The Fall-Down Artist Read online

  “There was Borek from Washington, then a guy from Greensburg, another from Homestead, and a guy from Uniontown. Last was the little blond chick from Somerset, fucked up her knee in a crash on One-nineteen.”

  “Karen Stroesser?” Dorsey asked. Stroesser was Dr. Tang’s lateral compartment patient.

  “She’s the one,” Avolio said. “Couldn’t make up her mind which car she wanted. She’d look at one, then ask how heavy it was, kept banging her foot on the bumpers, testing them. Finally she takes out this Chrysler, one of the big ones. And one of the best cars on the lot. Had hopes of having it around for a while. It’ll be okay, the dents and all are pounded out, but people get leery when a car’s been in an accident. They think the frame’s bent no matter what you tell ’em.”

  Dorsey asked for copies of the rental agreements and four out of five names were familiar: Borek and Stroesser, Klazak from Homestead, and Stark from Greensburg. Only the Uniontown man was a stranger. All four had been the subjects of investigations done for Fidelity Casualty. Before leaving the office, Dorsey placed a call to Ray Corso. Carmen collected two dollars for the copies and three for the toll call.

  Dorsey gave Corso a quick rundown on what he had found, hoping his voice conveyed what he thought was the gravity of the situation, an organized rip-off. He also suggested that they meet as soon as possible to map out a strategy.

  “It’s certainly something to think about.” Corso sounded preoccupied. “Write up the report and enclose the rental agreements. When they get here I’ll have the legal people look it all over. Then maybe we’ll get together and review a few things.”

  “Ray, please listen.” Dorsey was fighting Corso’s famed inertia. “Four, maybe five guys, here alone are putting shit over on you. All have lost wages to figure in on a final liability settlement. We have to talk.”

  “Send in the report,” Corso said, ending the conversation.

  Dorsey knew Corso’s history and knew he was a jumper. Claims work is filled with nomads moving from company to company, and Ray Corso was a true bedouin. One step ahead of the ax, Corso moved to another job, pushing a hoax as a successful claims manager, just as his former employer learned to appreciate the magnitude of his shortsighted laziness. The Inert One. Dorsey thought the nickname was well earned. Slow-boat, pipe-smoking asshole was another.

  Next day, enjoying the scenery and a tape of Count Basie backing up Sinatra, Dorsey headed for Beaver County and Midland. As he drove, he ran through the pertinent facts of his next case. Edward Damjani, twenty-six years of age, resided in Midland. Employed by Kensington Steel as a crane man, he was receiving $335 per week in workers’ compensation benefits. Diagnosed as suffering a low back strain, he treated primarily with a chiropractor and occasionally with a local orthopedic who was known to Dorsey as a claims whore. The medical reports showed Damjani to be a big man, six feet seven inches and 240 pounds. As Dorsey pondered the last of these facts, Basie and Sinatra closed out, the tape ended, and the radio came on.

  “Friends in Jesus, this is Father Andrew Jancek. The past few years have seen disastrous changes in our lives, the types of changes that serve to illustrate how tenuous are our security and faith in our fellowman. Institutions on which we have learned to rely, institutions to which we gave our labor and loyalty, have purposely betrayed our faith in them. Our labor’s fruit has been stripped from us and used to enrich others, who now turn their backs to us.

  “To the workers of this area, a job is more than a weekly paycheck. The work we do shapes our lives: how we deal with others, how we raise our families, how we practice our faith and pass on our values. The theft of our jobs is truly the theft of our souls. Please join my friends and me in our efforts to recover our jobs and our dignity. Any contribution, large or small, in time or money, will aid in our crusade to halt the plans of our so-called industrial leaders to desert the working person. Thank you.”

  An announcer provided an address for contributions, which was followed by a weather update. “Christ,” Dorsey said, “the guy does radio spots too.” Makes sense, he thought, more sense than those late-night TV spots.

  Crossing the Ohio River at Shippingport, under the shadows of the nuclear plant’s twin cooling towers, Dorsey recalled that Midland was laid out like most river-valley mill towns. Kensington Steel occupied all the riverfront within the city limits, conveniently situated to receive bargeloads of coal and to expel refuse into the already murky water. Next, on the valley flats, were a few streets of small row houses followed by a main street dominated by merchants. From there the land went quickly upward, terraced with the homes of the sons of immigrants and those of displaced cotton sharecroppers. Wooden frame or brick, these homes appeared to have fingernails dug into the hillside, bracing for the next violent storm, natural or economic.

