The Fall-Down Artist Page 10

  Dorsey laughed, lowering his instinctive shield against his father. “Maybe. It’s just that I don’t know much about him. Next to nothing, really.”

  “Then find out about him.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  Martin Dorsey allowed another silent pause. “Have you given it much thought? My offer, I mean. You said you would.”

  “I’m thinking about it,” Dorsey said. “Much more so today.”

  “Good,” Martin Dorsey said. “The project is looking even brighter. Finance is not my area of expertise, but I’ve been assured of great things, fortunes to be made. I want you to be part of it.”

  “We’ll see,” Dorsey said and thought of Gretchen and a life together.

  “That’s all we ask.” Martin Dorsey permitted yet another moment of empty air on the line. “About the priest, Jancek. Do you remember Thomas Gallard? He’s at the Theology Department at Duquesne.”

  “The one who gave me a D in Judeo-Christian Heritage? The class that was supposed to be a breeze?”

  “You’re my son,” Martin Dorsey said. “More is expected of you. Whatever your grade, Monsignor Gallard is a friend. And he knows Jancek, I’ve heard him mention it. I think they were in seminary together. No, their ages are all wrong for that. Whatever, he knows him. Give the monsignor a call. I’m sure he’ll try to help.”

  “I’ll do that,” Dorsey said. “And I’ll talk to you soon, about the other thing.”

  Monsignor Gallard agreed to see Dorsey in his campus office at four o’clock. At three-thirty Dorsey left the row house through the back yard, climbed into Al’s white van, and slipped the key into the ignition. After grinding the gears he went over the Tenth Street bridge and then on through the tunnel, backtracking up the bluffs to the campus overlooking the Monongahela. A campus security guard waved him away from the faculty parking lot until Dorsey flashed his leftover ID from the District Attorney’s office. The guard let him through but with his thumb and forefinger he signaled for Dorsey to make it a short stay.

  Gallard’s office was on the second floor of one of the older red brick buildings on campus, and as Dorsey climbed the wide steps, he wondered how well the monsignor might remember him. It’s been seventeen years since you hid in the last row of his classroom, he reminded himself. And the man was old then. But your father, he doesn’t spare time for old fools who can’t remember what day it is. Except maybe to use them for all they’re worth.

  The department secretary led Dorsey through a reception area that had once been a classroom and knocked at a door with a top panel of frosted glass. Rather than wait for a response, she opened the door a crack and announced Dorsey. A soft, even voice acknowledged her and bid Dorsey enter.

  To Dorsey, Thomas Gallard looked every hour, minute, and second of his seventy-eight years. He wore a black cassock, and the skin above the thin red piping that edged his Roman collar hung loose and dry, blue veins running along each side of his neck. A few strands of white hair, looking like aged straw, were combed across his pate. Seated behind a scarred schoolteacher’s desk, he gestured Dorsey into a seat across from him.

  “I apologize for not rising to greet you.” Monsignor Gallard rattled a quad cane in his left hand. “I had a stroke three, maybe four, years ago. After quite a bit of rehabilitation therapy, my arm bounced back nicely. The damned leg, though, refused to respond.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” Dorsey said. “I hadn’t realized.”

  “No matter.” Monsignor Gallard squared himself in his seat and directly faced Dorsey. “We aren’t here to discuss my health, are we?”

  “No, sir.” Dorsey spoke slowly, thinking that since the stroke it might be necessary. “Monsignor, do you remember me? I mentioned my father on the phone.”

  The monsignor smiled. “Yes, Carroll, I remember you. And no, no matter how many extra assignments you turn in, it is much too late to change your D in Judeo-Christian. Let’s talk about Father Jancek. What is your interest?”

  That settles any doubts about his memory, Dorsey thought, squirming in his chair. “Background on an investigation I’m conducting, that’s all. The father is not central, more of a sidebar.”

  “Calling Father Jancek a sidebar would be insulting him,” the monsignor said. “Besides, I read two newspapers each day and I catch the TV news. From what I saw yesterday, I’d say you have had your allotted fifteen minutes of fame.”

