The Fall-Down Artist (34 page)

“How many years did Kelso do?”

“Not a day,” Al said. “Never questioned. Nikita was not popular, so no one who had been in the bar that night could remember anything about him, except he drank quietly and left when he was finished. And the cops, they had little interest in finding the killer. They knew what Nikita was like too.”

“So you're saying nobody'll care if all goes well?”

“Well, yeah,” Al said, “but there's more to it. More than how people felt about Nikita, you have to take a look at Nikita himself. See, and this may sound stupid, but there are guys out there lookin' for people to kill them. Nikita was one, without a doubt. It had to happen. If not Kelso, somebody else would have done it, sooner or later. Fate, whatever they call it these days. And this sounds like the same thing.”

Dorsey looked away for a moment, staring at the far wall. “Thanks, Al,” he said, turning back to him. “But it's hard.”

“Like I said, this is a bad thing.” Al reached across the table and put his hand on Dorsey's. “But I agree, Damjani won't stop. I'm gonna feel bad for a long while. You're gonna feel a lot worse. But remember three people. Gretchen, you, and Russie. You and her have to be safe. And Russie, he has to be put to rest.”

Dorsey placed both the deposit bag and the grocery sack on the desktop and slipped a tape into the tape player. As he took the three flannel bags from the sack, Dinah Washington began to sing “September in the Rain.”

Sitting at the desk, his fingers loosened the gold cord of the first bag. The cord came free and, tilting the bag, Dorsey allowed a black-handled switchblade to tumble out onto the blotter. He picked it up, resting it loosely across his palm. With his thumb he moved the release slide near the top, and the spring loader shot five inches of steel blade out of the handle. Dorsey was pleased to see it working despite years of disuse, but couldn't help but smile and think back
to his boyhood. They had all held it to be solemn law that any knife with a blade longer than your palm was illegal. Even then, Dorsey recalled, he had wondered whose palm they had in mind.

Dorsey released the slide and, pointing the blade at the blotter, gently allowed the blade to retract. He worked the slide again, and the blade sprang true. After again retracting the blade, he set the knife aside and took a cartridge box from the second flannel bag. With the box open he counted twelve .32-caliber shells, examining each to be sure it was clean and intact. Satisfied, he placed the box next to the knife and turned his attention to the third bag.

He didn't lift this one but instead allowed it to sit flat on the blotter as he worked the cord open. Inserting three fingers, he took hold and pulled the bag away, revealing the barrel, cylinder, and trigger loop and finally the hand grip. Dorsey took the gun in his right hand and hefted it, estimating the weight, and recalled the specifications. Meridian Arms break-top revolver, .32 caliber and nickel-plated. The contents of all three bags had been lifted from the sheriff's evidence property room four years earlier.

“A couple of throwaways” is what Mindes, his last partner, had called them. Dorsey had been saddled with fat sixty-three-year-old Carl Mindes. Because Carl was coasting toward retirement, he and Dorsey were assigned to easy duty, mostly following up on leads developed by other detectives, allowing plenty of down time for Mindes to lecture Dorsey on inside politics and to tell war stories of his thirty years of duty. Around noon one day, as Dorsey was stepping out to grab some lunch and a stretch of peace of mind, Mindes buttonholed him and suggested that they meet at the property room in the courthouse basement.

Dorsey arrived first, never sure of his read on Mindes. The property room attendant, an elderly sheriff's deputy, peered out through the wire mesh, a quick nod his only acknowledgment of Dorsey's presence. When Mindes arrived, the attendant opened the security door and ushered them both inside, exchanging greetings with Mindes.

“The box,” Mindes said. “It's in the back, am I right?” He led Dorsey past shelves of evidence: guns, knives, TV sets, stereo equipment, and a complete set of Norton anthologies.

“Kid in college,” Mindes said, noticing Dorsey's interest in the paperbacks. “Couldn't pay for his own books, used his mom's money for dope maybe, so he followed the kid sitting next to him in class to the bookstore. Once the kid buys his books, our boy kills him to get them. He was ready to compete for good grades, I'd say.”