  Ohio Street ran up the hillside, Damjani’s home sat one and a half blocks up from the valley floor, one of several soot-stained brick houses lining the left sidewalk. Dorsey drove past Damjani’s, made a wide U-turn at the next intersection, and slid the Buick to a stop at the curb across the street. His plans to conduct a series of neighborhood interviews changed immediately when he saw what must have been Ed Damjani walk down the steps of number 211’s front stoop.

  Goddamn, Dorsey thought, this has to be the biggest mill hand on record. He had expected a large man, but one who was running to sloppy fat at the waist. Damjani’s figure ran like a V from shoulder to hips, and the rolled sleeves of his flannel shirt strained at the seams. With surprising vigor for an injured man, he strode down the street, away from Dorsey. Hoping to pass himself off as a shopkeeper, Dorsey stripped off his tie and sport coat, allowed Damjani a one-and-a-half block lead, and began his surveillance.

  Lagging behind, Dorsey watched Damjani turn right onto Merchant Street, Midland’s business district. When he followed around the corner and Damjani was nowhere to be seen, Dorsey felt a hard chill. A confrontation like the one with Radovic is sure to go bad for you, he told himself. This guy won’t have to call for help; he could kick the shit out of a Toyota all by himself, take on two at a time. Dorsey sighed with relief when Damjani stepped out from a drugstore, opening a tin of Skoal and shoving a plug deep into his mouth. After sucking at it to his satisfaction, he moved down Merchant Street at a double-time step. A man with an appointment to keep, Dorsey thought.

  The sidewalks of Merchant Street grew more crowded as they moved along, mostly men of Damjani’s age, all dressed like him and moving in the same direction. Also in the crowd, Dorsey spotted a sprinkling of older men, mill pensioners, wearing fedoras and navy or black windbreakers. A block farther, police cruisers could be seen, along with a station wagon bearing the logo of a Pittsburgh television station. In the denser crowd and with better camouflage, Dorsey closed in on Damjani, twice brushing against his arm as they passed bars, coffee shops, and hardware stores.

  When they came to the hall of the steelworkers’ local, Dorsey realized that Damjani had reached his destination. The crowd came to a halt on the sidewalk before the hall, and a ring of police and sheriff’s deputies barred the entrance, allowing people to go in slowly in single file. Dorsey watched as Damjani waved to another young man standing inside the police cordon. The man returned the wave and had a word with one of the deputies, pointing at Damjani. The deputy stood aside, and Damjani moved quickly ahead of the rest and was inside the union hall as the deputy retook his position.

  Whatever it is, Dorsey thought, it’s big and this guy looks to be part of it. He dipped a shoulder and began to glide and angle through the crowd, jockeying for a position in the entry line. Twice he was rebuffed but then found a soft spot in the line and slipped by some retirees. He took a few hard looks and curses but found himself moving single file through the police cordon and into the union hall.

  Staying in step, Dorsey walked through a thin lobby and into a long, low-ceilinged auditorium filled with rows of wooden chairs. Ushers, dressed in work clothes and looking like union brothers, moved the
line along toward the front of the auditorium, where a low stage rose. Standing along the side walls were camera crews from local TV stations in Pittsburgh and Wheeling, each with a reporter giving his appearance one last check before the film rolled. Dorsey was directed to a chair in the eighth row, between a frail-looking young man in his twenties and one of the blue-jacketed retirees, two chairs away from the center aisle. As he sat, he spotted Damjani with several men at the front left corner of the auditorium near a flight of portable steps leading to the stage. There was a thin blond woman with the group. Damjani gave her a thumbs-up gesture.

  “Hey, you.” The retiree was addressing Dorsey. “You from Midland? You look new.”

  “From up river,” Dorsey said. “On the other side near Wireton.”

  “This is gonna be worth the trip for ya.” The retiree gestured his head toward the stage. “You’ll see. I went up the Mon Valley for the last one. These guys helped save my pension, is what they did. Some of my medical coverage too.”

