The Fall-Down Artist (36 page)

“This is it,” Radovic said. “Listen up.”

“Whatever,” Dorsey said. “What-fucking-ever.”

With the
snow, it took Dorsey an hour and forty minutes to travel north to Beaver. He had planned—hoped—to be in place at least thirty minutes before the 10
P
.
M
. meet. Now he had only ten minutes to check the side streets leading to the meeting place, check the doorways and alley ways where a second man could be waiting. Waiting to take him out after he gave the money to Damjani.

The streets of Beaver were straight and wide, and the new snow reflected the purplish glow of mercury street-lamps. Dorsey made for the center of town, past elegant well-kept homes, thinking of the struggle it must have been to keep the working classes out of this county seat, a county dependent on heavy industry for its survival. And a dry town, he reminded himself, smiling. No place for a thirsty mill hand fresh off the swing shift.

He turned left at Third and Market with the Beaver County Courthouse, its vast sandstone mass illuminated by spotlight, to the right of the intersection. Moving along Market, the courthouse now to his back, Dorsey could see the high stone wall of the county jail, where Tony Ruggerio had given him the story on Damjani. To Dorsey's right, between the courthouse and the jail, was a city block's worth of flat park lawn, with tall trees and park benches at the edges. Dorsey pulled to the curb. Through the falling
snow and the faint light he could see the dark outline of the gazebo at the center. The meeting place.

The snow was a blessing, Dorsey decided. No one moves silently across crisp new snow, except maybe an Indian in moccasins, and the priest doesn't have much of a following on the reservations. And no one can stalk you against a white backdrop. But the coin has two sides. You'll be out there on your own. And maybe, just maybe, Damjani learned something from the old man in Bloomfield and got a scoped rifle of his own.

Dorsey pulled back onto the street and moved slowly along, reminding himself that the possibility of a long-distance rifle shot was the only problem he could not resolve. He hoped Damjani's hatred still had an edge to it, one that wouldn't be satisfied unless he did his dirty work close up. You said it had to be outside, he told himself. So you'd feel safe. And you are, relatively, considering the situation. Which you created. So the hell with it.

Past the park, Dorsey drove along the side wall of the jail, then turned right and circled the park and the jail twice. All clear, he decided; the park was empty and the jail and courthouse parking lots held only official vehicles. He drove past the jail once more and stayed straight on Market, parking the Buick one block beyond the jail by an empty grammar school building.

Dorsey stepped out of the car and worked his way out of the field jacket, laying it across the front seat. Stretching toward the far door he took the switchblade from the glove compartment and slipped it into one of the jacket's flap pockets. He dug back into the glove compartment, this time retrieving the revolver. Holding it in his right hand, he slipped his arm into the jacket sleeve, extending his hand but allowing the revolver to come to rest inside the sleeve, several inches above the cuff. He put on the jacket and maneuvered the pistol until he was sure he could get to it when needed. From the top of the dashboard he took a black watch cap, working it over his head and folding it back just above the ears. Locking the doors, he took the
roll bag from the back seat, two layers of twenties over wads of cut paper, and headed for the park.

At the edge of the park, from behind a tree, he checked the lawn and the gazebo for the last time. Again there was no movement and Dorsey started across, estimating seventy feet of open ground ahead of him. The snow was lighter now. Dorsey wiped flakes from his mouth and eyebrows as he considered Damjani's choice for a meeting place, concluding that it fit his plans as well as any. It looks good, he thought. The jail is at one end, high stone walls for the shots to echo against, and all personnel are inside where the walls let no sound penetrate. Same with the courthouse. Most likely, the night staff consisted of a retiree watchman asleep in the basement. And open space on the left and right where the noise can travel, diffuse, and die.

Nearing the gazebo steps, Dorsey wiggled his right arm and hand, assuring himself once again that the revolver would be there on cue. In his pocket he felt the weight of the knife, recalling that it was there for an emergency: a witness. Someone sees you do it, sees you plainly and is sure to make an identification. While the witness runs for the cops you plant the knife in Damjani's dead hand and come up with a story about how Damjani tried to stick you. Cooperate with the police and get yourself a bright attorney and charges are knocked down to voluntary manslaughter, maybe less. Sentence is suspended because of your past being clean, and you never see the inside of a cell.

Dorsey climbed the gazebo steps and, once under its shelter, dusted snow from his shoulders and neck. The gazebo had a low wooden railing with support poles leading to the roof, and Dorsey stood near the pole farthest from the street, where the shadows were darkest. He checked his watch. It was time.

Two cars passed along Third Street, silhouetted in the courthouse light. Both drove through the intersection without turning onto Market. A few moments passed and then another car slowed at the intersection and turned onto Market and slowed even more, cruising by the park. Dorsey
recognized it as the rusted Chrysler that had picked up Father Jancek at the church. Good Lord, he thought, it really is the Movement Together company car.

The Chrysler picked up speed and continued down Market, going out of sight as it passed the jail. Dorsey figured it for a safety check and waited for the car to circle around, guessing on two men being inside: Damjani and a driver who would leave after delivering him. Two men, he thought. If only one steps out, stick to the plan. If two come for you, let them come within your mattress-shooting range and open up on them, Damjani first.

