The Fall-Down Artist

by Thomas Lipinski

  “So who’s behind Corso?” Dorsey asked. “And who does Stiers report to? And most important, why does an insurance company hire me above all others to find out what they already know? They could have terminated the files and waited to see if you had the balls to sue. And Corso could’ve been quietly discharged to save customer confidence in the company. But no, you say they turned Corso and sent him to give me money. Where’s the reasoning?”

  “We fucked up,” Stockman said. Dorsey caught the look of distaste on the priest’s face before turning to Stockman. “Took on the wrong people,” Stockman said. “Fidelity Casualty is owned by Calumet Corporation.”

  “That I knew,” Dorsey said. “I’ve met one of the officers, a fellow named Cleardon.”

  The name fell like a stone upon the table.

  “Charles Cleardon,” Dorsey said. “What’s wrong?”

  “My being a priest,” Father Jancek said, “gives our movement a shade of righteousness. We become saints and walk with God. In keeping with this, our opponents become demonized. Cleardon might be said to be Satan. We’ve tried to picket corporate meetings that he attends, but he’s hard to pin down. You see, Calumet is the major financial backer in what is called the revitalization of our local economy. What they have done is steal industrial property at rock-bottom prices, tear down the existing plant, and install some type of light industry. As a result, they acquire prime land very cheaply and a ready labor force hungry for work at reduced wages, because they’re the only game in town. That’s why we’ve blocked the demolition of the older plants and mills, as proposed in Midland. Face it, we are Calumet’s only opposition.”

  “So,” Stockman said, “it looks like this. Calumet has strung us along for what I can only figure to be some big kill, some kind of master stroke to finish us off by murdering us in the public eye, arresting our leaders, along those lines. But I think Demory’s ill health may have saved us and finished you. All that’s left is to sue you. And for you to share a little information with us.”

  Dorsey absorbed it all en masse, then tried to line it up in order. Calumet and Cleardon ran Corso through a middleman, Stiers, cutting Munt out of the chain. So it was Cleardon who gave the report to Corso with instructions to get it to Hickcock. But why? Where does Cleardon come out ahead? And then there’s you, he told himself, the man Cleardon wanted for the job. He wanted you, no substitutions, no duplications. And your work, in the past, has not put you in a class by yourself. Where does a corporate big shot get your name? Busy man, Cleardon. He has an insurance company to keep tabs on while he tried to buy up the western half of the state. And still he takes the time to look you up. Where’s the connection to you?

  Sipping at his beer, the images flashed and collided before his mind’s eye. There were black-and-white photos, stark and bleak, of rundown industrial plants with disused railroad tracks. And other pictures, artist’s renderings of what was to come. Sketches of large barnlike structures of prefabricated steel surrounded by gray cement fields of parking lots. And all the photos and prints were bound in a brown leather album resting on the corner of a familiar desktop.

  “Jesus Christ,” Dorsey said, his voice flat. “I have to leave.” He rose, slipped into his jacket, and took the roll bag from the floor.

  “One damned minute!” Stockman shouted. “It was misguided, but this man just poured out his heart to you. Why did they pick you?”

  “That’s where I’m going,” Dorsey said, realizing that this question was why he was here. “I’m going to find out why.”

  “I think I deserve better than that,” Father Jancek said. “I do think an answer is in order. I did think we could have a dialogue.”

  Dorsey went to the table, leaning in at the priest. “I owe you shit. You showed up tonight to be forgiven for killing a man you never knew and to see where I fit into this whole mess.”

  Stockman began to rise but Dorsey turned to him and forced him back into the chair with a white-hot glare.

  “And what you deserve is this,” Dorsey said, turning back to the priest. “You deserve to be interrogated, to be questioned again and again, to find out how it all comes to pass. To find out where the devoted liberal, the man of peace, crosses the line from demonstration and civil disobedience to crime. Pure fucking crime. Where did you cross the line?”

  “I never did,” Father Jancek said. “I found the line to be irrelevant. So I erased it.”

  27

  Already cleared of snow, the brick wall and driveway shone a glistening red under the glow of the lamppost. Dorsey wondered who had been given the job. A city snow-removal crew, as a courtesy, or did Ironbox volunteer? She’s the devoted type, he decided. Devoted to the old man for the last twenty-four years. All those years to that old bastard.

  Dorsey left the Buick at the curbstone and kicked open the black wrought-iron gate. Inside the walls, the walkways were cleared too, and Dorsey’s footsteps rang off the brick as he marched to the door. He hit the doorbell, leaning his weight into it, for three long blasts. There was no immediate response, so he kicked at the door until it opened.

  “It’s late, and you weren’t invited.” Mrs. Boyle, dressed in a flannel nightgown, spoke through the space allowed by the door chain.

  Dorsey reared back, collected his strength, and hit the door, leading with his shoulder. The chain tore away from the doorjamb, showering wooden splinters at Mrs. Boyle as she retreated to the far wall of the foyer.

  “In there,” Mrs. Boyle said, her shoulders flush to the wall. “In his office, goddamn you!”