  “Figured it was time for me to see this myself,” Dorsey said.

  “Won’t be disappointed.” The retiree turned his attention to the stage.

  The stage was furnished with a lectern and six folding chairs fanning out on either side. Still with his friends, Damjani glanced at his watch and turned to check the progress being made in seating the audience. Dorsey watched him consult his watch again and signal several men in the back of the room, who closed the auditorium doors. Next, Damjani led his group onto the stage to their assigned seats, the chair closest to the lectern on the left remaining open, apparently for himself. Satisfied with the arrangements, Damjani strode to the lectern and tapped the microphone twice with his finger.

  “Workin’, right?” His words reverberated throughout the hall. A TV camera crew did a lighting check, and Damjani momentarily shaded his eyes. “Good, real good. Wanna thank everyone for comin’ today.” Damjani grinned. “But, what the hell, you sure ain’t missin’ a day of work for this. Anybody here still on a payroll?”

  The audience reacted in outbursts and angry calls. The retiree next to Dorsey and the young man on his right shouted and raised their fists. Damjani threw up his fist too and paraded from one end of the stage to the other. They’d kill me, Dorsey thought, a line of cold sweat inching down his spine; if they knew, I’d be dead. Cold meat floating downstream in the Ohio on its way to Cincinnati. Better show that Wireton is with them all the way. Dorsey stood, whistling and clapping. TV crews and radio reporters held microphones over the heads of the seated, gathering background.

  “We’re here to show the man we’re behind him,” Damjani shouted through the mike. “To show him Midland is behind him one hundred percent. And to show them bastard sumbitches we ain’t buyin’ their bullshit! Kensington Steel never lost a dime in this town. Made money on us is what they did. Now they’re pullin’ out. No way!” The crowd went into a frenzy, and Damjani waved his arms for several minutes before he was able to be heard. “I’m takin’ up too much time. The man says it a lot better than I ever could; he says it so everybody knows, so everybody sees it like it really is. You know who I mean. Father Andrew Jancek!”

  The cheering was deafening as a thin man in a clerical collar walked to the lectern from offstage left. He stroked his gray and white beard, took silver wire-rimmed glasses from his breast pocket, and waited for the crowd to shout itself out.

  8

  “Why the cheering? I don’t understand.” Father Jancek addressed his remarks to a spot in the air a few feet above the heads of the audience. His question hushed the crowd. “Cheering takes place when something is accomplished, when a long-sought-after goal is attained. Cheering is for the state finals, the World Series. What have we attained, what have we accomplished?”

  “It’s true, I suppose, that some of you now have more peace of mind”—Father Jancek’s soft tones flowed like intimate whispers through the room’s sound system—“now that your pensions will continue and your health benefits are secure. But that’s just for pensioners, retirees. Please, don’t get me wrong; what we have done is important, and retirees deserve their pensions. But the day when we can sit down and pat ourselves on the back will be a long time in coming. Meanwhile, save the cheering for the basketball team. We still have a lot of work to do.”

  Father Jancek cleared his throat and briefly scanned the notes he had placed on the lectern.

  “It is our understanding, and this is from our committee members, that the final layoffs at Kensington Steel are scheduled for late December, possibly the twenty-first, just in time for Christmas. On that day, we expect all of you to be at the front gates at the end of the daylight shift, the last shift ever at Kensington. We’ll form up on either side of the gate, right and left, with former Kensington employees in the front ranks. We’ll be there to shake each man’s hand on his last day and to invite them to join our crusade.”

  The audience responded in applause and wild cheering. The twelve people seated on stage signaled for quiet.

  “The final demolition of the plant,” Father Jancek said, once order was restored, “will be postponed by winter weather, at least until April. But remember, demolition is the reason for the closing in December. The board of Kensington Steel has voted to close in December in order to give you a winter of personal struggle to forget the plant. So, in spring, demolition can go unobstructed. Remember this: that steel plant is the tax base for this community: taxes that pay for police, road maintenance, the water treatment plant, and the school system. The plant closure will hurt us, hurt us badly. But with the plant standing we have the means to recover. It can reopen. But if we allow that plant to be dismantled, we will be lost. There will be no Midland and no way to rebuild it.

