The Fall-Down Artist (39 page)

“This fellow from FC,” Dorsey said. “Any chance that was Munt?”

“No, no,” Martin Dorsey said. “Munt was kept in the dark, both then and now. In fact, he was suspected because of his association with Corso, for a time. I hear he was
convincing as the outraged VP in your meeting. Reality is convincing.”

“Let's hear about Stiers,” Dorsey said, sipping his beer. “The guy they sent after Corso.”

Martin Dorsey again raised his glass to his son. “Very good, you have learned a great deal; good work.” He finished his toast with a pull on his whisky. “Walter Stiers is an investigator and auditor who does all FC's internal investigations. That's because he is Cleardon's fraternity brother. They both went to the same expensive school in New England, somewhere up in the woods. Cleardon was there on family money, but Stiers was that poor scholarship boy the rich kids like to cozy up to, to show how humane they are. You know, take him home on weekends, show him some well-to-do hospitality? Anyway, Cleardon takes care of him. So Stiers does his job on Corso, realizes how big, how intricate the setup is, and calls Cleardon.”

Dorsey shifted in his chair and kept his attention on his father. C'mon, he thought, get it all out. Let's get to the big question: What did you expect from me? “Okay,” Dorsey said. “So Cleardon comes to you, knowing what a clever guy you are, and the two of you cook this thing up. Am I right?”

“I can't take much of the credit,” his father said. “Cleardon is a bright fellow, a good thinker. What I always thought you could've been. He came up with most of it. He was a man with two problems, and he came up with a way to solve both of them.”

“Corso and the priest?”

“Exactly,” Martin Dorsey said. “Corso was an embarrassment and Father Jancek was a barricade. It's one thing to be the victim of an insurance scam by your own employee. It's quite another to be the victim of an outside group of conspirators. FC could have been rocked if word of Corso's dealings got out. Policyholders would cancel, potential new customers would look elsewhere. But if you have clean hands, the attention goes to the wrongdoer and
not the victim. A way had to be found to put the white hats on the correct heads.”

“Corso could have just been gotten rid of,” Dorsey said.

“But what of the priest and his people? That was the greater of the two problems. So Stiers went back to Corso with instructions from an anonymous source—Cleardon. He was to begin assigning the fraudulent cases dealing with Movement Together, and in time you were innocently to uncover the conspiracy and bring Father Jancek and his friends to justice.
Pari delecti
. With clean hands. The good name of Fidelity Casualty saved, and Movement Together wrecked.”

“One loose end,” Dorsey said. “Corso. Somebody in Movement Together, at least one somebody, would make a deal with the prosecution and inform. And Corso's role would be reversed.”

Martin Dorsey waved off the problem. “Corso denies it from day one to the end of his miserable life. We own him. As of now, the thief bastard gets to keep his job and feed his family. If he flip-flops on us, he'll lose the job he's got and never find another one anywhere. We can do it; make no mistake, we can do it. He stays loyal and he'll work. Change his mind and he starves.”

“So it was all set,” Dorsey said. “All that was left was to plop me down in the middle of it.”

“And lead you along by the nose.” Martin Dorsey laughed and shook his head. “Corso was to give you the Movement Together cases one by one, and we expected that you would naturally catch on to the conspiracy. But you were a horse that was tough even to lead to water. At one point, it was suggested by Corso that you had put it all together but were dragging your feet to hike up your fees. I convinced Cleardon otherwise and threw Monsignor Gallard your way. Later, I had a talk with Louis Preach, and he put you on a faster track.”

“For what?” Dorsey asked. “In the next campaign, will there be billboards announcing your endorsement of Preach for whatever office he may have his sights on?”

“That's really not much,” his father said. “I have no interest in any of his potential rivals. The endorsement costs me nothing.”

Dorsey finished his beer and went for another. “All right,” he said, crossing back to his chair, “so I learn everything there is to know. Demory gives it all up to me, and I write my report and send it to Munt and Cleardon. You and Cleardon get together and decide to forward it to that hungry son of a bitch Hickcock. Why's that?” He sat and opened his beer.

“To smear the priest, of course.”

“That could've been done in a criminal trial for fraud.”

“He would have been acquitted,” Martin Dorsey said. “Meara, from my understanding, thought the priest could have been convicted in another county, but I don't see it. A priest loved by the masses? If it came down to his going to prison, anything he was found to have done would have been excusable. There's no way to convict him, even if Demory was in the pink of health.”

“So you do it through the press,” Dorsey said, “and in my civil trial.”

Martin Dorsey held still for a moment, studying the desktop. “That's definite, is it? The possibility of a suit was always there. But I think you will find that after a few weeks or months of publicity, the case will be settled for a fraction of the original demand. You won't be hurt too badly, considering the fees that FC will be paying you for your continued services.”

“Not hurt badly?” Dorsey left his chair and glowered at his father. “I'm a detective who can't keep his reports confidential, and because of that I've no future in the business. And I have a dead friend. You remember him? You should. After sharing Christmas dinner way back when.”

“Knew about that, did you?” Martin Dorsey drew on his whisky. “Poor Russie, so loyal. Violence was never expected to be an issue. And for him to die—that was regrettable.”

“Yeah,” Dorsey said. “Tough break, wasn't it?”

“It's my one true sorrow in this business.”

“But not me,” Dorsey said. “How this is ending for me. You have no problem with that?”

“No, not the slightest,” his father said. “You'll come out okay.”

Dorsey left the beer on the desktop and turned away, stepping behind the chair. He rested his arms atop its back. “Enough. Let's get to the bottom of this. Why in the hell did you do this to me?”

