The Fall-Down Artist (23 page)

“Ed Damjani.” Sure of the identity, Dorsey addressed the larger man, wondering how such a big man could hope to hide his identity with a ski mask. Like a train robber's bandanna on King Kong.

Neither man responded, and the smaller one moved into the street, flanking Dorsey's right, cutting off escape in that direction. Slowly moving backward, Dorsey glanced over his shoulder and saw what he expected; the man from the basketball court was closing in behind him. As the man passed beneath a street lamp, Dorsey saw that he was black and carried more metal in his hand. Three hours from Johnstown, Dorsey thought. They could set up anything with three hours of lead time. Dorsey dropped into a defensive crouch, arms out and up, intending to protect his head at any cost.

“Back the fuck off, both you sumbitches.” It was the
black man speaking, and the metal he held was a blue steel automatic. He pointed the gun past Dorsey and trained it at Damjani's sternum. “Big mafucka, you specially. Back off.”

Damjani's partner waved the tire iron in the air, coming toward the gunman. “This got nothin' to do with you. Take off, spade, and we'll forget about it.”

Dorsey searched the gunman's face but was unable to place it. As tall as Damjani but sleekly built, he kept his knees bent in the shooter position, both hands gripping the gun. With his thumb he cocked the hammer.

“Don't even know what this man's name be,” the gunman said, indicating Dorsey. “But I ain't gonna let you mafuckas kick his sorry ass, not tonight anyways. And watch that spade shit. Might just put a hole in your fuckin' head for the fuckin' principle of the thing.”

For several moments that seemed like an eternity to Dorsey, the scene was frozen and silent, none of the players able to fight through the tension, none willing to end the standoff. Dorsey faded back across the pavement until his back was against the brick wall of an auto repair garage. The palms of his hands went to the wall and his fingertips dug into the mortar seams between the brick, as if gripping for safety at a dangerous height. At what he thought was surely the moment of no return, with both sides about to engage the other, the night was shattered by a wild scream and Dorsey heard his name shouted from far up the street. The gunman eased the hammer back into place and made a quarter turn, keeping Damjani, his partner, and Dorsey in sight, while he checked out the shouting.

Down the center of the street, through a lane that had been cleared and salted by the city trucks, Russie charged toward them waving an aluminum softball bat. Dressed only in T-shirt, slacks, and bedroom slippers, he sidestepped patches of lingering snow and slush, shouting Dorsey's name all along. The few wisps of hair remaining on his head seemed to stand on end as he ran.

“I'll help ya! I'll help ya!”

Russie wiggled between two parked cars and onto the sidewalk, blowing by the gunman to take up a position in front of Dorsey. With the bat held at arm's length, Russie turned to each of the men, his eyes small and fierce. “Gotta go through me, bastards. Gotta go through me.”

The gunman snickered. “The fuck is this shit? Easy, now. These two guys, they's the ones to be pissed at. Me, I'm here to help your friend.”

“Easy, Russ, loosen up,” Dorsey whispered over Russie's shoulder; he took hold of a belt loop in Russie's slacks, slowly guiding him away from the men in ski masks. “Lighten up, Russ, it's gonna be all right. Take it slow, we're gonna get out of this one. You saved my life. You did, Russie, you saved my life.”

Later, Dorsey would repeatedly tell a city detective that he could remember Damjani laughing but did not see him coming at Russie. Instead, Dorsey told them he felt Russie pull away from him and saw Russie take a strong rip with the bat, landing it solidly against Damjani's shoulder. No, Dorsey told the police, the big prick didn't fall, barely moved.

“So what happened next?” the detective taking notes asked.

“Damjani's buddy, he slipped in behind Russie and took a cut with the tire iron. A full cut, brought it up from the sidewalk right over his shoulder. Russie, being just a little guy, he caught the iron on its way back down. Jesus Christ, you could hear the bone crack, like when you snap wood. Russie just crumpled to the ground.”

“Hold on just a sec.” It was another detective speaking. “The guy with the gun, he was on your side, right? What did he do during all this?”

“Held back,” Dorsey said matter-of-factly. “Stood his ground, kept the pistol pointed up in the air.”

“Bullshit.”

“Listen,” Dorsey said. “I know what you're thinking. But when it was done and those two guys took off, I asked
him, ‘Where the fuck were you?' Seriously, I asked him.”

“So what did he say?”

“He said, ‘They said to look after you. Didn't say shit about him.'”

“Father Melcic says there can't be a mass.” Al sat on the edge of the office chaise, sipping at a coffee mug. “Can't prove Russie was Catholic. There's a birth certificate but nothing about a baptism. I guess his bein' around here, I just figured him for some kind of Catholic, Greek or some other Orthodox. Anyways, I can't prove he's Catholic. So no mass and no burial in consecrated ground. I did get the priest to agree to say a few prayers in church. It'll be Tuesday morning. We can't get the body before that because the postmortem is Monday. Burial will be in the county cemetery out in Lawrenceville. Gonna be there, right?”

Still wearing the clothes he had worn to Johnstown, Dorsey sat in his swivel chair, where he had gotten five fitful hours of sleep. The police had released him shortly before dawn and he had taken a cab home from the Public Safety Building. Later, awakened by Al pounding at the door, he had gone through the motions of making coffee, double strong, as if fighting his way out of a trance.

“Sure, I'll be there,” Dorsey said, rubbing sleep from his eyes. On the desktop were his coffee mug and two empty beer cans, drunk when he had returned that morning. “Feel kind of responsible, I guess. I'll be there, sure.” Dorsey sipped at his coffee and again tried to figure out the identity of the gunman.