  “We have no intention of allowing this to happen.” Father Jancek’s voice had gained strength and its timbre hardened. “We must do whatever is necessary. In McKeesport we failed. And our failure was because of our delusion that we were dealing with reasonable men, men with sensitivity. Well, we were not.

  “In McKeesport we used symbolism. We gave the authorities no resistance. When we were removed and arrested, we went peacefully. Well, no more; now we fight. Come April, that plant must remain standing. At any cost, it must remain standing!

  “With whatever means possible.” Father Jancek’s voice transcended another octave, and Dorsey felt the power behind it. He’s pulling in his fish, Dorsey thought. The speech begins with his giving them plenty of line. And then he does what he’s doing now, takes up the slack, prepares for the big finish when he lands them in the boat. He must’ve studied the old man’s technique.

  “If it means forming a picket line, we’ll form one. If it means putting the bulldozers and wrecking balls out of commission, we’ll do it. And if it comes down to hand-to-hand struggle, we’ll fight to the last man. We’ll stand against the police and state troopers, we’ll stand against the national guard. Because at the end of April, that plant will be standing. And it will be standing at the end of May. And at the end of June, at the end of July, at the end of August. And when we’re done, when the fight is over and the buildings and the smokestacks and the furnaces are still on their feet, then you can cheer!”

  Dorsey felt the electric charge coursing through the auditorium, taking in the full effect of the priest’s magic. The crowd was euphoric, as if the calendar read next August and the battle had already been won. Dorsey was on his feet with the others, careful to remind himself that his actions were supposed to be a cover. With his wits collected, he focused on Damjani and was shaken by the realization that the blonde standing next to Damjani, shaking Father Jancek’s hand, was Karen Stroesser—the bad knee from Somerset, Dr. Tang’s patient. And behind her was Mel Stark, back problem from Greensburg. Seated farthest from the right, Dorsey recognized Carl Radovic. Even more ominous was Dorsey’s realization that Radovic was returning his stare, the muscles of his fat face twitching.

  “Oh, shit,” Dorsey muttered. “Looks like I’m that To
yota you mentioned.”

  Dorsey watched as Radovic shuffled across the stage and took Damjani’s arm, pointing out Dorsey. The two of them started forward. Dorsey moved into the center aisle and made for the door.

  It was tough going. Dorsey had to work his way through huddles of men throwing their fists in the air. Watching the empty side aisles as he angled his way along, Dorsey saw Radovic moving quickly along the right wall while Stark hustled along the left. He saw them alert their union brothers at the doors and then looked backward to find Damjani shoving his way toward him. Dorsey’s stomach began to churn as it went acidic and sweat soaked his collar, flowing along his spine. His heart skipped a beat and then another. Dorsey knew he had never been so alone. Deep shit, he thought; the bad guys are after you and the locals aren’t friendly. An ass-beating could be this show’s second act. Maybe the priest will like the idea and ask you back to warm up the crowd at the next rally.

  Damjani closed in from behind, shoving away heavy-chested men who didn’t argue, and reached across several others to paw at Dorsey’s shoulder, inches away from taking a firm grasp. Dorsey shrugged him off and pushed forward, watching as Radovic closed in from the right while Stark and two others neared the back of the auditorium from the left. The center doors were manned by two union men. Radovic shouted to them and pointed to Dorsey. The guards stood taller and squared their shoulders. Dorsey shook and tasted bile rising from his stomach.

  Over the shoulder of one of the guards, through the small pane of glass in the door’s center, Dorsey saw the head of a man wearing the visor cap of a sheriff’s deputy. Hoping this was not the same deputy who had allowed Damjani through the police cordon, Dorsey prayed that help was only a plywood door away. He grabbed one of the folding chairs, having a tough time holding on to it with his sweat-slippery hands. But once his grip was true, Dorsey swung the chair high and wide at the two men at the center doors who instinctively, but only momentarily, dropped back. Dorsey released the chair at the end of its arc and dove forward, head first, slipping along the polished tile floor into the doors. One door cracked open and Dorsey wiggled through on all fours and found himself in the lobby at the feet of several deputies and borough policemen.