The Fall-Down Artist (31 page)

Dorsey switched gears and moved from the big picture to the details, the individual brush strokes. He pressed for meeting dates and who attended and who said what. In the time it took to do in five cigarettes, Demory provided a detailed chronology that hung the Carlisle employees, Claudia Maynard, and P. I. Stockman. Impressed with the inmate's powers of recall, Dorsey told Russie's memory that one of the big ones was in the bag. Now for the other.

“So far, you've maybe left someone out?” Dorsey asked. Demory expelled a packet of gray smoke and gently nodded his head, looking at Dorsey as a teacher looks at a star pupil.

“The priest,” Demory said. “Like I mentioned before, he showed himself only once. But that's enough if it's done right.”

Demory told Dorsey it was three months into the fraud before he met Father Jancek. “It was up and going, fan-fucking-tastic. My people learned quick and stayed smart.
So, and you're thinkin' we were fuckin' crazy, we threw a party. Stupid, right? Fuck it, that's what we did. Had it in the back room of this bar in Latrobe. P. I. covered the whole thing: beer and liquor, food, and some of the guys blew a couple joints. And after things start to cook, when they are really goin', Father Jancek kind of slips in. No round collar, just a sweater, and hardly any of these guys even catch on to who he is at first. P. I. took me by the arm and just about drags me across the room to meet the fuckin' guy. So then the priest starts in on how he was aware of my contribution. That's what he kept calling it, my contribution. That must sit better with him than theft by deception. And he kept on telling me, more for his own benefit than mine, that my contribution was necessary for the economic recovery. And how nobody would really understand it, so it was best to keep it under our hats.”

“Keep going.” Dorsey flipped a page on the steno book. “What else about the priest? There's more, I hope.”

Demory took a long pull on his cigarette and held it, thinking. “Not much. The man shook a few hands, patted a few backs, and left.”

Dorsey took down the date of the party and the bar's address and asked Demory about any other meetings he had with Father Jancek.

“Never saw the man again,” Demory said. “Except on TV.”

Only P. I., Dorsey told himself, you might just have to settle for his ass. Demory's testimony and some further corroboration from a few more reputable Movement Together members once they crack under pressure should nail him. But in court, the priest walks. But not on TV and not in the papers. And not in the book Hickcock puts together, if that slippery bastard is to be trusted. Sorry, Al, sorry, Russie, it's the best I can do.

Dorsey flipped through his eighteen pages of notes, checking for any inconsistencies. Satisfied, he closed the steno book and clicked his pen, retracting the point. “Look,
from what I can see you've got more pull around here than the warden's wife.”

Demory grinned.

“What I need,” Dorsey said, “is for you to call that guard in here and arrange for me to use a typewriter in one of the offices around here. It'll take me a little while, but I'm going to type up your statement. And then you'll sign, right?”

“Yeah, I'll sign,” Demory said. “But you be quiet about this shit, especially while you're here. Lotta shit can happen to a guy, and Lou Preach ain't got that much pull. I'll sign and I'll testify in court, but that's later, after indictments are handed down and I become too important to fuck with. Be cool, and I'll sign.”

“Guaranteed,” Dorsey said. “I'll type. You sign.”

Dorsey awoke
to find himself at his desk, the early light of a winter sun cutting through the window, catching flying dust in shafts. Lifting his head from the blotter, he wiped grains of sleep from the edges of his eyes and took a fast inventory of the desktop: two beer cans, both crunched in the middle; the Olivetti portable with an empty ribbon box beside it; his steno pad, thinner now that the pages of notes had been torn away and crumbled. Neatly stacked to the left was the final draft of his report.

He took the report in hand and began to proofread, impressed by his ability to compose in a state of near-exhaustion. The first fifteen pages were all he remembered typing, yet the narrative flowed easily through the remaining twenty-three. It weighed about a pound, Dorsey estimated. But like a hundred-pound millstone, it would take P. I. Stockman straight to the muddy bottom.

Dorsey checked his wristwatch, confirming four hours until his lunch date. Upstairs he stripped and took a thirty-minute shower, scrubbing away the ink under his nails left by the typewriter ribbon, the dirt of six counties, and the animal-sweat stench of the penitentiary. He dressed casually in corduroy slacks and rag sweater topped off by a camel-hair sport jacket. After retrieving the morning paper from the front door, he went into the kitchen and brewed a four-cup pot of coffee. He downed all four cups while
scanning the paper and listening to a tape of the Ellington band, Johnny Hodges taking off on alto sax.

The day's first stop was at a copier service on Carson. Dorsey ordered three copies of the report, one each for Corso at FC, Meara at the DA's office, and Cleardon at corporate headquarters. Waiting on the copier, he stared out at Carson, the sidewalk peopled with deliverymen and shoppers, and thought back to Bernie's warning about Corso. The man sells cases, Dorsey thought. This one could bring a high price. Stockman has a lot riding on this and he could raise enough cash to convince Corso that the risk was worth taking. The set procedure is for Corso to receive a copy of the report; that's what you agreed to. But he sells cases. Sighing, Dorsey turned from the window and considered his options. Fuck it, he decided, Corso gets shit. The report can go to Munt, tucked safely away at the home office in Syracuse.

With the copies in a legal portfolio next to him on the front seat, Dorsey drove through light traffic on the Tenth Street bridge and into the Armstrong Tunnels, moving slowly to allow his eyes to adjust to the abrupt fall of night. Just off of Ross Street he pulled to the curb, stuck a quarter in the meter, and trotted up the steps of the Allegheny County Courthouse. A short elevator ride to the third floor let him off opposite the District Attorney's office.