  Dorsey brushed past her and walked through the parlor to the office door, his wet shoes staining the carpet. He opened the office door and stood there looking in. Powerless to stop it, he felt his hand go into his pocket and grip the gun.

  “Answers,” Dorsey said. “I want answers to this whole thing. Every fucking one of them.”

  Martin Dorsey, in white pajamas and maroon robe, sat at his desk. He calmly removed his reading glasses. “Come in, sit down. This may take quite some time. Should I ask Mrs. Boyle to put on a pot of coffee?”

  “No,” Dorsey said. “Just talk. Tell me how you put it all together. And why I was dropped into the middle of it.”

  “So, for once, you would have some money in your pocket.” Martin Dorsey rose, went to the liquor cabinet, and poured two fingers of whisky into a cut-glass tumbler. “But that would be getting ahead of ourselves, and you want to know everything. In chronological order.”

  “If that’s easiest,” Dorsey said, finding a touch more control, taking his hand from the gun. As his father sat at the desk, Dorsey dropped himself into one of the room’s wing chairs.

  Martin Dorsey held his drink in two hands, running his fingers across the raised edges of the glass. “Big Steel is dead, as you should know. Oh, there will be some production from a small mill here and there, but the heyday is over. Yes, Big Steel is dead, and if you don’t agree, there’s little to discuss.”

  “The mills are dead. Looks like it to me, anyway,” Dorsey said. Maybe, maybe not, he thought. But I’ll agree to the moon being made of green cheese to hear the whole story.

  “That’s good,” Martin Dorsey said. “Very astute of you. Most people just won’t let go. All those mill towns have mayors and other politicians who want to cling to the past. In some ways, I can’t fault them. After all, it was the past that made them, pandering to the workers. An uncertain future makes for an uncertain political career. You understand?”

  Dorsey worked a sad smile across his face. “The first twenty-odd years of my life were spent in this house, eating meals and listening to the dinnertime lecture. I know some about politics. So these backward types out in the mill towns, they couldn’t see the percentage in Calumet buying up the mill property, right?”

  Martin Dorsey saluted his son, drink in hand. “There is much you already know. I would hate to bore you. Please let me know if I get dull.”

  “Most of my evening,” Dorsey said, “was spent wi
th Father Jancek and P.I. Stockman. The priest, he felt bad about Russie, so he used his sorrow to try for some information from me. He told me a lot about how this thing got started. Most of it sounded like the truth. And he answered some questions for me. But I had one last one to pass on.”

  “You’ll get your answer,” his father said. “Where was I? Ah, yes, you were right, Calumet was being shut out of some of the more promising locations. They had a few things going up, some light manufacturing sites, but too few to justify the effort and commitment to the development plans.

  “And by justification, I mean justification to the stockholders who like to see their dividend jump by leaps and bounds each year. So, Cleardon himself and his CEO were personally on the hot seat. And there is nothing more precious in business than saving your own sweet ass. So they came to me for help. For a very large down payment and an overall percentage, I’ve made most of their problems go away. Some politicians loosened up when they found a deal could be cut. Others tried to hang in there, but I spoke to them personally.”

  “Threatened personally,” Dorsey said.

  “In some cases, yes.” Martin Dorsey sipped his whisky, pursing his lips as it passed them. “Some had it in mind, just because times change and new powers replace the old, that the political game has somehow changed. As if the rules were now more strict and the players less ambitious. None of these types could handle anything along the lines of a scandal. And they had been bad boys: women, money, even dope. With that, Calumet Corporation began breaking ground all over the western part of the state.”

  “So you were able to scare the guilty.” Dorsey leaned out from the chair, watching his father swish whisky in his glass. “But what about the innocents, the babes in the woods? The ones who had fallen in line with the priest? You had nothing on them, so they couldn’t be frightened off.”

  “Right,” Martin Dorsey said. “They were, in a sense, untouchable. Most were turning their homes over to the bank; they had nothing further to lose. You’re right, you can’t scare a person who has nothing for you to take. Still, normally there should be traitors in every organization. But the priest seems to have the ability to leach out the larceny from every soul. His leadership moves his organization into the realm of heaven. It becomes an ideological force instead of a temporal labor union looking for a pay hike. When there’s a new messiah, it’s tough work trying to buy off an apostle. We tried. Not a Judas in the crowd.”

  Dorsey made his way to the liquor cabinet, where he took a beer from the lower-level refrigeration unit. “You’re right,” he said, opening the can as he returned to his seat. “This may take some time and I should be as comfortable as you. But no bullshit, please. Let’s have the whole story, for once.” He took a long pull on his beer. “So who cooked this up? How was the plan first suggested?”

  “Good fortune presented an opportunity.” Dorsey’s father leaned into the desk, grinning. “Somebody in Syracuse, at the FC home office, met a colleague from Etna at a conference. They struck up a conversation over the lunch table. The fellow from FC told his new friend that he had just hired a former Etna employee, Ray Corso. Our man found out that Corso left Etna under a cloud, so to speak. About selling cases; that was the term used.”

  “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.”