Near the back wall Mindes stopped and lifted a hatbox from the middle shelf. Looking at the box, Dorsey thought he was about to be presented with Jack Webb's fedora. Mindes pushed the box into Dorsey's hands and lifted the lid.

“This is an old practice,” Mindes said, “and a damned good one. You need throwaways, you understand? Every cop, city or county, should have them, but the young ones, the smart shits, they don't go for this. Some day they may end up wishing they had.”

“These some kind of backup?” Dorsey whispered conspiratorily. “Second gun and a knife, that's a lot to carry. Really, when you think about it, if I don't stop a guy by emptying my service revolver into him, the guy deserves to win.”

“Looking at it all wrong is what you're doing.” Mindes replaced the lid, tapping it firmly in place. “Throwaways, not backup. Say you're chasing a guy and it's dark and all of a sudden the guy stops cold and turns on you. His hand goes up, so you figure he's got a gun and you shoot him first. Dead. But when you search him there's no gun, maybe a flashlight instead. The way it stands, you surrender your gun, face an internal hearing, a coroner's inquest, and maybe even a manslaughter charge.”

“A plant,” Dorsey said. “Make the sides look a little more even.”

Mindes smiled, as if proud of a star pupil. “Exactly. These weapons, they're cold, can't be traced. Just lost in
the shuffle. You put either one in the corpse's hand, who's gonna think it wasn't his? And the worst that can happen to you is a coroner's inquest that says it was self-defense.”

Dorsey tried to decline the gift, telling Mindes that he had no intention of chasing anyone, day or night, down an alley, let alone pulling his gun. But Mindes was adamant, as if he were giving a gift from father to son. “Some things I can teach you, explain to you,” Mindes said, “and some stuff you gotta take on faith. Listen to an old man for once. Do as I say, please?”

Dorsey accepted the hatbox, and later that same day he leased the safety deposit box to house the weapons, ensuring that he would never be tempted to pull his service revolver. There'll be no way to hide a mistake, he had told himself, no way to rake the dirt and cover your tracks. Bad judgment and a pulled trigger will mean your ass.

Now, at the desk while the tape cycled through twice, Dorsey painstakingly cleaned and oiled the revolver until the break-top snapped smartly, the chamber, cylinder, and barrel slipping firmly into the firing position. Dinah Washington sang “Manhattan,” inviting someone to “go to Coney and eat baloney on a roll,” as Dorsey pointed the revolver at the television and pulled the trigger, the hammer making a metallic snap and the chambers rolling along for six phantom shots. Satisfied, he opened the break-top and loaded the chambers. From the left-side drawer he took a pair of ear guards stolen from the county firing range years ago and went down the hall to the basement door.

Dorsey flicked on the light, closed the door firmly behind him, and headed down the steps, keeping the revolver muzzle pointed upward. The basement walls were unfinished rock and at the far wall at the front of the house Dorsey had hung an old mattress, bound over double. Nine feet from the wall was an old wooden table left behind by the house's former owner. Dorsey stood behind the table and placed the ear guards over his ears and worked loose the muscles of his neck and shoulders. Keeping his arm straight and his elbow loose, Dorsey lifted the revolver and sighted.
He emptied the chamber into the mattress, and even with the ear guards he felt the six shots echo along four stone walls and become twenty-four blasts. He had hoped for the stone to contain the blasts, and his ears rang with the success of his plan. Massaging his ears, he hurried upstairs and returned to the office, putting the revolver and the ear guards on the desktop and dropping into the swivel.

So, Dorsey dryly concluded, the gun works. And your aim was good enough to hit a queen-sized mattress, which is a significant improvement. But it's okay because the idea is to be inches from the guy when the gun goes pop. So a gun in working order is all that's called for. And three thousand dollars strewn across the top of a roll bag loaded with paper wads will look like ten thousand. So you're all set; only the phone call and the act itself remain. And the call has to sound like the real thing. Like you're on the ragged edge with the fear of God Almighty in you. Nothing artificial will do; you've got to find the fear in you. That seam of ore may be easily mined.

