The Fall-Down Artist (28 page)

Through the
windshield, frost creeping in from the edges, Dorsey watched her emerge from the wooden side porch of the brick farmhouse. Leisurely, she crossed the yard and did leg stretches against a rough wood fence, her navy sweatshirt riding up as she bent forward. Finished, she adjusted her woolen cap and began moving down the driveway at a jog, her long arms and legs synchronized. Although the car sat on a knoll above the house, at a hundred-yard distance, he could see the morning air catch her breath and hold it in small white puffs. She made a right where the driveway met the county blacktop, then climbed a steep grade and disappeared down the far side.

Dorsey checked his watch and figured on forty minutes, twenty out and twenty back, her routine whenever she was away from her Exercycle. And the twenty minutes, they'd tick off in her head, never second-guessed by a wristwatch, Dorsey was sure. He turned over the engine to allow himself three minutes of heat and dug into the file folder on his lap, reviewing the criminal career of Arthur Demory.

The morning before, after Dexter had delivered him to his row house, Dorsey had put in a rush call to Meara, asking him to turn on the juice and get all he had on Demory, Preach's jailbird. Impressing Dorsey with his influence, Meara had the material compiled and delivered to Dorsey by early evening. The messenger was the same
blond kid with the junkie look-alike. Was he the only messenger the agency had who could find South Side, or was South Side the only place this messenger could be trusted to go?

Dorsey had hoped to spend the evening writing his report on Louis Preach and plowing through Demory's file, but his discipline crumbled and thoughts of Gretchen overwhelmed him. Instead of pecking away at the portable Olivetti, he wandered from office to kitchen, peered into the refrigerator, and then paced back to the office to watch Wharton Street from his front windows. At eleven o'clock he caved in completely, hastily packed an overnight bag, and began the five-hour drive eastward across the state to Lancaster County.

Now, as he pushed through Demory's file, he sipped at the last of three coffees he had stopped for in Strasburg. The first two had coated his tongue, and the acrid taste of the third led Dorsey to dump most of it out the window. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, vowing to begin a love affair with tea.

At the top of the folder was a parole officer's presentencing report for Demory's first felony conviction, twenty-one years ago. Twenty years of age at the time, he had been charged with three burglaries and agreed to plead guilty to two. The report stated that Arthur Demory was the son of Agnes Demory, father's identity unknown. He had been raised in the Plan Eleven section of Aliquippa, a place Dorsey thought of as a smaller and meaner version of Pittsburgh's Hill District. Twice Dorsey had worked Plan Eleven, searching for auto accident witnesses, and both times he had gone in with local police escort. It was a white man's no-man's-land.

Arthur Demory had left high school at sixteen, and by age twenty he had failed to establish any employment history. Although he had by this time fathered a son, the court had shown only mild compassion, disregarding the parole officer's plea for leniency based on an impoverished childhood
and the need to support a child. Demory had drawn thirteen months of county time.

Dorsey slipped the presentencing report to the bottom of the pile. With no employment record prior to his arrest, Dorsey figured Demory for a busy little burglar. A pro, a child prodigy in his profession. And Preach says to trust him?

Next in the file was a National Crime Index Computer report, a brief summary of arrests and convictions. Six months after his release from the Beaver County jail, Demory had been arrested for another burglary, but it didn't stick; no conviction. A year later, he'd been acquitted on a charge of receiving stolen property. Dorsey chuckled at Demory's advancement from burglar to fence. From labor to management.

At twenty-six he was given six months' probation for terroristic threats against the mother of his child. Two months later the Aliquippa police had collared him on a drunk-and-disorderly in an after-hours club. His probation officer issued a violation order on the arrest, and Demory did another four months for Beaver County.

Demory's sheet was clean for a little over three years, and then a drug bust put him in Pittsburgh SCI. Western Pen, Dorsey thought, the Wall. And he comes away from there a master of deception, the primary survival art inside a state correctional institution. Trust him, Preach said.

For the next nine years, according to the NCIC report, Arthur Demory's record was clear, confirming Dorsey's belief that the Wall had been Demory's finishing school. Then at age forty, Dorsey concluded, the man forgets all he's learned and is cracked for armed robbery, taking off a Seven-Eleven. And he ends up with his present address, maximum security at Huntingdon. Perhaps to relearn what he had obviously forgotten.

Dorsey skimmed the remainder of the file, thumbing through inmate records, hearing transcripts, and work-release reports. After packing it all away, he climbed out from behind the steering wheel. Shaking the cramps from
his legs, he circled the Buick and checked his watch. Gretchen had ten more minutes of roadwork, by his figuring. Resting against the car hood, he studied the farmhouse: two stories of red brick, front and side porches, and stone chimney.

Gretchen had told him the fields and pasture beyond the fence no longer belonged to the Kellers: sold off, parcel by parcel, by Gretchen's late father to finance her medical training. And, Dorsey remembered, Mother lived on a schoolteacher's pension, Father's life insurance and social security. You need to settle things with her, he told himself. Don't leave without a promise. Even if it's only a promise to think it over.

Back behind the steering wheel, Dorsey allotted himself another three minutes of heat, watching the crest in the county blacktop. First came the puffs of steam put out by churning lungs. A speck of woolen cap was next, then head and shoulders cleared the crest. Gretchen came over the top and quick-stepped down the steep grade, struggling with gravity. But elegantly, Dorsey thought. The movements, finely timed legs and arms: always so goddamned elegant. He watched her puff her way up the driveway, kick off her shoes, and enter the house. Dorsey slipped the car into drive and made for the farmhouse.

He parked at the top of the driveway, climbed the two front steps, and knocked. Her mom would answer the door, he was sure; Gretchen was a fast shower artist. As predicted, an elderly version of Gretchen came to the door. The face was weathered, but the lean strong build was the same, and the hair was a tight curly crown. Introducing himself, Dorsey's heart was stung by how handsome Gretchen would remain through the years to come.