  It was Dorsey’s turn to smile. “And I’d have to agree. But I’m into something and I couldn’t tell you much about it even if I understood it. Father Jancek is involved somehow. You know him; talk to me about him.”

  The monsignor drummed his fingers on the desktop, then sighed and folded his hands together. “Like you, he was a student of mine, but it was twelve years before your time and it was at Fordham. Reading the historians of today, one gets the distinct impression that the nineteen-fifties were totally devoid of radical thinkers. As if the so-called left wing spent the decade in a coma. Nothing could be more erroneous.”

  With a slow nod of his head, Dorsey encouraged the monsignor to continue.

  “There were quite a few pockets of radicalism in New York City at the time, mostly in the Village and uptown around Columbia. And Andy Jancek knew and was welcome in each and every one of them. That included the haunts of wealthy liberals on the Upper West Side. Radical chic, it was called a little later. Some of the students and faculty referred to Andy as the Subway Radical because of his successful wanderings. Fordham was still a very Catholic and conservative institution, and Andy stood out like a sore thumb. Especially with his goatee. The full beard is new. An improvement.”

  “Was he a good student?” Dorsey asked.

  “Surprisingly so.” Monsignor Gallard flicked at a speck of lint on his cassock. “I say that because of all the time he devoted to his politics. Coffeehouses, study groups on socialism; as I recall he attended every ban-the-bomb rally scheduled. And a lot more of his time was occupied in defending his activities to his fellow students. The school ranks brimmed with children of the Catholic upper and middle classes, and they had little time for him. I remember at the time I was concerned that he would grow into an embittered man.”

  “I can see how it could happen,” Dorsey said. “Did it surprise you when he entered the seminary?”

  “Not at all,” the monsignor said. “He spoke to me of his vocation on a number of occasions. However, I was very much surprised that he saw it through to the end. Remember, the activist church was still a few years off.”

  “How about more recently? Any contact with him since he became famous?”

  Monsignor Gallard tried unsuccessfully to suppress a laugh. “No, I lost track of him when I came here in the mid-sixties. One hears things, though. The priesthood has its own grapevine. From the tidbits I’ve picked up, I can only assume that he followed the same path taken by other young priests of the time: hunger marches, freedom marches with the black community, saying mass in private homes wearing blue jeans. I distinctly remember hearing he was heavily involved in the McCarthy campaign: Eugene McCarthy.”

  “All pretty standard for the times,” Dorsey commented. He began to rise, thinking the well had run disappointingly dry.

  “Perhaps. In some ways, yes.” With the palm of his hand, Monsignor Gallard motioned Dorsey back into his chair. “Keep in mind what I said. This was a boy in his late teens when I first met him, forced to withstand extreme social pressure. There was a lot of strength there, even if it was a touch single-minded. He had little opportunity to make a friend, let alone keep one. Thank God for Jack. It’s good to see their friendship has endured.”

  “Jack?”

  “The attorney, Jack Stockman.” Monsignor Gallard smiled thinly and nodded. “They were close friends at Fordham—soul mates, it could be said. Even entered seminary together. Jack left after his first year. I remember fearing Andy would follow close behind. I’m so glad I was wrong.”

  “Jack Stockman,” Dorsey said, hoping to work th
e monsignor for more. “I don’t know much about him either.”

  Monsignor Gallard’s eyes narrowed. “He’s a rather prominent attorney, locally. I thought your father said you’ve been employed by a number of law firms. Surely you know him?”

  “Sure, but not well.”

  Cutting back across the campus to the faculty parking lot, Dorsey reviewed what he did know about Jack Stockman. Simply put, he thought, the man’s the best. But he’s the best in personal injury cases, workers’ compensation, things like that. Not labor law. That’s why his being hooked up with Movement Together never made sense until now. With Stockman being so close to the priest, he has to know it all, whatever that is. Better yet, he may have cooked up the whole deal. Maybe Stockman’s the chef, and the priest just chops the vegetables.

  And one more thing, Dorsey told himself. Because he’s the best, if you take him down a few pegs, you’ll go up a few pegs, make a name for yourself. This could be the big one.

