The Fall-Down Artist (14 page)

“Said the spider to the fly.” Dorsey rolled his eyes and returned to his dictation.

The second call was from a low-range black voice identifying itself as Attorney Louis Preach. Evenly, without threats or enticements, he suggested that Dorsey call him back. Don't make that call, Dorsey cautioned himself, not
until you know who he is and what he wants. Maybe not then, either.

The bicycle messenger returned at two o'clock, and Dorsey had him wait in the hall while he closed out the dictation, hoping to concoct a brief comment on where the investigation should go from here. You know what you have, Dorsey told himself, his feet on the edge of the desk. He could hear the messenger pacing in the hall. In dictations make no conclusions, just indications. Radovic crosses town on foot like a wilderness hiker, so maybe his back isn't so bad. But is he a fraud and can you make it stick? No. Stroesser and the others wreck rented cars and maybe you have a conspiracy. But how's about a little something in the way of evidence? And connections, meaningful ones, between Damjani and the priest? Show me the evidence.

After seeing the messenger out, Dorsey checked the street for the LTD, but it was gone. He returned to the office and through the window he scrutinized each doorway and between-house walk space for its driver. Gone, Dorsey thought, like the cameraman before him. Must be a big news day.

The phone rang three times and then the answering machine picked up. Martin Dorsey asked for a return call and Dorsey broke into the line.

“Hold on,” Dorsey said. “Sorry I didn't get back to you yesterday, but things got hectic.”

“And public.” Martin Dorsey allowed several moments of silence. “This Hickcock, I've had dealings with him, when he covered election returns. Carroll, you be careful with that one. He's not particularly smart, but he is ambitious, and that kind can be a headache. He's TV, and only appearances matter.”

“The power of the electronic press has been brought to my attention.”

“A lesson to be learned. You'll do better next time.” Martin Dorsey sounded relaxed, conversational. “I take it there was a reason you were in Midland?”

“For once in my career I may be on to something,” Dorsey said. “Something more than an insurance cheat or a husband stepping out.”

“The priest, he's involved? If he's not, you made yourself famous for nothing.”

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 the 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.”