He called directory assistance, area code eight-one-four, for the number. A computer-generated voice repeated the number and Dorsey hung up halfway through the second go round. He dialed again.

“Carl Radovic, please,” Dorsey said, after the call was answered on the fourth ring. He had a moment's fear that the office was closed and his one sure contact to Damjani was out for the day—the day Gretchen returns.

Over the line, Dorsey heard approaching footsteps bring the curtain up on his act. “This is Carl. Who's this?”

“Carl,” Dorsey said, “please don't hang up, this is Dorsey. We need to talk.” Dorsey's words were pressured, overlapping and running together. “Carl, this is really important.”

“Fuck you want, bastard? Heard you slipped by a couple of times. Felt real bad, wished you woulda died. You're too lucky.”

Dorsey left his chair and paced in front of the desk holding the phone in his hand. His voice became even more
pressured, and he realized it was no act. “Listen to me,” he said, “at least do that. This shit is too much for me. I never bargained for this kind of stuff. Man, I'm just a follower; trailing people and peeking into windows is my line. Believe me, I never meant to mess with you guys. It's too fuckin' much.”

“Tough shit,” Radovic said.

“No, no,” Dorsey said. “I have to get to your man, Damjani. I want him off my back and I know he ain't gonna do it for nothing. I could make it worth your while. Know what I mean?”

There was a tense moment of silence for Dorsey before Radovic replied. “Scared shitless, aren't you. I like you that way. Maybe things should just stay as they are, with you lookin' over your shoulder all the time. Make you go fuckin' nuts.”

“Listen,” Dorsey said. “Don't tell me the priest looks at things that way. He's in it to help people, even when it gets a little rough. And I said before, I could make it worth your while. Yours, Damjani's, even the priest's.”

“With what?”

“Money,” Dorsey said. “Heard you people could use some. Ten thousand. Damjani has an accomplice-to-murder rap hanging over his head from last week. So make it going-away money. Or give it to the priest and show him what a contribution you've made. Do what you want, just get Damjani off my back.”

Radovic laughed. “Want to make a contribution, send in a check. Then we'll see.”

“I need some assurance from Damjani,” Dorsey said. “And payment is in cash. The guy could keep this shit up even after I sent the money. Look, there's a bag here on my desk with the whole load inside. In twenties. All I got and all I can raise. Best I can do, now or ever.”

There was another silence on the line. Dorsey could picture the concentration on Radovic's face as he weighed his options. C'mon, Carl, Dorsey thought. Ten thousand, for Christ's sake. It'll make you a hero, make you important.
You'll have the recognition that can get you away from sitting all day in that drafty office. Yeah, you sat on stage with Father Jancek, but that was a crumb you were thrown; the next day it was back in that meat locker of a storefront. C'mon, man, go for it.

“Get the money up here to me,” Radovic said. “Do it right away and I'll see what I can do for you. I think I can fix it.”

“Carl, c'mon, man,” Dorsey said. “You know Damjani. You know him a hell of a lot better than I do. So you know I got good reason to be worried. The deal is the money for him laying off. The deal is between him and me. I'll hand over the money to Damjani, and he can say it's all off. That he'll get off me.”

“Fuck is this shit?” Radovic screamed and Dorsey feared he had moved too quickly. “Got it in mind to set him up, right?” Radovic said. “He shows and the cops are waiting, right?”

“It's not that way,” Dorsey said. “You can look at it that way, but that ain't how it is. I'll go anywhere to meet the guy; you name the place. Just so it's him and me, and it's got to be outdoors so I'll feel safe. You don't trust me? Jesus, I'm the one who almost died twice. Why I should trust you? To get this guy off me I'll go anywhere.”

“What a bullshitter,” Radovic said, laughing. “And you never give up. What a bullshitter.”

The whole deal, Dorsey reminded himself, was to play on the egos of two men, Radovic and Damjani. Radovic, so his stock will go up in Movement Together. And Damjani, so he can get a real charge out of it at your expense. For destroying you. So he can take the money and laugh and call you a pussy. So he can get his psycho rocks off. You've got to get to Damjani.