The Fall-Down Artist (11 page)

“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 Toyota 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.

“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.

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 lawsuit 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.