  Dorsey turned into the parking lot and saw two security guards standing by the van, one of them speaking into a hand-held radio. Quickening his steps, Dorsey felt the crunch of broken safety glass under his feet and saw the shards scattered across the lot’s asphalt surface. The van’s windshield and passenger window were smashed, and shattered glass covered the upholstery of the forward seats.

  One of the guards, the one he had encountered while parking, took Dorsey aside.

  “Listen, it’s like this: we can’t be everywhere. The campus is a big place. My partner heard the noise, but by the time he got here—nobody. He put in a call for the city cops, and the glass replacement truck is coming. You got insurance to cover it?”

  “Yeah, I’m covered.” Dorsey tugged the keys from his hip pocket and undid the driver’s door. Al’s gonna love this, he thought, grimacing as he brushed away bits of glass held together by the safety mesh. Let’s hope he’s covered, otherwise we’ll have to find a way to figure this into my Fidelity Casualty expense account.

  It was only after he was convinced that the broken glass was the extent of the damage that Dorsey noticed the small white envelope resting on the floor near the passenger seat. He lifted the envelope and stood erect in the doorway. Inside was a typewritten message.

  THE GOOD FATHER SAYS WE SHOULD PRAY FOR OUR ENEMIES. I DISAGREE.

  “What’s that?” The security guard reached for the note, but Dorsey quickly stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

  “It’s personal,” Dorsey said. “From a guy I met yesterday.”

  12

  Dorsey slid in the apartment door key and worked the dead-bolt. It opened with the sound of metal sliding over metal. Carrying Gretchen’s dry cleaning with both hands, Dorsey shoved the door with his shoulder and flicked on the overhead light switch with the back of his hand.

  “Thought I had it right on the money,” he said over his shoulder. “I really thought I had. It only made sense for the guy in the LTD to be the cameraman’s partner. But obviously he wasn’t.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Gretchen followed him into her apartment, carrying a brown paper grocery sack, and turned left into a compact kitchen. She emptied the sack’s contents into a slender refrigerator and one of several cupboards. “A slipup is all it was. You keep them to the barest of minimums, but they will happen.” There was a touch of irritation in her voice that Dorsey could feel. “The dry cleaning goes into the bedroom closet. The right side, behind the door with the mirror.”

  Dorsey hung the cleaning in the closet and picked his way across the bedroom like a broken field runner, carefully placing each foot to avoid tripping over piles of clothes and stacks of medical journals. How does she live like this? How does she avoid passing on infections during patient examinations? Thank God for rubber gloves, he thought; they were invented with her in mind. He skirted the Exercycle near the door and walked back to the kitchen.

  “Never have I seen a double surveillance,” he went on. “Two watchers from separate sources watching the same guy at the same time. Unheard of. Besides, who could’ve expected a bunch of out-of-work mill hands to be so organized? It’s Stockman; he knows the game. He tells the priest what to do, and Jancek tells Damjani. And he sends a goon to scare me into pissing my pants. I’m dry, but it was a little rattling.”

  Gretchen put her arms around his neck and softly kissed his cheek. Sliding into her thin smile, she slowly pulled back. “Just so you’re all right. Now shut up about it. Drop it. Sit and have a beer. My turn to cook.”

  Gretchen handed him a Rolling Rock from the refrigerator, and Dorsey settled into one of the two metal chairs that sat around the kitchen’s small glass-and-chrome table. Sipping his beer and watching Gretchen take plastic containers of leftovers from the refrigerator, Dorsey cursed himself for his stupidity. Antonio warned you, he reminded himself. Said for you to watch your ass with these guys. And you didn’t. You’ve got to keep an eye out for Damjani and his people. But my old man, he says to keep an eye out for Hickcock. Good thing you have two eyes.

  There was another matter on his mind, too. Money. The old man’s money offer. Sky’s the limit, that’s how he makes it out to be. High tech, wave of the future. Yours and Gretchen’s. Even if it’s only half of what he says, and he always puts in the fix to make sure that doesn’t happen, the days ahead could be eighteen carat.

  “Gretchen.” Dorsey swirled his beer and watched the waves through green glass. “When you’re through there, when you get a second, sit down for a little while. I’d like to talk.”

