you to do it,” Dorsey asked, “the priest? Your father says you're in tight with him.”

“No, no!” Claudia Maynard shook her head violently, causing Gretchen to back away. “Not Father Jancek. We can talk about anything else, but not him. I never even met him till later on. It was two guys; one was a lawyer, I think. The other guy was named Gretz.”

Dorsey chose to allow the exclusion of the priest and concentrated on the lawyer. “The lawyer, you get his name?” he asked. “Stockman, was that it? Older guy, mid-fifties?”

“The age is right,” the girl said, “but I only met him one time, and it was a real short meeting. Never gave his name. He just assured me there was nothing illegal in what I was doin'.”

A technicality, Dorsey thought. Splitting hairs. Leave it to P.I. to discuss the act but leave out the intent, the intent to defraud. Oh, Jack boy, if I could only connect you to this! One meeting and no names given. A short meeting to
impress upon the small-town girl how very important she was. Long ago and so quick she could never identify you. So slick you are, Jack.

“This Gretz, the other guy at the meeting?”

“Darrell Gretz.” Claudia Maynard held her face in her hands, staring down at the tabletop. “Used to date him. He's a couple of years older than me. Lives here in Johnstown.”

“He worked at Carlisle Steel?” Dorsey asked. He looked past the girl at Gretchen and estimated her anxiety level. Nothing to be done about it now, he told himself. Concentrate on the girl.

“He did, but he was low on the seniority list. He was on layoff long before I met him. He eventually introduced me to Father Jancek.”

Dorsey again placed the pen and pad before the girl. “So far you're doing fine. Now you're going to supply me with a full statement, written and signed, covering all your activities with Movement Together. It's your story, but I can help you find the words. When we're done you'll have a chance to read it over a few times, to be sure it's complete and true. No rush, take all the time you need. And when you're satisfied with its accuracy, sign and date it. And Miss Keller will sign as witness.”

Her eyes dull and red-rimmed, the girl slowly twisted in her seat, facing Gretchen. “No. I can't do any more.”

“What I said before will come true.” Dorsey forced the girl's attention back to him. “Prison and those hungry inmates. But that's only after you get famous for sleeping with Father Jancek.”

The girl cried out and again turned to Gretchen, burying her face in Gretchen's midsection. “Is this necessary?” Gretchen asked, stroking the girl's hair. “She's all done in. We have to let her rest.”

Dorsey rose from his seat, shaking his head. “No. This is what we came for.” He wished it wasn't so. He wished it were over and done with.

“You have the list.” Gretchen's eyes held his. Dorsey
was sure it was the cold and clinical look she had when warning an asthmatic to give up smoking. Or a juicer to lay off the booze. All business, blocking out anything that might obscure her meaning. “Fourteen names. That's fourteen leads for you to chase down. One of them is sure to tell you all you need. Besides, you can always come back to her.”

Dorsey moved around the table and gestured for the girl to stay in her seat. He took Gretchen by the elbow, gently, and led her to the far end of the room. She followed him stiffly, hesitantly.

“Listen, just for a second; listen to me.” Dorsey spoke quietly, taking care the girl did not overhear. “The list could be useless. It could be a list of men dedicated to the priest, like Radovic. Imagine it, fourteen Radovics. You're right, I could get their claim files and maybe cause them some trouble, but that's not good enough. Claudia, she knows the priest. And even though she can't connect him to a conspiracy, she proves a conspiracy exists.”

“Not now. No.” Gretchen's voice was clear and loud, disregarding the girl. “Look at her, for God's sake; she's a wreck. She might collapse on us. The statement can be gotten another time.”

“She'll run,” Dorsey said. “She'll run for a long time, and she'll get help. And when she gets back, P.I. Stockman will erect an eight-foot legal wall around her. He won't let anyone talk to her alone, and she'll be in a position to deny everything she's said so far. It's now or never.”

With a shake of her head, Gretchen dismissed his words and turned away. Her hand came to her mouth and she gently rested a knuckle against her lips, pensively staring out at the snow.

“This has to end. I'm sorry, Carroll.” She faced Dorsey, her expression telling him that for her the matter was closed. “So far today I've seen you tell lies and half-truths and tear away this girl's dignity. What comes next? She's likely to hold out. And you'll know if she does; you're too good to be fooled by her. What do you have left up your
sleeve? I don't want to find out. I don't know you when you're like this. And I don't want to know you.”

Dorsey had no answer. The stakes were too high to blurt out some tough talk of the trade. You play it right, he warned himself, do the job right and get what you need from Claudia Maynard, and you'll lose what you're playing the game for: a chance to put some bread in the bank and to keep yourself in Gretchen's income bracket. To keep Gretchen.

Dorsey stepped past Gretchen, his head hanging in frustration, and moved around the table to face the girl. He took the pen and pad and settled into the chair.

