The Fall-Down Artist (32 page)

“No witnesses.” For a moment Dorsey toyed with the idea of giving up Dexter, but the memory of Dexter's forty-five urged caution. “Just me.”

“Is this bullshit? I have no use for bullshit, things that can't be confirmed.”

“Since when has confirmation of a story ever been a hot issue with you?” Dorsey finished off the second sandwich, chewing as he spoke. “You just tell the good people out
there in TV land that the information came from a trusted and knowledgeable source. I've heard you use that phrase in the past. And maybe the priest won't deny it, hoping to prove his compassion for all men. He'll get some mileage out of it, but you, you'll prove to your audience that you're the man with the inside information. I can hear those tuner dials clicking away, leaving “Benny Hill” far behind.”

Dorsey watched the concentration on Hickcock's face, revealing the struggle within. Buy it, Dorsey thought, and hoped for ESP. C'mon, you can use it. It'll work. And you like film. The station already has the footage taken outside the church. It'll work.

“Okay,” Hickcock said, the tension draining from his face. “You said two items.”

“There's a balding fat man in Johnstown,” Dorsey said. “He mans the Movement's local office, a few blocks from Otterman Avenue; you know, where the hospitals are? He knows maybe just a little more than nothing, but he thinks he's important and he's got a temper. You waltz into that office with your crew and shove a microphone into his face and let him take it from there. He'll threaten you and hang himself in the process. Maybe he'll even attack the fearless reporter right on tape. That's you, buddy.”

Bill Meara wore half-moon glasses at the end of his nose as he skimmed the last few pages of Dorsey's report. His sleeves were rolled up to mid-bicep and the knot of his tie hung loosely, several inches below his collar. Irish grunt, Dorsey thought again, sitting across the desk from the attorney. And the office, a grunt office: a picture of the county commissioners mounted on a gray wall, one metal desk, and four filing cabinets. And one window overlooking Ross Street.

“Looks good,” Meara said. He flicked on his desk lamp against the fading light of the November afternoon. “But we have some problems too. The first one is your stoolie.” He closed the file folder and slipped it across the desktop to Dorsey. “We'll have to offer some immunity, at least to
the extent that no further time can be added to his present sentence. That'll take the okay of my higher-ups. The other problem is there's no grand jury in session right now—not that I would put this before a grand jury here in the city. Not in this county.”

“Why not?” Dorsey asked. “You seem capable.”

Meara scratched at his dark wiry hair and laughed. “For the son of Martin Dorsey, you're a little light on political sense. You expect me to try a case against a priest
here?
This is a large industrial city, or a former one anyway. And that means people like you and me. Catholics, Catholics by the bushelful. Forming a jury with a chance of convicting would be next to impossible. And another thing. I have a career in this office as long as I can keep the present DA in office, which he wants very badly. Which he won't be if I get into the habit of prosecuting priests. Most of the crime took place in Cambria and Westmoreland. Cambria expects to enpanel a grand jury in January. We'll give it to them, out in the hills where they can latch on to all the Protestants they need.”

Dorsey was dumbfounded by Meara's words. The priest; he thinks he can pull in Father Jancek, at least for an indictment. “You'll have to back up some,” Dorsey said. “I can't touch the priest with what I've got. Only P. I. can finger him.”

“You don't know that.” Meara shook his head, frowning. “You left the Sheriff's office too soon, before you learned to be an investigator. How did you get so far on this job? P. I. won't rat on him, you're right. But the guy's only a priest, and even with good advice from P. I., he fucked up somewhere along the line. Pros fuck up, so he must've. Like going to your buddy's funeral. It'll come to light. Don't worry; save your worrying for other problems.”

“Like corroboration,” Dorsey said, ecstatic over the renewed hope of bagging the priest but wanting Meara to move off the subject. Don't dwell on shortsighted conclusions. “We need more than Demory. Testimony from
someone a little less tainted than him. I'll see what I can do.”

