The Fall-Down Artist

by Thomas Lipinski

  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.”

  “Well done.”

  “We have friends all over.”

  “The robbery,” Dorsey said. “Damjani did it? Or is this a put-up job?”

  “He did it, all right. That is true. Ed was heading for prison all his life, if not for the robbery or your friend’s death, then for something else, something even worse. Justice is served, and you are safe.”

  Dorsey laughed and shook the snow from his hat. “My safety, you make it sound like Movement Together’s top priority.”

  “My work is not to take life.” Father Jancek spoke sharply. “My work is to save a way of life.”

  Dorsey explored the priest’s face and concluded that his words were sincere. Nothing so clean, so sharp, could be a deception. C’mon, Father, Dorsey thought, what’s it going to be? Good guy or bad guy?

  At the foot of the bridge where Third Street ended was a flight of cement steps that led down the hillside to Bridge-water. Silently, concentrating on each snow-covered step, the two men descended. At the bottom, Father Jancek turned to Dorsey.

  “You will have to try to understand our association with Ed Damjani,” the priest said. “You have to understand how it began. We knew he was something of a local character and that he was a radical union man. Being so colorful, he had a following among the other workers, the young ones. Leader-of-the-pack sort of thing. They were drawn to him, so we knew he could recruit younger workers for our program.”

  “Recruits for the program,” Dorsey said. “You mean for the scam. I learned that much. The young single ones, with the exception of Radovic, were your fall-downs. The ones in car accidents with whiplash and the ones who fell off the loading dock a week before the plant closed.”

  “That’s right, you do know that much. As I understand it, you know a lot more.” Father Jancek started across the street. “We’re almost there. Just another block or so.”

  Dorsey fell in step with the priest, who was making his way in the direction of the Beaver River, a quarter mile up from where it meets the Ohio. The bar, a one-story wood-frame building, stood across the road from the river. Dorsey and the priest stopped underneath the bar’s aluminum awning to shake the snow from their shoulders.

  Father Jancek pulled open the door and Dorsey followed, finding himself in a cramped room with just enough space for the bar counter and a walking space on both sides. The bartender, whom Dorsey figured to be in his late fifties, was the room’s sole occupant. He signaled for them to advance. Father Jancek led the way along the bar to a door at the far wall, which he unlocked, and Dorsey followed him in as the priest flicked on the light switch.

  The room was a small square addition attached to the bar; Dorsey could see where one set of timbers ended and the next began. There was a swag light hanging over a round felt-topped card table, and an old refrigerator stood in the far corner. While Dorsey dropped the roll bag and sat at the table, Father Jancek dug into the refrigerator.

  “This should suit you.” The priest placed an icy glass and a twelve-ounce Rolling Rock on the table. Dorsey watched as he got the same for himself.

  “We may have a third joining us,” Father Jancek said, taking the seat across from Dorsey. “It depends on how bad the roads are. It’s Jack, Jack Stockman, I’m referring to.”

  “Your dear school chum. And, for a little while, fellow seminarian.” How’s that for a return? Dorsey thought. You know my beer, I know your life. “Before we get to whatever this is supposed to be about,” Dorsey said, “I guess I should thank you for Damjani. It’s a relief, having him out of the picture.”

  “You’re welcome,” Father Jancek said. “As I said, he was a serious error on my part.”

  “Okay.” Dorsey ignored the glass and drank from the bottle. “Let’s talk.”

  “Jack Stockman tells me you have integrity, a quality, he also tells me, that is rare in your line of work.” The priest filled his glass and lifted it to his lips, nibbling at the foam. “I have integrity too. I keep my own counsel, and normally the motives for my actio
ns stay between God and myself. But your friend—Russie, you called him?—your friend changed things around. Then, this afternoon, I found out just how much you’ve learned about our activities. I feel a couple of things. I feel compelled to explain myself because I owe you that. Also, being something of a religious maverick, I have no confessor. Actually, it’s been years since I’ve been on the receiving end of a confessional. So indulge me, please?”

  “This is no confessional,” Dorsey said. “I can’t take a vow of silence. You tell me something useful, I’ll have to pass it along.”

  Father Jancek shrugged his shoulders in resignation. “To what end will you use this information? Bill Meara is burning his file on the matter. There is to be no prosecution, so what does it matter in the long run? I just want you to know.”