The Chrysler came by again, turned onto Market, and stopped. One man emerged from the passenger seat and closed the door, and the car moved on past the jail and out of sight. Shoulders hunched and bent forward against the snow, the man started toward the gazebo. Dorsey watched as he was highlighted by the snow, then obscured by tree shadows, then highlighted again. At the hem of his jacket Dorsey wiped his hands clean of the sweat that collected there despite the cold, then moved forward with the roll bag, crossing the gazebo's hardwood floor. He rested the bag on the railing.

With two thirds of the distance covered, the moving figure emerged from the last of the shadows. Dorsey felt the sweat rolling down his neck and he worked his wrist, moving the revolver down his sleeve so the barrel tip was at his cuff. This is it, he thought. Jesus Christ, this is it!

The man crossed the last of the open ground and stopped at the steps of the gazebo to kick the snow from his shoes. His face was darkened, visored by the cloth cap he wore, and Dorsey could not see his features, but when he straightened to his full height, Dorsey knew things had gone sour.

“Oh, shit,” Dorsey murmured. Too short. This guy is too fucking short; it isn't Damjani. The second man, the driver: shit, where the hell is he?

Dorsey dropped to the wooden floor and pushed with the heel of his left hand until the revolver was firmly in his right. He rolled to the center of the gazebo and came up
on one knee pointing the gun toward the jail wall, searching the snow for the driver. For Damjani. He spotted no one.

There were footfalls on the gazebo steps and Dorsey turned to meet them, the gun held high. “Close enough!” he shouted, moving forward. “This is a gun, make no mistake, it's on you. Where's the driver, the second man? Where's that big son of a bitch Damjani?”

“Ed won't be coming tonight.” The man's words were slow and even. “He won't be bothering you any longer.”

Dorsey recognized the voice and moved forward, the revolver aimed at a spot at the base of the man's throat. “My God,” he said. “It
is
you. Son of a bitch, it's you. You're here by yourself, no Damjani?”

“All alone.” Father Jancek climbed the steps, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his glasses free of snow. The flakes in his beard had turned it from salt and pepper to white. “You're safe. Could we have a talk? There's a lot to be said.”

Dorsey kept the gun on the priest. “Where's Damjani?”

“In the custody of federal marshals,” Father Jancek said, leaning back onto the gazebo railing. “He'll be put away. Either prison or a mental institution; one is as good as another, and I truly don't know which is more appropriate. The important thing is that you are safe from him. You and perhaps so many others. But, please, let's have a talk, indoors and away from this weather. There's a place nearby. A bar.”

“Not in this town.” Dorsey moved to his left and picked up the roll bag. The gun never left the priest.

“Just across the line, in Bridgewater,” the priest said. “Only a few blocks over. We'll have a sip and go over a few things. I assure you it's safe. Put your gun away. And keep the money.”

As smooth as his rally speeches, Dorsey thought, and as endearing. And as reassuring. He's got a touch, St. Francis calming the deer and petting a robin. Ah, well, follow where he goes. Dorsey slipped the gun into the right-hand
jacket pocket. Roll bag in hand, he followed the priest down the gazebo steps and into the snow.

The snow began to taper off, and snowplows and salt trucks passed them by as they walked along Third Street. Father Jancek did most of the talking. “The killing of your friend,” he said, “it sickened me. I was heartbroken, and believe me, I prayed and meditated for some time. I almost reached the conclusion that I should leave Movement Together, turn the whole thing over to men with a more temporal point of view. This violence, so personal and directed toward one person, this was never anticipated.”

Dorsey plodded along in the snow, cautiously planting each footstep, and thought of Louis Preach. “A mutual friend put it best,” he said. “He suggested that you wanted to fight a war and not get bloody.”

“Who said this?”

“Doesn't matter.” Dorsey braced himself against a cold gust. “Go on with what you were saying.”

“It was a terrible thing,” Father Jancek said. “I felt compelled to attend the church service. I remember the anger in your eyes when you saw me. When I ran, I ran for my life. Please believe me, I was not there to offend anyone. It was not my intention to desecrate the service.”

“But you left Damjani to continue roaming around on his own. Most likely you and yours helped him stay at least one step up on the police. Gave him a second crack at me. That's tough to forgive in a priest.”

“No, never,” the priest said, shaking his head and sending wet snow from his beard in every direction. “We never helped him, not after the death of your friend. Admittedly, we did not turn him in to the police at that time. But we gave him no aid in avoiding arrest.”

“So,” Dorsey said, “tell me about the federal marshals. You said he was in their hands. Who arranged it? You?”

The priest scratched at his beard, then wiped his wet gloved fingers on his jacket. “By answering that question as put, I admit it was arranged and I had a hand in it. Ah,
so be it. You'll hear more than that tonight. I think I owe you this for your friend. Anyway, we did arrange it. Not a happy task despite the necessity for it. Ed was totally beyond control, and it was apparent that he recognized no limits.”

“And you delivered him to federal cops?” Dorsey said. “Murder is local stuff, a local crime. He was part of the killing.”

“And he would have spent precious little time in jail for it as only an accomplice with a bargained plea.” The priest raised a finger as if reaching the linchpin of a thesis. “A federal warrant was issued this morning. There was a bank robbery, armed robbery, three years ago in West Virginia. Two of the three men were captured and sent away for long stretches in Lewisburg. These two men never identified the third member of the gang until this morning. The inmates cut a deal with an FBI agent who was summoned to the prison. They were able not only to identify Ed as the third man but also to tell the agent where Ed was to be found. A federal judge signed the warrant by noon and Ed was picked up in an apartment in New Castle.”