“Of course you're responsible,” Al said. “So am I. Not for him gettin' killed, but we were his only family, if you think about it. The guy would've gone through a brick wall for either of us. Even for Bernie, for some reason.” Al drank coffee and shook his head. “Way I figure it, he must've been watchin' out of the apartment window. He did that a lot. Saw you leave and then saw the spade follow after you. So Russie grabs the bat and off he went. Showed me that bat lotsa times. Said he'd protect his place and the
bar. Loyal guy. Kinda dimwitted, I suppose, but loyal.”

“I'll be there,” Dorsey said. “And I'll call my father. He'll want to be there too.”

Al rose to his feet, stretched his arms, and moved off to peer out the window. “So tell me,” he said, not looking at Dorsey, “you hear from your bosses yet? The guys at the insurance company?”

“Not yet, but I certainly expect to.” Dorsey pushed back into his chair and studied the ceiling. “Somebody's going to call, Sunday or not. I suppose they're drawing lots right now to see who gets the pleasure of firing my ass. Munt, I'm sure he's chomping at the bit, dying for a chance.”

“So you get fired,” Al said. “So you get a new boss.”

Dorsey watched Al settle into the chair at the side of the desk. “Who in the hell is that going to be? No new bosses, no new cases. Not for some time.”

“C'mon, Dorsey.” Al spoke in a fatherly tone. “You're gonna finish this business, this case. You do the legwork, I'll cover expenses. And your fee. Russie's dead. The guy who mopped my floors and hustled your beer to you. The guy who thought he was saving your life.”

Dorsey straightened himself and stared at the desktop blotter. The idea of finishing the case, with or without pay, had been forcing its way through his fatigued mind throughout the police interrogation. But later, in the cab ride home, he had dismissed the thought as an emotional and temporary remedy for his shock and guilt. Now it was presented in a new light, by someone who had spent the night in a bed and hadn't watched a man's skull being split open. The poor dumb bastard, Dorsey thought, dead because you befriended him. Dead because you pissed off Ed Damjani and maybe the goddamned priest. And Stockman, the son of a bitch. Good ol' Personal Injury Stockman. And because, Dorsey, you've underestimated these people at every turn, every step of the way.

Oblivious to Al, Dorsey's thoughts surged forward. Some very smart and not so smart people get together to steal some money, and it's okay because a lawyer shows
them the way. White-collar crime, so it's white-collar killing, as sure as if Russie's head were crushed by a business ledger. Can you do it? Dorsey asked himself. Can you try?

“Me, I got the money,” Al said. “You got no idea how much I put away. Own the bar and the building. The only employee is my wife, and Russie was around to clean up or serve beer in the back room. I drive a ten-year-old car, and my idea of a vacation is three days at Lake Erie. Whatever you gotta do and for as long as it takes, I'll cover it. But you're the one with the know-how. You gotta do the work. All the money you need.”

So you're the one, Dorsey told himself. Out of this tight little circle of people that gives a shit about this guy being dead, you're the man. To the end of the line.

“Let's get clear on a few things.” Dorsey moved a quarter turn in the swivel chair to face Al. “Damjani and the prick who killed Russie, it's up to the police to catch them. They can do that job much better than I can. And Damjani, he wasn't the one who slugged Russie, so he might not get anything at all. Believe me, I'd love to see him do twenty years, but there's not much I can do about it. You're clear on that, right?”

Slowly, silently, Al nodded.

“So what we want to do is get the people who caused it, the ones who set things in motion. The things that got Russie killed.”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, then,” Dorsey said, “I'm going to wreck the priest. And Stockman. Pin all this shit on their chests and parade them downtown at high noon. Get them indicted, maybe convicted.”

Al placed his mug on the desktop corner. “You can do that?”

“I can try,” Dorsey told him. “Because I have to look into the mirror for the rest of my days, too.”

Corso's voice
later that day was heavily laden with anger and sarcasm, and the telephone line did nothing to conceal it. “You are aware of what it is I'm telling you, right? Went to the wall for you with Munt, that hardhead. Munt wanted you fired, and from the way he talked it sounded like he didn't give a shit what Cleardon has to say about it. Think about it. It's the second time I came through for you.”

The call had come just as Dorsey was stepping out of the shower. Wrapped in a towel, he wondered what was keeping Corso on the job. Where was Corso's payday? There had to be one.

“Hey, Ray, it's appreciated. I mean the effort you've made for me. Must've been tough.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and allowed Corso a few more moments of rambling before cutting it off.

“Okay, Ray, here's what I need.” Dorsey wanted the files on all Carlisle Steel workers' compensation claims to be ready for his review on Monday morning. “You can do that for me, right?”

“Sure,” Corso said. “But you gotta realize—”

“Thanks, Ray, have a good weekend, what's left of it.”

He saved you again, Dorsey thought, or so he says. And if he did, you still don't know why and that's one hell of a question. Your ally is the man who sells cases, the one you better not trust. Is he busy selling your case too? He
could be out taking bids from Stockman right now. Corso would know how to get in touch with him. Steady, Dorsey, steady. One crime at a time. This is your case now, the property of Carroll Dorsey of Wharton Street, with financial assistance by Albert Rosek, restauranteur.

Feeling a bit fresher in clean clothes, Dorsey went downstairs to the office and answered the telephone on the fourth ring. It was Western Union, verbally delivering a priority mailgram. The message was from Dennis Tesso, a Johnstown attorney, informing Dorsey that he now represented Claudia Maynard concerning any matters arising from her former employment at Carlisle Steel. All communications with Miss Maynard were to be directed through his office and, as Miss Maynard was not presently residing in the Johnstown area, a lengthy period of time should be allowed for a response. The operator assured Dorsey that written confirmation of the message would be forthcoming.