  “So you know about Meara?” Dorsey ran through the Irish and Polish and black faces working in Meara’s office. And each has an out-of-work relative if you look hard enough. It could’ve been any of them.

  “It’s true,” Father Jancek said, as if reading his mind. “We have friends most everywhere.”

  “You said something before about how I know so much,” Dorsey said. “You said you found out this afternoon. From whom?”

  “Ray Corso.”

  “Ah, Corso. Your spy.” Dorsey drank again from his beer. “Be careful, spies are a fickle bunch. Poor sense of loyalty.”

  “So I have learned.” Father Jancek began to explain further, but a knock at the door interrupted him. The priest went to the door and Dorsey’s right hand went into his pocket, gripping the revolver. Father Jancek admitted the tall, gray-haired Stockman, who dropped his hat on the table and removed his topcoat before taking the chair to Dorsey’s right.

  “P. I., how are you?” Dorsey said, sizing up the cold blue eyes that cloaked the maneuvering inside. But this is his turn to talk, Dorsey thought. The scalpel he’s used on you in the past, in court, is put away. You hope.

  “We were just about to discuss Ray Corso,” Father Jancek said. “Mr. Dorsey is sure he was our spy.”

  Stockman, his eyes still cold, rapped his knuckles softly on the table and looked at the priest. “Andy, I’m going to say this just once more. This meeting is a bad idea. It has no purpose; we gain nothing by it. Let me handle things. Hickcock, the rest of the press: I can take care of it.”

  “No.” Father Jancek held Stockman’s gaze. “For what I allowed to happen, I owe Dorsey this. He’s been through quite a bit, and there is more to come.”

  Dorsey’s hold on the revolver in his pocket went tighter. “More of what? You said Damjani was put away.”

  There was a silent moment until Father Jancek gave Stockman a go-ahead nod. “The lawsuit, of course,” Stockman said. “We have to sue you and Hickcock after tonight. We’ll get nothing from it, but otherwise we are admitting that what you have to say is true. It’s the only way.”

  “It is true,” Dorsey said.

  “But not verifiable.” Stockman leaned back in his chair, a wry smile cutting across his face. “You have so little. A few insurance cases that may or may not appear strange, depending on the listener’s point of view. The Maynard girl in Johnstown, a hysterical girl whom you threatened with lies. Most important, you have Art Demory. But all that remains of him is in an oxygen tent. I can make him look like a half-dead career criminal telling lies so he can have one last laugh on society. Also, Father Jancek and I will forever deny this meeting took place.”

  Dorsey released his grip on the revolver and took out his hand, running it across his chin. Goddamn son of a bitch. First there’s no payday on this case, he told himself, at least not the big score you hoped for. Now they want to take what little you already have. “The suit,” Dorsey asked. “No way I can talk you out of it?”

  “Sorry,” Stockman said. Dorsey rose to leave.

  “Please, don’t leave just yet.” Father Jancek met him at the door. “I’m sorry about the suit, but there is a lot to consider.” The priest spoke softly, endearing despite the message. Preach is right, Dorsey thought, there’s more than a little St. Francis in this guy. Dorsey returned to the chair, almost before realizing it.

  “Well,” he said, “you two are going to sue me and there’s jackshit I can do about it. All right, tell me about Corso.”

  Father Jancek returned to his seat and sipped his beer. “I assume you knew Mr. Corso was corrupt.”

  “Not until recently,” Dorsey said. “Before that, I only knew he was dumb and lazy.”

  “Which led to his corruption,” the priest said. “Jack had known about Mr. Corso for some time, about how he sabotaged lawsuits for the plaintiff. Back when we first hatched our plan, Jack and I had conversed about Mr. Corso and it was decided that Jack should approach him. Mr. Corso was very receptive to our offer.”

  “Which was the reason for so many of these fakes being with Fidelity Casualty. How much did you pay?”

  “There’s no need for particulars,” Stockman said. “Listen to the story and save the questions until later, and we’ll see if we choose to answer.”

  “Fuck you, thief.” Dorsey met Stockman’s chill look with one of his own, then turned back to the priest. “Go on. Tell me the rest.”

