The Fall-Down Artist
Page 28
“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.”
28
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.
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
THE MATTHEW SCUDDER MYSTERIES
A LONG LINE OF DEAD MEN
72024-8/ $5.99 US/ $7.99 Can
THE DEVIL KNOWS YOU'RE DEAD
72023-X/ $5.99 US/ $7.99 Can
A DANCE AT THE SLAUGHTERHOUSE
71374-8/ $5.99 US/ $7.99 Can
A TICKET TO THE BONEYARD
70994-5/ $5.99 US/ $7.99 Can
OUT ON THE CUTTING EDGE
70993-7/ $5.99 US/ $7.99 Can
THE SINS OF THE FATHERS
76363-X/ $5.99 US/ $7.99 Can
TIME TO MURDER AND CREATE
76365-6/ $5.99 US/ $7.99 Can
A STAB IN THE DARK
71574-0/ $5.99 US/ $7.99 Can
IN THE MIDST OF DEATH
76362-1/ $5.99 US/ $7.99 Can
EIGHT MILLION WAYS TO DIE
71573-2/ $5.99 US/ $7.99 Can
A WALK AMONG THE TOMBSTONES
71375-6/ $5.99 US/ $7.99 Can
WHEN THE SACRED GINMILL CLOSES
72825-7/ $5.99 US/ $7.99 Can
Buy these books at your local bookstore or use this coupon for ordering:
Mail to: Avon Books, Dept BP, Box 767, Rte 2, Dresden, TN 38225G
Please send me the book(s) I have checked above.
My check or money order—no cash or CODs please—for $_______________ is enclosed (please add $1.50 per order to cover postage and handling—Canadian residents add 7% GST). U.S. residents make checks payable to Avon Books; Canada residents make checks payable to Hearst Book Group of Canada.
Charge my VISA/MC Acct#____________________ Exp Date_________________________Minimum credit card order is two books or $7.50 (please add postage and handling charge of $1.50 per order–Canadian residents add 7% GST). For faster service, call 1-800-762-0779. Prices and numbers are subject to change without notice. Please allow six to eight weeks for delivery.
Name________________________________________________________________
Address______________________________________________________________
City_____________________State/Zip_______________________________
Telephone No.______________________BLK 0497
CAJUN CRIME FEATURING DAVE ROBICHEAUX BY EDGAR AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR
JAMES LEE BURKE
IN THE ELECTRIC MIST WITH CONFEDERATE DEAD
72121-X/ $6.99 US/ $8.99 Can
“Awesome”
The Wall Street Journal
A STAINED WHITE RADIANCE
72047-7/ $6.99 US/ $8.99 Can
“No one captures Louisiana culture as well as James Lee Burke. . . it is also possible that no one writes better detective novels.”
Washington Post Book World
BLACK CHERRY BLUES
71204-0/ $6.99 US/ $8.99 Can
“Remarkable. . .A terrific story. . .Not to be missed!”
Los Angeles Times Book Review
A MORNING FOR FLAMINGOS
71360-8/ $6.99 US/ $8.99 Can
“Truly astonishing”
Washington Post Book World
Buy these books at your local bookstore or use this coupon for ordering:
Mail to: Avon Books, Dept BP, Box 767, Rte 2, Dresden, TN 38225G
Please send me the book(s) I have checked above.
My check or money order—no cash or CODs please—for $_______________is enclosed (please add $1.50 per order to cover postage and handling—Canadian residents add 7% GST). U.S. residents make checks payable to Avon Books; Canada residents make checks payable to Hearst Book Group of Canada.
Charge my VISA/MC Acct#____________________Exp Date_________________________
Minimum credit card order is two books or $7.50 (please add postage and handling charge of $1.50 per order—Canadian residents add 7% GST). For faster service, call 1-800-762-0779. Prices and numbers are subject to change without notice. Please allow six to eight weeks for delivery.
Name_________________________________________________________________
Address_______________________________________________________________
City_____________________State/Zip________________________________
Telephone No.______________________BUR 0597