The Fall-Down Artist Read online

  “The hell is this?” one asked.

  “A guy is chasing me,” Dorsey said, scrambling to his feet, “big crazy guy. He’s nuts.”

  Dorsey turned his left shoulder to indicate the center doors and caught Damjani’s left forearm flush on the cheek. He fell against a policeman, who let him slip to the floor.

  9

  The glass window of the holding tank, smudged with finger and palm prints, was three feet by four feet. Through it, Dorsey watched Antonio Ruggerio wrap several ice cubes in a washcloth. Ruggerio was a squarely built but very overweight man dressed in a white shirt and black slacks. He weighed the cubes in his hand and, content with their arrangement, walked around a gray steel desk, fished a set of heavy keys from his pocket, and worked the holding tank lock. He laughed as he entered.

  “Sorry to see this, my friend. You’ve come down in the world.” Ruggerio handed the wrapped ice to Dorsey, who sat on the corner joint of a benching that went three-quarters of the way around the metal room. Ruggerio sat at the far wall. “Used to be you’d come in here wearin’ a suit, big shot from the city. Used to be you were askin’ the questions in the tank. Now you just sit. But don’t worry, you’re gettin’ sprung.”

  “No bullshit, okay, Antonio?” Dorsey concentrated on where to apply the ice first. His jaw no longer ached despite the swelling, but the knot on his head where he had made contact with the union hall’s tile floor throbbed.

  “The cheek, it don’t look so bad,” Ruggerio said. “Some swellin’, but it’s okay. Bump on your head needs work, though.”

  Watching Dorsey apply the ice to a spot above his left ear, Ruggerio spread his legs to evenly distribute his immense weight. Again he smiled and shook his head, then spit at the floor between his legs. “Goddamn, Dorsey, how ya been?”

  “Good. At least I was till that big ox flattened me,” Dorsey said. “Seriously, Antonio, no bullshit. They cutting me loose?”

  “Hell, yeah,” Antonio said. “Ain’t got shit on ya, fella. There’s nothing to have on ya; all you did was get hit and fall down, way I heard it. It’s the deputies, they’re a little pissed. Sheriff is pissed at you for not checking in with him before you started workin’ in the county. So when he’s pissed, his people are pissed.”

  “Last-minute decision to come here today,” Dorsey said. He felt cold rivulets run down his wrist as the ice melted. “Didn’t expect to get around to this job for another week.”

  “And you weren’t gonna check in then, either.”

  “You know how it works,” Dorsey said. “I check in with the sheriff, and one of his men passes it to a courthouse worker who’s related to the guy I’m looking at. That takes twenty minutes on the outside. And I’m screwed.”

  “Whatever.” Ruggerio returned Dorsey’s smile. “Figure on another twenty minutes or so in here. That’s the shift change for the deputies. For the guards, too. I arranged for one of them to take you back to Midland. That’s where your car is, right?”

  “Thanks, Antonio, thanks a lot. I owe you.”

  “Don’t finish thanking me yet. And don’t tally up your debts yet, either.” A uniformed jail guard rapped a knuckle at the window and held up a thick file folder. Antonio went to the door and took the file, examining it. “Yeah, this is the one. Thanks.” He sat himself down with his weight resting on his left hip and leafed further through the file.

  “How much you know about Eddie Damjani?”

  “Worked at Kensington Steel, maybe he hurt his back,” Dorsey said. “He also has one hell of a backhand.”

  “Then you don’t know shit.” Antonio passed Dorsey three sheets from the file folder. “Got it off the NCIC last time Eddie was in our hotel here. We don’t get him much anymore, just when he falls behind on his fines and violates his parole.” Antonio gestured to the papers he had passed to Dorsey. “Take a look for yourself. Lotsa stuff on the list.”

  Dorsey read through the teletype lists of eleven separate arrests, three in California. All reflected violence: discharge of a firearm within town limits, four assaults with intent, destruction of private property (shooting out the windows of a mobile home), and various aggravated assaults. No big-time criminal, Dorsey thought, but nobody to mess with, either.

  “Local hard-ass.” Dorsey looked up from the pages.