“Because,” his father said, setting his glass on the desktop. “Because you embarrass me.”

“What the fuck is this?”

“Yes, what is this?” Martin Dorsey answered mildly, as much the patrician politician as ever. “Every time I look at you I ask the same question. How could you be mine? Doing the kind of work you do and living in that shack. I move mountains for people. Everything I touch turns to money. But then I see you—and, more important, other people see you and wonder what the hell is going on. They see my failure in you. I'm tired of it and I'm old. I want this problem settled.”

“Are you serious?” Dorsey started around the chair and nearly stumbled as his foot caught on one of the legs. He shoved the chair onto its side. “Fuckin' ridiculous. You linked me into your game to punish me for the life I've led? Ridiculous!” Dorsey addressed the ceiling as if searching for divine guidance. “I'm ruined so you can feel better for setting me straight.”

“You're not ruined,” Martin Dorsey said. “You're saved, despite yourself. You'll still have your fees paid by FC, and you're still in line for the cut I promised you from my piece of the action when Calumet's project matures. Meanwhile, I have plans. Cleaning you up politically will not be nearly as difficult as most people will think. Remember the magistrate's job we once talked about? I can still deliver it for you. And, in time, the Pittsburgh City Council would not be out of the question. Besides, it's all you have.”

“Kiss my ass, you have plans.” Dorsey dropped his hand into his jacket pocket and clutched the revolver. “You have plans. Well, I've sidestepped your plans in the past. I've come out okay, all by myself.”

Martin Dorsey smiled. “Is that right? Sidestepping is all I ever allowed out of you. Let's see, your greatest rebellion was what, when you left law school and enlisted in the army? Hard, tough Ranger, that's what you had planned for yourself. Back then, all the Rangers were dropped into the bush in Vietnam. All but you. In your last week of training you were reassigned as an MP. Normally that doesn't happen. To waste all that training on a fellow who will never pull the trigger on some little yellow guy in black pajamas? Think about it, for your entire enlistment, you're never sent any farther away then New Jersey. As if your assignment was to protect Ocean City from invasion. Would you like to know how I did it?”

Dorsey remained silent. His finger wormed itself inside the trigger loop.

“Congressman Dogal,” Martin Dorsey said. “He sits on the Armed Forces Committee. Politics are the same at every level. We raised the campaign money and he owes the local folks. So he took care of this for me.”

Dorsey felt light-headed. His fingers tingled.

“You'll do as I say from here on in.” Martin Dorsey sat and finished his whisky. “You'll do well as a city councilman. At least appear competent, and maybe there will be a run at the mayor's office or maybe we'll dump Dogal out of Congress. But that's all down the road. Sit back and relax, just leave me at the controls.”

“Low-life son of a bitch,” Dorsey mumbled as he shook his head to keep his balance. His instincts raged against each other, one voice demanding he take a clear, independent stand, while a sad and hollow voice of doubt crept through his thoughts. You thought you had a life without him at the controls, but it doesn't look that way now, looking back. The old man stood behind a curtain, like the Wizard in the Emerald City, pulling levers of his choice,
making the magic happen. All he wants now is to remove the curtain. Would it be so different?

“Yes, it would,” Dorsey said, watching the puzzled look on his father's face. He took the revolver from his pocket, aiming for the chest. Martin Dorsey grinned and shook his head. Don't dismiss me so quickly, Dorsey thought. No bluff is without some possibility of a follow-through. He matched his father's smile with the ones he wore in the photos that hung above his head on the back wall. The same toothy, soft-cheeked smile. While he bent forward to shake a black child's hand at a Martin Luther King memorial service. As he slapped the back of the governor from three terms ago. With his arms locked with those of the state's two senators. And ten more like them.

Dorsey returned the smile and elevated the revolver's muzzle. All five shots rocked the room and Martin Dorsey threw his arms up, protecting his head from the shower of glass and wood. Five of the mounted photos danced against the wall before slipping away, and a bluish cloud of cordite smoke gathered at the end of Dorsey's reach and wandered over his father's still ducked head. Mrs. Boyle whipped open the door from the parlor but only stuck in her head, tentatively.

“Well,” Dorsey said, turning to Mrs. Boyle with a grin. “Nice piece of work. And I thought the mattress was a tough shot.”

Early the
next afternoon, in a warm sun that cloaked the chill of a stiff wind, Dorsey parked the Buick two doors from his house, the closest available spot. His eyes watered and his skin had the slight crawl of a hung-over man who had already showered and slipped into clean clothes. Which, he admitted to himself, he was.

Dorsey moved along the sidewalk at a slow gait, holding his head still to protect himself against the dull ache in his temples. He climbed the front stoop to his door, inserted the key, and found it unlocked. Pushing softly, he let the door turn back on its hinges, exposing the empty hallway.

“Should have kept the gun with you,” he told himself, regretting his earlier decision to leave the gun on the desktop when he stopped for a shave and shower. Even if it wasn't loaded, you could maybe bluff your way through. Keep in mind, Damjani's partner is still on the streets, his face unknown.

Listening but finding only silence, Dorsey slipped off his shoes and started down the hallway, past the office door, and on to the kitchen. The kitchen, he thought, where the weapons are. Iron skillets, bread knives, and Gretchen's rolling pin. The knife is out, Dorsey decided, reminding himself that the military police and the sheriff's department had taught him how to defend against a knife but never how to use one. He took a frying pan from a cabinet above
the sink and stood motionlessly at the kitchen, again listening down the hall.