Meara gazed thoughtfully out his window and Dorsey wondered what was next. “There's another thing,” Meara said, turning back to Dorsey. “About your Mr. Demory, something you neglected to mention in your report. I checked with the prison medical staff: Demory's a lunger. And along with his lungs, the majority of his coronary arteries are clogged. The man is inoperable. There's no guarantee he'll even live to testify. Maybe there's just enough bullshit in his story for him to have a laugh on his way out.”

“I know what you're saying,” Dorsey said. “That's why I got the written statement. In case he's not around when we need him.”

“No, no.” Meara waved his arms as if flagging down a truck. “Forget it. I know, a signed dying declaration. Don't bullshit me. I'm the one in this room that finished law school, remember? They exist, but not in a vacuum. All we have is a signed statement, with only you as a witness. My friend, you are no officer of the court, and the man who signed it is a known felon. For all I know the guy's a pathological liar.”

“You're a hard-ass; no one had to tell me.” Dorsey left his chair and walked to the window, peering down at Ross Street. “But you're right. We need more.”

“And that's up to you.” Meara neatly arranged some papers on his desk. “No county people yet. And maybe never from this office, depending on the sales job I do on the Cambria DA.”

So maybe it goes to trial in Ebensburg, Dorsey thought, because of the priest. And who knows how competent that DA will be? But more important, Father Jancek might just be sitting at the defense table. The priest and P. I. and everyone on Demory's list will be sitting there. Better get a big table.

“In the meantime,” Meara said, “this report of yours, along with anything else you come up with, stays confidential.
I can vouch for myself, and I'm assuming you can vouch for yourself. Keep your mouth shut. Something gets out before we are ready to try for an indictment, we may never get to court. They'll cover their tracks.”

“I know the drill.” Dorsey was tempted to tell Meara about Corso, but that would take an explanation he wasn't ready to defend. “I'll manage.”

“Good.” Meara turned his attention to a thick file he had taken from a desk drawer. “Now we get back to work.”

By five-thirty night had fallen, and a misty rain began that helped further to entangle rush-hour traffic. Dorsey drove away from downtown along Liberty Avenue, and the twenty-minute drive to Gretchen's apartment took forty-five. Once past the curve near the Bloomfield foot of the bridge, Dorsey began searching for an open parking spot along the curb, which was lined with small shops, Italian restaurants, and the Chinese restaurants that were beginning to infiltrate the area. It took several swings to do it, but Dorsey got the Buick into a spot meant for a Yugo, two doors down from the florist.

Inside, an elderly florist suggested a flower arrangement, promising to make it up fresh. His English was good but the Sicilian roots slipped through. “I showa you,” he said. “You see, justa minute.”

“Carnations,” Dorsey said as the proprietor stepped behind the shop counter. “A dozen.”

The florist leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter. “Wife? Girlfriend maybe? Something special is whata you want. I show you.”

Dorsey waved off the idea and insisted on carnations. “A dozen. You have them, right?”

“Okay, carnations.” The florist headed for the workroom in back. “Carnations, they worka for you, good. You get carnations.”

The carnations were wrapped in extra plastic against the rain. Traffic was still heavy, but it was only another three
blocks before the turnoff for Gretchen's apartment. Dorsey turned left onto a street made up of row houses with aluminum awnings, except for Gretchen's building, an older apartment house of yellow brick with gargoyles stretching out from the roof. He pulled to the curb about fifteen feet past the building.

The apartment showed signs of a fast getaway. Dorsey maneuvered through the four rooms, encountering a sinkful of dishes, towels on the bathroom floor, and half-open drawers with clothing spilling out. Worse than usual, Dorsey thought, much worse. But you want to have a surprise waiting for her tomorrow, so hop to it.

Policing the apartment took a little over two hours, with Dorsey scrubbing away, sweaty and bare-chested. The shower and tub were the worst, and Dorsey used a wire brush against the mildew, scratching the porcelain. The bathroom sink took more of the same.

Finished, Dorsey washed his arms and torso at the sink and slipped back into his shirt. He checked the carnations in the fluted glass vase he had found in a kitchen cabinet, ensuring that each flower stood independently. After placing the vase at the center of the kitchen table, he took his jacket and left.