  “Worse than that,” Antonio said. “Tip of the iceberg. You put in enough time as a detective to know that. This is only the shit he got caught doin’. Other crazy shit, he doesn’t get caught. Or maybe people are just scared shitless and won’t file a complaint. Looney bastard is what this guy is.”

  “You’re sure?” Dorsey set aside the reports, strained out the cloth that held the ice, and again applied it to his head.

  “Don’t get the picture, do ya?” Antonio leaned forward and his voice fell to a whisper. “Listen, the spades back in the cell blocks, and there’s a lot of them back there, they don’t fuck with the guy. You should find out about a guy before you start a tail.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?” Dorsey asked. “I can’t get NCIC reports like you, and Insanity Anonymous has a confidential member list.”

  Antonio shoved himself from the bench and made for the door. “Still, for my sake, watch your ass with this one. He’s a sick guy.”

  “For your sake,” Dorsey said.

  “If only that.” Antonio unlocked the door. “One more thing. Your little escapade made the radio news, and I hear the six o’clock TV version has film. I’ll get your ride in a little bit.”

  The trip back to the Buick was made in silence. The driver was a young black man who was probably pissed off at carting him around. It’s the kid’s first real job, Dorsey decided. And he’s a union man; isn’t a jail guard in the country who hasn’t been unionized. And the family’s poor. Antonio rules with an iron fist.

  “You a detective?” The guard didn’t take his eyes from the road. “Antonio said you was.”

  “Used to be,” Dorsey said. “DA’s office.”

  “You fuck up?”

  “Yeah,” Dorsey said. “Then and now.”

  At Ohio Street, Dorsey mumbled a brief thanks and quickly transferred to the Buick. He kept his head low until well out of town, carefully observing the speed limit, fearing a police roust. During the drive home he played at the car radio, searching for newscasts. Two stations labeled it a riot incited by a management agitator, another called it a spontaneous explosion of violence. Dorsey was relieved that none mentioned his name.

  In the Wharton Street row house, Dorsey found Gretchen studying at the office desk. Wearing horn-rimmed glasses and taking notes from Harrison’s Principles of Internal Medicine, she silently watched Dorsey enter the room and drop into the chaise.

  “Carroll, you all right?”

  “No.”

  Dorsey turned to face the windows and Gretchen went to the chaise, sitting at its foot. She stroked and patted his hip, coaxing him onto his back. “Tell me,” she said.

  Dorsey gave her the details of his afternoon. “This is a bad one. My work is supposed to be done discreetly, that’s the value of it, part of the value, anyway.”

  Gretchen kissed his cheek and gave his hand a light squeeze. “Try to relax. Close your eyes for a minute or so. Maybe take a few deep breaths.”

  She went to the kitchen and returned with a damp cloth, which she placed over Dorsey’s eyes.

  “What happened to you today,” she said softly, “explains why the phone has been ringing off the hook. I was doing some research for a case staffing so I let the answering machine pick up. About twenty minutes ago I took a break and listened to the tape. Let me get the list.”

  She took a written list from the desk and returned to the chaise.

  “First call was from Jack Stockman. He’s the lawyer, the one they mentioned on TV?”

  Dorsey took the compress from his eyes and rose on one elbow, wishing that P.I. Stockman would stay out of his life. “Guess he got a call from Father Jancek and wants to threaten a lawsui
t of some sort. Nothing but bullshit. Forget him.”

  “You won’t even return the call?”

  “For what?” Dorsey asked. “There’s been no laws broken and no damages caused. When he doesn’t hear from me he’ll write a nasty letter, and I’ll have the pleasure of crumpling it into a ball and shooting it at the wastepaper basket.”

  “And miss and leave it cluttering the floor?” Gretchen grinned and pointed at the far corner.

  “That too.” Dorsey returned her smile.

  “Next to call was another attorney.” Gretchen stroked the list with her pencil. “Louis Preach. Sounded like a black man on the tape.”

  “That’s an unfamiliar name.”

  “Well, he seems to have heard of you. He said the two of you need to get together very soon and it would be of mutual benefit.”

