The Fall-Down Artist (40 page)

Halfway to the front door, Dorsey picked up on a noise coming from his left: short, repetitive, and rhythmic. He moved a few steps farther and the noise was better defined, reminding Dorsey of a dog's panting, only slower. At the office door he put an ear to the wood, listening, and the sound seemed more like a grunting. Dorsey choked up on the frying pan handle, took hold of one of the sliding door grips, and threw the door open along its track.

Her legs were draped across the desk and her stocking feet rested on the typewriter's carriage. She wore her customary working clothes: corduroy slacks, oxford-cloth shirt. Her running shoes were at the foot of the swivel chair, the chair reclined to its limit, and her curly hair was smashed into the chair's cushioned back.

“How about that,” Dorsey said. “She never snores in bed.” He allowed Gretchen three more long pulls through her nose and mouth, then dropped the frying pan to the wooden floor with a clang.

“Holy Christ!” Gretchen yelped, pulling up straight in the chair and turning to Dorsey. “Good Lord, you just took twenty years off my life.”

“Twenty years?” Dorsey picked up the pan and crossed the room, kissing her cheek and patting her curls away from her face. He placed the frying pan next to the typewriter. “You're acting as if those twenty years had already been assigned to you. Now, it's you who keeps saying that life has no assurances. And today I agree.”

“You sound like a life insurance salesman,” Gretchen said, laughing. “And you sound nothing like your old insecure self.”

Dorsey grabbed a beer from the refrigerator while Gretchen left the swivel chair and stretched out on the chaise. Dorsey dropped into the chair and rested his heels at the edge of the desk. “It's been a very busy couple of days. You may hear about it from some of your neighbors. Let me tell you about it while I have a hair of the dog.”

“My neighbors?”

Dorsey told her about the chase, right down to the rifle-toting neighbor. “Big rifle,” Dorsey said. “Looked like Frank Buck's, you know, from the old movies?”

Shaken by the story, Gretchen went to the refrigerator for a beer of her own and sat on the corner of the desk. She asked what had gone on afterward and Dorsey brought her up to speed, concluding with the fireworks at his father's. “And you're all right?” Gretchen asked, gesturing toward his forehead. “Those stitches, they look irritated.”

Dorsey told her he was okay. “They pull on the skin a little. But all in all, I've held up fine.”

Gretchen left the desk and returned to the chaise. She took a long swallow of beer, then held the cold can to her cheek. “About ten-thirty last night,” she said, “I went on break and wandered into the staff lounge. Three interns were huddled in front of the TV. One of them turned when he heard me come in and said he thought I knew you. I said yes and he filled me in on the first ten minutes of Sam Hickcock's show. The rest I saw for myself. I tried to call you most of last night. Where in the world were you?”

“First,” Dorsey said, “I got drunk and made some plans. Then I puked over the railing of the Tenth Street bridge.”

“Thought you looked a little pale.” Gretchen smiled.

“I'm starting to come around.” Dorsey sipped at his beer, grimaced as it hit his still tender stomach, then sipped again. “Anyways, after that relief, I slept a few hours in the car. Didn't trust my driving at that point.”

Gretchen set the beer on the floor between her feet and her eyes bore into Dorsey. “Carroll, are you nuts? That's stupid, dangerous! Anybody could have come along and robbed you, killed you. Where were you parked?”

Dorsey waved off her concern. “On Bingham, where the Salvation Army drunk tank is. I was one of the boys, so far as they were concerned.” He sipped at his beer again. “But let me get back to what I was saying. When I woke up, the sun was coming up. I drove back here and made
for the kitchen, where I downed a quart of tomato juice, the universal cure-all. Straightens you up fast. After that I put in an hour under the shower. Kept changing the temperature, hot-cold, cold-hot. And the cure was complete.”

“I'm the doctor,” Gretchen said, shaking her head. “And I'll be the judge of who's fit for duty and cured of what. You're pale and my prescription is rest and abstinence. But c'mon, I don't want to hear about your folk cures for self-inflicted diseases; where else were you?”

Dorsey reminded her of the threatened lawsuit. “There's going to be a real need for ready cash around here. So I did a few things. Went to the real estate office on Carson, about three blocks over from where you turn to get to Al's? Anyways, I put this place up on the block. They tell me they can move it pretty fast and for a good price. Rich folk want back into the city. Take this row house and put four months of work into it, and it becomes a town house. Gentrification, that's what the agent called it.” Dorsey took a drink of beer. “And I talked to Al. I'm taking over Russie's place, the apartment over the bar.”

“You don't have to do that,” Gretchen said. “It's not necessary. I can help with money. And if you don't want money, move in with me. We could live together, full-time basis. Might as well.”

Dorsey slowly shook his head. “No. It won't work and it's not what I want. Oh, let's get it straight. I love you, and yes, I do need and want you. But the pushy days are over. If you find yourself in a corner, believe me, I don't want to be the guy who painted you into it. So have your life and give me all the time you can. But don't steal any from yourself to give to me. And plans? I won't make any plans further ahead than next week.”

“My God, you really have been through hell these last few days.” Gretchen left the chaise and came to Dorsey's side, running a knuckle along the edge of his jawbone. “This doesn't sound like you.”

“Things change,” Dorsey said, turning to Gretchen.
“More or less, that's how things are. You've always said that, and it's finally sinking in.”

Gretchen laughed. “It's funny, and a little frightening, to hear you say such things.” She laughed again. “Maybe I liked it better when you were crowding me. It was good for my ego, you being insecure.”

Dorsey grinned and held out his hands, palms up, as if summing up a sales pitch. “This will be good for you too. You know how I feel, and you know what I hope to see happen. Let's see if it happens.”

“Fine with me,” Gretchen said. “But now that this business with the priest is over for the present, what will you be doing for work? You're not likely to be a popular detective, not with anybody who's willing to pay you to be one.”

Dorsey stretched out and flipped his legs across the desktop, gulping beer. “Only yesterday, a very bright fellow led me to believe that everything, but everything, blows over. Let's just sit back and see if he's right.”

Edgar Award-winning Author

LAWRENCE BLOCK

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