  “As part of our working agreement, Mr. Corso was to quash or divert any investigations into our people’s claims. We knew there would be initial evaluations, but our concern was to avoid a more in-depth review. Like the one you performed. This Mr. Corso was to block. And we thought he had, until you showed up in Johnstown checking on Carl Radovic. Even then we thought little of it. Mr. Corso explained it away as random chance, a routine check. But then your name cropped up again as you interviewed several others who were working with us. We went to Corso for an explanation, but before he got back to us you appeared at the Midland rally.”

  “So you stopped asking for an explanation,” Dorsey said, “and demanded one. What did Corso have to say for himself?”

  “He said he had new orders from his higher-ups,” Stockman said. “That was his story, anyway. There was a new VP at the home office who wanted investigations on all active claims. He gave us the man’s name—Munt, John Munt—along with a promise that he could sanitize the reports before they were forwarded to Munt.”

  Dorsey’s thoughts wandered back to the conference room with Corso and Munt fencing across the table. Corso telling Munt that the investigations were his own idea, defending his decision to carry them out. And Munt, seeming genuinely angry with Corso, going on about Corso having stepped beyond his authority. Who was the fraud in that exchange, both?

  “At our end of things,” Father Jancek said, “we slowed things up a bit. We had several more claims waiting in the wings, ready to file. But we held off and relied on the established ones. Which we are continuing to do to this day. And in doing so we thought we were safe. Please understand that before today we had no knowledge of your contact with Arthur Demory.”

  “That’s one I’ll have to live with,” Stockman said. “Never did I figure he could turn on us.”

  Dorsey laughed. “Why shouldn’t you be forgiving? The guy is half dead in an ICU ward. What’d you have in mind, cutting a hole in his bedpan?”

  Father Jancek loudly cleared his throat, gathering the attention of both men. “So we need to come to today. I received a call from Mr. McGregor, as did Jack. We discussed the matter, and it was decided that we needed to speak to Corso. We found him at his home, heading out to his doctor’s office—to have his blood pressure checked, he said. The two men we had sent persuaded him to remain at home for a talk. Perhaps his blood pressure was abnormal. Our men told me that he fell apart and volunteered everything. His confession was complete.”

  Father Jancek paused for a moment and wiped his finger along the wet rim of his beer glass. “I suppose it should not have come as such a surprise to me. We enter into deceptions, and we should not be shocked when we become the victims of yet further deceptions. For lack of a less dramatic term, Mr. Corso has been op
erating as a sort of double agent.”

  “Double agent?” Dorsey asked, scoffing. “Keep looking for a less dramatic term. Corso’s too lazy to lead one life, let alone two.”

  “Well,” Father Jancek said, “that’s how he explained it. It seems that word of his basic dishonesty had filtered back to the home office, and approximately one year ago most all his work was the subject of a confidential audit. Like a secret investigation. As you can imagine, there was plenty to cover. Corso was confronted and, just like today, confessed to everything, including his involvement with us.”

  “Slow down,” Dorsey said, wondering what Munt’s role was and waving off Stockman’s objection to his interruption. “Who was this confessing done to?”

  “A man named Stiers, head of the audit group.”

  Where was Munt? Dorsey wondered. His anger at the conference was definitely the real thing. But who knows? If you suspect a major crime by an employee, you have to also suspect his immediate supervisor, the guy who is letting it happen. Sure, the auditors looked into Munt’s work too. So Munt was kept in the dark. Poor Munt, sincerely angry, and never knew the reasons why.

  “So they knew about you,” Dorsey said. “Why didn’t they move against you?”

  “We put that to Corso, but he had only guesses.” Stockman went to the refrigerator. He returned with one for Dorsey too. “But we do know that Stiers came back to him with instructions to hire you.”

  Dorsey grinned. “You mean he had orders to hire a detective.”

  “No, no,” Father Jancek said, waving off the idea. “He was told to hire you. Told by name to hire you. And to offer you a free hand to run the cases as you saw fit.”

  And unlimited expense money, Dorsey recalled. Remember what Bernie said about the arrangement, he asked himself. It’s bullshit, he said; it can’t happen. Corso’s authority doesn’t extend that far. “Corso did as he was told,” Dorsey said.

  “And took our money all the while.” Stockman drank off half his beer. Dorsey was taken by the man’s anger, hot and true. It’s a rare occasion, he told himself: the iceman is pissed. P. I.’s hidden side.