  Dorsey closed his eyes momentarily and shook his head. “I can’t see Damjani with a black lawyer. The guy could be a token in Stockman’s office.”

  Lifting himself by the heel of his hand, Dorsey came to a sitting position alongside Gretchen and kissed her cheek. “Thanks. For the comfort and the update.”

  “I’m far from done,” Gretchen said, snickering. “Now, with your return to the land of the living, let’s continue. Bernie is on the list, so maybe, just maybe, it isn’t all bad. His message was that he had some big news for you and you better call him ASAP. Then, two seconds after that call, Ray Corso was on the line saying you needed to get your paperwork together and get to his office ASAP.”

  “Better talk to Bernie first.” Dorsey stood and shrugged the tension from his shoulders. “Most likely, Corso knows what happened, got it on the radio or something, and is hitting the panic button, which is a lot of physical exertion for him. So, being frightened to death, he calls the company’s local counsel, which is Bernie’s firm. And Bernie calls me. Who’s next?”

  “Your father called.”

  Dorsey stopped cold. “You mean Ironbox called to give me an appointment?”

  “No.” Gretchen solemnly lowered her voice. “It was the great man himself.”

  “Really? No shit?”

  “Not even the slightest shit.”

  Dorsey shook his head. “I wonder if he’s calling to rub in the embarrassment or to congratulate me on my daring escapade.”

  “Sounded concerned.” Gretchen turned to the window and watched a red and white van pull to the curb. “Oh, boy. Seems the last guy on the list couldn’t wait for a callback.”

  Dorsey went to the window and peeked through the side curtains. The van parked outside, in red lettering, carried the logo of local TV Channel Three. “Now what?”

  “Sam Hickcock, the news guy?” Gretchen was apologetic. “His was the last call. I thought I’d be cute and leave the worst for last.”

  Through the window, Dorsey watched a cameraman and a sound technician haul their equipment from the rear of the van. Hickcock, a thin man dressed in brown tweed and busily combing out a perfectly barbered mustache, urged them on, warning them that the tape had to be ready for the six o’clock lead-in.

  “TV supposedly makes a person look heavier,” Gretchen said, pointing to Hickcock through the glass. “You’d have to be bulimic to look like that. Just think, Carroll, all that money but you’d still have to puke after every meal.”

  With the camera set and the lighting perfectly calibrated, Hickcock assumed an air of grave resolve and strode up the front stoop of the row house. He pressed the doorbell twice.

  “Care to make your television debut?” Dorsey moved back from the window. “Chance to be discovered.”

  “It’s not me he’s here for,” Gretchen said, following Dorsey to the center of the office. “Father Jancek makes the national news every night at seven. You’d know that if you watched. Brokaw and Rather make heroes of these people. You answer the door.”

  “No way.” Dorsey waved his hands, shooing away the very idea. “I was hit once today already. My face makes the news, and Damjani and his friends will launch an around-the-clock manhunt for me.”

  The doorbell rang twice more, and then they heard Hickcock’s fist pounding on the door. Dorsey leaned back onto the desk and shook his head. “He’ll be gone in a second. Smacking your fist into a door is too much like work and gets old fast. He’ll go away.”

  “Shit, we have to get something,” Dorsey heard Hickcock call to his crew. “Let’s try this.”

  Dorsey and Gretchen each went to one of the front windows, which were slightly open. Outside they saw Hickcock direct the cameraman and sound tech to the curb. When the tape rolled, he took position in the middle of the pavement and pointed over his shoulder at the row house, addressing the camera and speaking into a hand-held mike.

  “Behind me is the home of Carroll Dorsey,” he said in his perfectly modulated voice. “Earlier today, in an activity that led to his arrest by the Beaver County sheriff’s office, Dorsey totally disrupted a rally sponsored by Movement Together. Held in Midland, the rally featured a speech by the movement’s founder, Father Andrew Jancek. It is now believed that Dorsey is employed as a so-called corporate agent provocateur.

  “We have every reason to believe that Dorsey is now at home but, despite our ringing the doorbell and knocking at his door, he refuses to acknowledge our presence, let alone answer any questions. It was our intention to give him an opportunity to tell his version of today’s events. Our invitation still stands. We’ll see how he responds. Sam Hickcock reporting.”

