Taking the revolver in his left hand, he worked it up his right sleeve, bringing it to rest at the midpoint of the forearm with the barrel pointed downward. Next, he let his right arm fall straight from a cocked position and the revolver slipped freely down his arm onto his palm. He tried it several more times, and with every repetition the revolver dropped into his hand. Perhaps too freely, Dorsey thought, but what is the alternative? In the jacket’s flap pocket it would show. And when Damjani sees you go for it you’ll never get there. The right sleeve is the only place.
He practiced for another ten minutes, tensing his forearm muscles to hold the pistol more firmly. Satisfied that it would work, Dorsey stripped off the field jacket and reloaded the revolver. As he did so, the phone rang.
“Hello,” Dorsey said, hoping it was Gretchen. He let the field jacket fall to the floor.
“Mr. Dorsey?” The voice was that of a young man.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Dorsey, this is Jay McGregor. I’m one of Mr. Hickcock’s assistants here at Channel Three. We’re running a story live tonight on “The Western Pennsylvania Journal,” and we need you to confirm or deny on several issues.”
“You have Sam Hickcock call me,” Dorsey said, dismissing the caller. “And when you see him, tell him for me he should know better than to have a go-fer do his work for him.”
There was a silence as McGregor paused before speaking. “Ah, actually, Mr. Dorsey, it was at Mr. Hickcock’s insistence that I called you. We need to run a few things past you. Just a few points on your investigation of Father Jancek and Movement Together, especially the statement you obtained from this Arthur Demory person.”
Now it was Dorsey’s turn to pause, giving himself time to come to grips with what he had just heard. Jesus Christ, Hickcock has my report!
“Tell Hickcock to call me. That’s all.” Dorsey hung up.
He sat in the swivel chair, but it wouldn’t recline far enough for him. It wouldn’t go all the way back, to where everything went dark. And the walls and ceiling, he wanted them to close in around him, isolating him from the outside where everyone could read his report. Jesus, he thought again, Hickcock has the report! How and from whom? And who do you talk to to get the answers to those two questions?
Corso, he thought, had to be him. But he didn’t get a copy. Not from you, anyway, but from someone else, sure as hell. Maybe like this. The report is express-mailed to Munt. He calls Corso after reading it, wants to talk it over with him. But Corso says he doesn’t have a copy, so Munt faxes it to him. Corso reads it, calculates a price, and sells it to Hickcock. But why not sell it to the priest? And then again, he could have sold it to both. Fucking Corso. Fucking Hickcock. They’ve got my report.
The telephone rang again and Dorsey, certain of who it would be, was tempted to let the tape machine pick it up. He lifted the receiver on the third ring. He had guessed right; it was Meara.
“Listen,” Dorsey said. “I just got a call from—”
“Oh, no, you listen.” Meara’s voice bit at Dorsey’s ear. “I just had a call too. Actually it was a couple of calls. Some kid named McGregor called to allow me the opportunity to confirm or deny most everything I read in what I thought was your confidential report. What the hell did you do, sell it to the news guys? You bastard! Don’t tell me; you get to play yourself in the movie version.”
“Wait, now, hold on.” Dorsey was out of the chair, pacing circles around the desk. “I issued three copies of the report. You, Munt, and Cleardon. That was it. Didn’t even send one to Corso, who was supposed to get a copy. Even still, it had to be him that released it. He’s pulled this shit before.”
“Give it a rest,” Meara said. “If it wasn’t you, it must have been one of your many fuck-ups that let this news guy have it. Maybe you left a copy in the photocopying machine. Something idiotic like that.”
“So don’t believe me,” Dorsey said. “It doesn’t matter now. What matters is what we do from here on in.”
“Drop the ‘we’ shit.”
“Huh?” Dorsey grunted, fearful.
“What I’m saying,” Meara said, “is the same thing I just told McGregor. Neither myself nor anyone in my office have had any dealings with you. We are not presently conducting an investigation of Movement Together, nor do we intend to do so in the future. I told you from the start; fuck up and I don’t know you.”
“Hey, slow down,” Dorsey said. “You’re forgetting our ace, Demory. We still have him and he can tell it all to the grand jury. We get them to indict and maybe some others can be convinced to come forward.”