The rain had gotten heavier, and Dorsey paused in the building's lobby to fish in his pocket for his car keys. Isolating them between thumb and index finger, he hunched his shoulders against the rain and started for the Buick at a trot. Ten feet from the car he heard a pistol shot and felt a sliver of yellow brick slice his forehead, an inch above his right eye.

Instinctively, Dorsey dropped to the sidewalk on all fours and began scurrying along toward the Buick, using parked cars as cover. He could hear the sound of running from the far sidewalk and from behind the trunk of the Buick raised his head for a look, and the footfalls went silent. The muzzle flash illuminated the big man behind the gun, and a bullet cut a gash in the Buick's bumper. Another bullet went a little high, and the flash allowed Dorsey to confirm
that it was Damjani. Dorsey took off in a low crouch and heard the ringing of the spent shell dancing along the cement. Jesus Christ, Dorsey thought, looking for a walkway between row houses and finding none. He has an automatic. Pray for a jam.

Blood streamed down Dorsey's cheek. He stayed on the move, keeping an eye on the far pavement. Damjani kept pace, holding the automatic at the end of an outstretched arm. He fired again, the bullet smashing into the cement at Dorsey's feet as he dashed between parked cars. Dorsey made a fast turnaround and doubled back in the opposite direction, hoping to juke out Damjani. Over his left shoulder he saw Damjani execute a neat turn with surprising agility for such a big man. There's nothing this way, Dorsey reminded himself, and turned again. Damjani followed easily.

“Motherfucker!” Damjani shouted across the street. “Next shot and you're dead, motherfucker!”

The muzzle flashed again and the bullet passed through the backseat windows of a car Dorsey was using for cover. Searching for a way out, Dorsey saw lights being flashed on at the row house porches and hoped they might frighten off Damjani. Bullshit, this guy is psychotic. He doesn't frighten, he kills. And forget about counting the shots. The spent shells make it an automatic. The clip might hold as many as twelve, and a blind man can hit one out of twelve. Keeping going, keep moving; movement means you're alive.

Dorsey started down the line of cars again; Damjani stayed right with him, step for step. Dorsey counted six cars to the intersection and open ground. The intersection, he thought, where Damjani shoots you. The intersection, it's a no-man's-land.

Hunkered down behind a car hood, he saw Damjani crab-walking between two cars, crossing the street. He's not waiting for the intersection; he's coming for you. Dorsey searched for an escape; the prospect of a mad sprint across the intersection was looking better and better. He slipped
into a sprinter's stance, his legs tensed and ready to kick off, when, in the light of a mercury streetlamp, he spotted a walkway between two row houses, four doors down and two short of the intersection. Hoping to fake Damjani into setting up a shot at the intersection, Dorsey burst out of his stance, pumping arms and legs for the corner. He heard the automatic fire and prayed for a miss and for his knee to hold up as he cut hard and fast into the walkway. The knee stayed steady as he bounced off a wrought-iron porch railing and into the wire gate blocking the walkway. It wasn't locked and Dorsey worked the latch until his eyes fell on the sign at the gate's center—
GUARD DOG
,
BEWARE
—complete with the face of a police dog. Fuck it, he decided, and pulled open the gate. He ran the length of the walkway, his ears sharp for the sound of a menacing growl. As he ran he tore off his jacket and wrapped it around his left forearm, intending to jab it at the dog's snout. He reached the end of the walkway unmolested, jumped into the center of a small brick-paved yard at a wrestler's stance, and heard the rustle of a chain leash to his left. He turned toward it, ready to fight.

It was a beagle. A puppy. On a leash.

“Everybody's a fuckin' comedian.” Dorsey took two strides and vaulted over a low cyclone fence to the next yard and then into the next. He heard Damjani's running feet echoing in the walkway and, much more distantly, the wail of police sirens. The fourth yard had a three-foot cinder-block wall and Dorsey hopped over it, steadying himself on one arm, and dropped to his knees as two shots threw mortar dust from the top of the wall. Dorsey found hope as the sirens grew louder, closer. He can't be that crazy, Dorsey thought; nobody sticks around to get caught. C'mon, Ed, run for it. Prison is prison, and you won't like it. Ask Demory.