  Dorsey watched Hickcock check his wristwatch and hurry his crew into the van, complaining about a five-thirty deadline. “This guy, he wants to get to the networks, and he’s going to try it riding on my back.”

  “You’re news now,” Gretchen told him. “Fair game to one and all.”

  “And I’ll be stuffed and mounted over someone’s fireplace if I don’t watch my ass.”

  10

  Don’t worry, Bernie had said over the phone, you’ll get there after the shift change. The hell’s that supposed to mean? Dorsey had replied. Bernie explained further that the shift change at Al’s was between six-thirty and seven when the after-work drunks, the ones Dorsey had to worry about, were on their way home to dinner. Then the evening drunks arrive, Bernie said, the old single guys who sip on beer until the eleven o’clock news is over. They won’t give you trouble; you’ll be safe. The young ones: worry about them. They’ll kick your ass, they catch up with you.

  “Wrong again, Bern,” Dorsey muttered as he stepped into the bar. Three young men, about age thirty, sat at the near end of the bar, dressed in flannel shirts and blue jeans splattered with dried cement. The man sitting in the middle looked over his shoulder and elbowed his friends.

  “Over there, the guy from TV,” Dorsey heard the middle one tell his friends. “Told ya he came in here.”

  The workman nearest Dorsey pushed himself from the bar and took a firm grip on the neck of his emptied beer bottle. Knowing he had little chance of outrunning all three men and a flying beer bottle, Dorsey moved in, crowding the guy and making it impossible for him to take a full swing. Then Dorsey locked his eyes on the workman, hoping for a stare-down. It’s my only chance against all three, he thought, convinced he was about to be knocked down for the second time that day.

  “Hey, fella,” Al said softly from behind the bar. Gently, he tapped the workman’s shoulder with the business end of a thirty-two-ounce baseball bat. The workman turned slowly, and Al worked the bat under his chin.

  “Friendly place this is, civilized.” Al watched all three men, alternately looking each one in the eye. “We’d like to keep it that way. You guys are disturbing the peace. As owner and operator, only I am allowed to do that. Get out.”

  The workman saved his dignity with a few moments’ icy stare, then slowly backed toward the door while his friends scooped up their change from the bar. Keeping the bat at port arms, Al came around the bar and watched as they left.

  “Al, you were beautiful,” Dorsey said. “Like the
new marshal in town. Fresh off the last stage from Dodge City.”

  “Careful, fella.” Al took Dorsey by the elbow and led him to the back room. “Treasure the friends you have, us loyal ones. The six o’clock news was very popular tonight; you were not. Watch your step here.”

  Al’s back room never failed to impress Dorsey with its size. Its walls lined with red leatherette booths and its dance floor tiled in red and white check, it had a Wurlitzer on the far wall. By the jukebox’s dim light he could see Bernie sitting in a booth just to the left, peeling the label from a bottle of Michelob with his thumb.

  “Missed all the action, Bern.” Dorsey slipped into the booth opposite Bernie. Al remained standing, leaning on the bat. “Al just saved my relatively young ass from some guys who, according to you, should’ve been home and drunk and passing out in the meat loaf and mashed potatoes by now. You misled me, but Al was there to fix things.”

  “There’s been more than enough action in my life for one day,” Bernie said, sipping his beer. “I was going to ask you if you have any idea how much shit hit my personal fan this afternoon after word of your little adventure leaked out. I surmise there is no way for you to truly appreciate it, but your opportunity to do so will come up in two days.”

  “Hell’s that supposed to mean?” Dorsey looked at Al, who merely shrugged his shoulders. “Honest, it wasn’t my intention when I got up this morning to get cracked in the head and dragged into a cell. Or to get you in hot water. Sorry. Fill me in.”

  “Al,” Bernie said. “Couple more beers?”

  “Sure, sure. Got a bar to run anyways. I’ll send Russie back with ’em. But the next time one of you guys has a spare moment, bring me up to date. Following your adventures makes my day.” He headed back to the bar, twirling the bat in his right hand.