  After putting the lid on a saucepan with a toothpick wedged in to release steam, Gretchen poured herself a glass of white wine from a gallon jug in the refrigerator and sat across from Dorsey. “Weisswurst and kraut, sound good? My mom sent it back with me the last time I was home. So what’s on your mind?”

  “First of all,” Dorsey said, “even to a dunce like me, it’s obvious that when someone goes to medical school and then wades through an internship and residency, their career is pretty important to them.” He spoke deliberately, weighing each word. “The someone I’m especially interested in is you. You’re preparing for emergency medicine; that’s your goal.”

  “Some centers call it trauma medicine, but it’s all the same.” Gretchen sipped her wine, watching him.

  “What do you figure to pull down a year in a practice like that? In general, based on the doctors you know.”

  Gretchen went to the stove and uncovered the saucepan, stirring the contents. Seeming to be content with dinner’s progress, she returned to her seat. “Well, Jim Clarkson, he’s been there a while, he makes sixty-three a year. For me, when residency is over, something in the mid-forties sounds reasonable in the local market. Why do you ask?”

  Dorsey evaded the question. “Suppose there wasn’t an opening in the local market. Would you move out of town?”

  “I’ll answer that question, but that is it.” Gretchen set aside her wine. “You get nothing more without an explanation. First of all, my prospects locally are good. My field of medicine is not the most glamorous or profitable, so the competition is not too steep. But to answer your question, if you need an answer right now, I would relocate, but I don’t foresee that happening. So tell me what this is all about.”

  “My father’s offer, the money.” Dorsey’s eyes were downcast.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Simply put, I don’t want to lose you,” Dorsey said. “I don’t want you to leave me behind.”

  Gretchen, in a show of exasperation and exhaustion, sighed deeply and dug the heels of her hands at her eyes. “Carroll, you know how I feel; I’m in love with you. And I know you love me, though I’d like to hear you say it more often. When I look at the future you’re always in it. But honestly, that’s speculation, not prophecy. I plan for a future with you, but there’s no guarantee. I can’t provide one.”

  “Maybe I can.” Dorsey reached across the table for her hand. “That’s where the money comes in. With money, with a cushi
on, you could wait things out. Say there wasn’t anything available at a local hospital, you could sit tight until something came around. And later, when you’re set up and don’t have to rely on packages from home, we could be on common ground financially. Follow what I’m saying?”

  “Don’t worry about that sort of thing.” Gretchen rose and began to set the table. Silently, she put out flatware and paper napkins, then divided the sausages and sauerkraut between two plates.

  “You piss me off,” she said uncharacteristically, speaking through a mouthful of half-chewed food. Angrily, she went on pumping forkfuls into her mouth. “As if I give a damn about the condition of your bank account or how good your prospects are. I don’t half-live with a guy ten or eleven years older than I am because I think he belongs to a well-heeled family. I don’t want to hear any more.”

  Dorsey opened his mouth to speak.

  “Not a word,” Gretchen said, pointing with her fork. “Eat. And be quiet.”

  They worked their way silently through dinner, avoiding each other’s eyes. Dorsey took a fresh beer into the living room while Gretchen changed into shorts and sweatshirt and worked out on the Exercycle. No guarantee, Dorsey thought, sitting on a thinly cushioned sofa as he paged blindly through the evening newspaper. You knew that, Dorsey, that’s why you asked the question. And got the only answer possible: no guarantee.

  So, don’t get one, Dorsey thought, awkwardly folding the paper, unable to return it to its original shape. He clenched his hands behind his neck and stretched, ending with a rough shrug of his shoulders. You know the rules; never rely on anything or anyone else. How long ago was it that you learned you were strictly on your own? How many times have you been on the stand? They used to slice your balls off before you got smart—back when you would say so-and-so said this, or so-and-so assured me that would happen. Before you learned to check things out for yourself.

  Dorsey pushed himself from the couch and went to the room’s only window. He heard the Exercycle’s timer ring. A moment later came the sounds of Gretchen struggling out of her sweatshirt and shorts as she made her way to the shower. Outside, in the alley below, garbage was piled at the gate of each yard, ready for the next morning’s collection. Dorsey drummed his fingers on the windowpane.