“Like I said before,” Meara said, “there were a couple of calls this morning. You remember yesterday, what I said? I told you I checked on Demory, spoke to the medical staff at the prison. Well, one of the nurses called me this morning. It seems a TV film crew is camped at the main gate. They were there to interview Demory, asked the warden for permission. News like that goes through a prison like beer through a bladder. Demory got word before the warden did. And when he figured out what was up, he keeled over.”
“Dead?” Dorsey pictured the jailbird. How sickly and wasted he looked and how he pumped in the nicotine despite it all.
“Close, very close,” Meara said. “In fact his heart did stop for a couple of minutes, but the paddles brought him back. They took him to the ICU at Logan Valley.”
“Good, he’s alive,” Dorsey said. “Then we still have him; he can make a case.” Dorsey’s voice was strained; he was struggling for a toehold.
“Will you please listen to what the fuck I’m saying?” Meara was shouting now. “There is no fucking case in this office. And that’s because there is no investigation being conducted by this office. The only investigation is yours, and it gets local prime-time coverage at ten tonight.”
Dorsey heard the connection break as Meara hung up. He tried to put the receiver in its cradle, missed, and tried again. Stepping away from the desk, he crossed the room and peered out the window at the late-morning emptiness of Wharton Street. It’s down to this, he thought, picturing Demory near death, flat on his back in the ICU, plastic tubing in every available orifice. And then he shifted to a second image, of Russie dead, face down in a slush puddle, the indentation in his skull seeping blood. The bad press that goes over the airwaves, Dorsey thought, directing his thoughts to Russie, I hope the bad press is enough. The priest gets off: no trial, no exposure. But the bad press will put a shadow over him. Yours. Best I could do, along with ridding the world of Damjani. Corso, you bastard. You made me come up short.
Back at the desk, Dorsey found Corso’s number in his address book and dialed. A secretary told him that Mr. Corso had called in sick. Dorsey hung up, called the home number, and got no answer. The next call was to Hickcock on his direct office line. McGregor answered.
“Get your boss,” Dorsey told him. “I only talk to him.”
“Ah, Mr. Dorsey?” McGregor said. “Mr. Hickcock specifically said that he did not wish to take any calls from you. I’m sorry. Perhaps I can help?”
“Help me by putting your boss on the line.” Dorsey pushed McGregor. “Get him on the fucking phone. Now.”
McGregor told Dorsey that he would be hanging up now.
“One more thing,” Dorsey said.
“What’s that?”
“Fuck you.” Dorsey slammed down the phone, wishing he had maintained his composure. Childish, he told himself. But it was all he had left.
The long-term consequences began to nip at Dorsey. From the desk’s center drawer he took two bankbooks, one savings and one checking. On a sheet of blank typing paper he copied the two balance amounts and did a rough estimate of the fee he had coming from Fidelity Casualty. That’ll be good pay, he told himself, but it’s likely to be the last for some time. The stakes were high; you knew that going in, if that’s any comfort. Because, my friend, who wants to hire an investigator who can’t keep his report off the ten o’clock news? No more referrals. Not from Fidelity Casua
lty and not from Bernie’s firm. So you’re down to the old man’s money, the investment money. The only other option is to have yourself fitted for a security guard’s uniform. And don’t forget to buy yourself a new lunch bucket.
The tape cycled through for the fifth time and Dinah Washington did another encore of “September in the Rain.” Dorsey returned to pacing the floor, stopping now and again to stare out the window, collecting his thoughts: Gretchen, Damjani, the old man’s money. First you kill Damjani to keep yourself and Gretchen alive. Then you take the old man’s money so the two of you can stay together. For Christ’s sake, is it worth it? Hell, yes. Again, it comes down to this.
He dropped back into the swivel, lifted the phone receiver, and dialed his father’s number. The line rang three times and then Mrs. Boyle’s electronically reproduced voice requested that he leave his message at the beep. Dorsey hung up, deciding that even a recorded Ironbox was too much for him. He thought of calling Bernie to see if he could plead his case to the senior partners. Bernie could tell them he was born an asshole but that he’d try to do better in the future. Besides, Dorsey realized, it’s better if Bernie keeps some distance, for his own protection. If they link him to you, the senior partners will find him stupid by association. What’s left is to finish off Damjani and live with Gretchen.
The telephone rang and Dorsey speculated over what he might lose this time if he answered. It was Radovic.
“This is it,” Radovic said. “Listen up.”
“Whatever,” Dorsey said. “What-fucking-ever.”
26
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.”
The Fall-Down Artist Page 25