“Mr. Meara can't see you now, he's in deposition.”

The receptionist was in her fifties. A thick paperback was open and face down at the center of her low steel desk. Dorsey figured it to be the type that promises the reader young American women in Paris and bedroom scenes every seventy pages.

“Like I said, he's in deposition,” the receptionist repeated. As she spoke her left eye closed against the smoke of a cigarette stuck in the corner of her mouth. “After that he's got meetings. He's tied up all day. Gotta call ahead. I keep telling you people—”

Dorsey raised his right hand, pointing his index finger to center the woman's attention. “Okay, honey, let's get this
straight. I don't want to see Bill Meara. What I want is to leave this little package for him. And it's something important, so it better get to him. I'll be back this afternoon, and at that time Bill Meara will want to see me, no matter what needs to be canceled.” Dorsey dropped a copy of the report onto the desk. “Another thing: what's this ‘you people' stuff? And one last thing: quit reading that crap. It'll ruin your eyes.”

Out on the sidewalk, Dorsey pumped four quarters into the parking meter. There was still time to kill before lunch. It was dangerous to arrive early. Don't look anxious and come off as the needy one, because you are not. Demory's statement is a trump card, ace high. Nobody can take the trick away.

At a stationery store he purchased two large envelopes, addressed one to Charles Cleardon and the other to John Munt. He took them to the postal window at the Federal Courthouse, mailed the reports by overnight express, and started back along Grant Street for his appointment. Passing the county courthouse again, he took a detour and walked through the center courtyard, where the judges and politicians had once parked their cars and Russie had washed and waxed them. Dorsey stopped by the fountain at the yard's center, picturing how Russie must have looked, his sleeves rolled to the elbow and his hands plunging into buckets of sudsy water. And always in a hurry, Dorsey remembered, keeping so busy the joke was that there was no way he could be a county employee. Should've had the memorial service here. Could've saved the priest's fee and Russie would have been home. But it's okay, Dorsey told him, it's okay. The checks are in the mail. For the payback.

It was Dorsey who had insisted on the Wheel Café. Hickcock had suggested a lunch date at a small Greek restaurant near the TV station, but Dorsey had no intention of going onstage, allowing Hickcock to show him off to his fellow reporters, impressing them with his insider connections. Use him, Dorsey warned himself; don't let him use you.
He'll get his chance at the book-signing party, if it gets that far—and maybe it will. Things are turning in your direction. Now, if Gretchen . . .

Dorsey stopped just inside the café doors and took in the restaurant, appreciating the continuity; it never changed. Long and wide, the room had a thirty-foot ceiling covered with old worked tinplate. The bar was dark wood and ran from the front entrance to the swinging kitchen doors, deep into the gloom of the poorly lit far corner. To the right was a line of booths, and a bartender signaled Dorsey to the last of them.

“Jesus Christ,” Hickcock said as Dorsey slipped into the booth. “This is your idea of a place to eat? The room needs paint. Maybe five or six coats. What's the attraction?”

“It's old,” Dorsey said. “Not restored, not refurbished. Just old.”

A bartender dressed in white shirt and dark pants topped with a white linen apron, double-wrapped, passed the booth and slapped down two menus. Dorsey pushed them away and hailed the bartender. “Hey, Cas, we made up our minds already.” The bartender backed up to the booth and yanked a bill pad from under the apron. “Give us the hot sausage,” Dorsey said. “Two each, and two drafts.” Hickcock began to protest but Dorsey cut him off. “They're small, the sandwiches. And they're different.”

The beer came before the food and Dorsey thanked the bartender as he headed into the kitchen. He sipped his beer and turned to Hickcock. “So, what's on your mind?”

“I'm here to find out what's on
your
mind.”

Hickcock looked much more composed than at their first meeting. His hair was freshly cut and there was no way his suit was off the rack. Healthy and in control; no longer a beggar.

“You've been watching the news regularly, I assume. My reports, I mean. And the new girl, the one I told you about, there's another couple of weeks before she gets here. By then the news direction will be solid and she'll have to toe the line I establish.”

“You came through.” Dorsey drank his beer, tipping the glass to Hickcock. “What you said would happen—well, it happened. Good as your word. So what's next? You called me last night, not the other way around.”

Hickcock drank off a little beer, pensively swishing it about on his tongue. “What's next is for you to trust me. And for you to tell me what you know.”

“Some of it, maybe.” The bartender returned with the sandwiches and Dorsey quieted. The sandwiches were on smallish buns, the sausage split and grilled with onion. Dorsey dug in, taking half of a sandwich in one bite.

“C'mon, Dorsey. No fuckin' around, okay?” Hickcock took a neat bite of his lunch. “We have to be together on this. And besides, I need more. I need it now. I can't keep repeating the same things I already know, and people in general already know. Viewers get bored; they'll switch the channel to catch a “Benny Hill” rerun. You want to string it out, give it to me in small portions, that's okay with me for now, as long as the information comes in a steady stream. Do it in steps, but someday soon you'll have to give it all up.”

Dorsey drank the last of his beer and tapped the tabletop for a refill. “It'll keeping coming, as long as you stay straight with me. And yeah, I do have something for you today. Two things, actually.” Dorsey told him about Father Jancek's appearance at Russie's memorial service, omitting his own kidnapping and conversation with Louis Preach. The bartender set a fresh beer in front of Dorsey and left.

“So who else saw?” Hickcock asked. “Give me the names.”