“We're through for now,” he told the girl. “You're not doing so well, so there's no sense to push it. But believe me, you'll have to make a statement sometime. You're going to have to tell all you know. I'll try to call and set a time, but don't be surprised if you hear from some other people instead. There's a guy named Meara I'll be checking in with. He's a prosecutor in Pittsburgh. Most likely, he'll talk to the Cambria County DA, who will send out his detectives to see you. And trust me, you will write out a few things for them, bet on it. So if you hear from me first, you can consider yourself lucky. It'll be easier to talk to me.”

Sick of himself, Dorsey pushed away from the table and went out into the street, walking the half block to the Buick. Looking back through the storefront window, he saw Gretchen comforting the girl, guessing that she was suggesting that Claudia calm herself before trying to drive home through the snow. Once at the Buick, he started the engine, turned up the heater, then stepped back out to scrape ice from the bottom of the windshield.

Say good-bye to the Maynard girl, he told himself, tearing the wiper blades from the frozen glass. She'll call Gretz and Gretz will call the priest. The damage will be assessed and the girl goes back on vacation. Fourteen men will be warned and told to watch their step. And Ed Damjani, the priest's personal lunatic: he'll know you were up here. Watch your back, Dorsey, Damjani is on his way.

Al set
a seven-ounce Rolling Rock and a short beer glass in front of Dorsey, then moved off to the stainless steel sink at the center of the bar. Meticulously, he scrubbed out draft beer glasses and dunked them in a clean rinse, then followed this with thirty seconds of polishing for each. Outside, the streets were silent with snow, and the only sound to penetrate the barroom walls was the churning and clanging of the occasional salt truck passing by.

“Painted into a corner is the way I see it.” Al finished the last of the glasses and dried his hands on his white cotton apron. “Hurts like hell, I bet. Halfway to cleaning up the whole mess, and then you gotta walk away from it.”

“Big mistake is what it was,” Dorsey said, pouring his beer.

“Of course it was.” Al stepped from behind the bar and began turning off the neon beer signs that decorated the bar's windows. After he finished, he took the stool next to Dorsey. “There are businesses where a couple can work together, and there are some where they can't. Like with me and Rose. She heads up the kitchen, does all the cooking except when I make the bean soup, and I stay out here. She does all the buyin' for the kitchen, and I keep the accounts for beer and liquor up to date. Works out good. Your line of work is something different altogether. There's
no room to navigate around each other. One-man job. In this place, I can bitch out the beer distributor or harp about the deadhead civil servants at the state store, and Rose is not out here to be embarrassed by it. Same thing with her; the food purveyors live in fear of Rose, but me, I'm too occupied with the bar to feel bad about it. Your job won't let you do that.” Al left his seat and walked back behind the bar. “So how did you leave things with her?”

“The ride home was pure hell,” Dorsey said, sipping at his beer. “Like driving a hearse, it was so quiet. And with the weather it was a three-hour ride. I'd try to talk, start a conversation and get it off the ground, but she'd just stare out the window or stick her nose in this textbook she brought with her. Not reading, just flipping through the pages.”

Al turned off the small lights that illuminated the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar. “That's what really threw the wet towel on it for you two. Most people, couples, when they get their noses out of joint at each other, one of them can get up and go in the next room or leave the house, maybe. Just get a chance to come up for air.”

“Not this time.” Dorsey poured the remainder of his beer into the glass and shot it down. “Dropped her off at her place. No ‘call me tomorrow'; nothing like that.” Dorsey slapped the bar with the flat of his hand and rose to his feet. “Ah, Jesus. I better go.”

“Right, you get some sleep.” Al followed Dorsey to the door and held it for him. “Early snow,” Al said, looking out on Seventeenth Street. “Early snow always takes me by surprise. Tomorrow it all melts. Things'll work out. They blow over and straighten themselves out.”

“With Gretchen or with this mess of a case?”

“Say one prayer at a time.”

Dorsey stepped out into the snow and heard Al slide the door's deadbolt into place. Five inches had fallen, and although the showers had stopped, the sidewalks were yet to be cleared. Across Seventeenth, in a basketball court surrounded by hurricane fence, Dorsey saw the tall figure of
a man standing beneath the near backboard. Above his head, the hoop's nylon cord net had frozen and was filled by wet snow, looking like a snow cone from a street vendor before the syrup is poured. The figure was motionless and appeared unaware of Dorsey. Trying to discipline himself to think only of the case and certainly not of Gretchen, Dorsey dismissed the man as a drunk or a street bum without a doorway to sleep in. Keep your perspective, he told himself. Hope for the best. Maybe the girl won't run. Then, Monday morning, check out the files on the fourteen names on her list and search the Carlisle Steel workers' comp claim files for other workers who fit the mold. Dorsey decided to call Corso at home to arrange it for Monday.

Twenty feet from Carson Street, an alley bisected the block. As Dorsey hopped across the slush pond that had gathered at the gutter, two men stepped out from the alley's shadows. Both wore ski masks and fatigue jackets. The shorter of the two, a man of average height and weight, carried a tire iron. The second man was much taller and twice the width of the first and held an eight-inch wrench in his right hand. Startled at first, Dorsey gathered himself and slowly backed away, stepping through the slush.