“You look awful,” Mrs. Keller said, smiling to soften her words, a habit Gretchen had picked up. She was dressed in pressed khaki shirt and pants as if, despite its being November, she planned to spend the day gardening. “Better come inside. Some coffee?”

The mere thought cramped Dorsey's stomach. “No, no,
thanks,” he said. “Lately I've been trying to stay away from it.”

“Then some juice and oatmeal.” She took his jacket and led him through a hallway papered in a cornflower print and into a small kitchen. Even the mannerisms and the movements, Dorsey thought; they're the same. She'll be beautiful forever.

Dorsey sat at a rectangular oak table while Mrs. Keller poured orange juice. “She'll be a surprise,” she said. “I've heard a lot about you the last couple of days. You know you're not really perfect, are you? Please don't get me wrong, now; I like it that she hasn't hung a halo on you. A lot of people do that, but I'm glad Gretchen hasn't. This way, if the two of you stick it out, she won't have too many disappointments. You either.”

“Thanks,” Dorsey said. “For the juice and the backhanded compliment. And for letting me barge into your home so early in the morning.”

“No thanks necessary.” Mrs. Keller placed a bowl of oatmeal in front of Dorsey and took the seat across from him. “It's romantic, you coming all this way at night. I'm impressed.”

Dorsey poured milk from a pitcher into the oatmeal, mixing it with a spoon. “She still angry with me?”

Mrs. Keller sipped at her coffee. “That's where you're wrong. She never was angry; she was disappointed. As I said, disappointments are what we have to keep an eye out for in life. Keep them to a minimum and get them out of the way early on, the worst ones, anyway. Then you'll know if you're good for the long haul. Like the two of you are doing now, although I don't think either of you realizes it. I must admit, it's nice to be here and watch. It's touching.”

Dorsey wolfed down the oatmeal, surprised at his appetite, now that the threat of coffee had passed. He washed it down with the last of the orange juice. Overhead he heard a dull thud, followed by the rattling of the house's plumbing. The shower was over; he knew the routine. She wipes
down with a bath towel and then works it over her wiry hair. Then a few seconds to brush her teeth and apply deodorant, and then she wraps herself in a terry-cloth robe. Five minutes puts her down the steps for breakfast. Five minutes.

In sync with Dorsey's thoughts, Mrs. Keller began arranging a place setting to his right: juice glass, spoon, cloth napkin. A few silent minutes passed; then at the sound of footfalls down the stairs, they nodded to each other.

“Ah, Mum?” Gretchen called out from the hall, her voice coming closer. “I might pass on the oatmeal today. Just some coffee and maybe a little—”

As she stopped, framed in the doorway, Dorsey looked her over from head to toe—from brain stem to bunghole he remembered Bernie saying once. The once-over confirmed that five hours of turnpike driving had been worth it. And looking at both her and her mother, he knew the long haul would be worth it, too, whatever it took.

“Good morning,” Dorsey said cautiously. Gretchen remained in the doorway, knuckle to her lips, as if pondering his appearance.

“Coffee and juice is on the table.” Mrs. Keller motioned her into the room and toward a chair. “Something needs tending to, I'm sure. Enjoy your breakfast, both of you.”

As her mother left the room, Gretchen spent a few moments silently staring into her coffee. “I said I would call when I got back to town,” she said, looking now at Dorsey. “On your machine. I said I needed time and I'd call.”

“You needed time,” Dorsey said. “Me, I'm afraid of time, scared shitless of what it might do. Like one day you're away and that day gives birth to two more, which split into a week or a month. And the longer you're away the easier it is for you to get used to the idea of my not being around. It scares the hell out of me.”

“And your work scares me.” Gretchen sipped at her juice, then moved the glass away from her. “That day with Claudia shook me up. You put her through the wringer. From the stories you tell, I thought all you did was keep
watch on dishonest people, people who want something for nothing. The stories were always funny, with plenty of irony. There was always a nice little twist about the lengths people will go to for a buck. Now I'm faced with the lengths you'll go to for a job.”

Dorsey smoothed his napkin. “I've never had a big case like this before, not since the DA's office. And what's worse, I've got my neck stretched out pretty far. It's a make-or-break deal for me. I go big-time or hire myself out as a rent-a-cop. So I fell back on what I knew, which is that every informant is dishonest. I needed to know what Claudia knew, and she didn't want to share it.”

“So what's next?” Gretchen asked. “When does round two with her take place?”

“It doesn't.” Dorsey explained that nothing short of a subpoena could get him within earshot of her, and he was following up another lead that could wrap up the whole affair very quickly.

“And then you get another tough case as a reward, right?” Gretchen gently rotated her cup, swirling the brown liquid. “And each time you get a tough case, you fall back on what you know.”

“Succeed or fail,” Dorsey said, “there won't be another tough case. Success will guarantee me plenty of work, enough to hire help and pick and choose my cases. So all I'll do is watch a guy's house to see if he's reshingling the roof. And if I fail, there'll be no cases at all, period.”

Dorsey searched her face, finding nowhere to advance, no sign of how to proceed. He gave his mouth an abrupt swipe with his napkin and dropped it on the table. “Your mother and I, we had a good talk before you came down. Bright woman.”

“Don't tell me.” Gretchen chuckled. “The disappointment routine, right? Anything bad happens, it's a disappointment. We don't see things for what they are, so we expect more than is reasonable. And she applies it to us.”

“Worked for me.” Dorsey hoped for a laugh that didn't follow. “Could you give it some thought? You've got—what,
another two days off? You get back to town, I'll stay away for a while if you need more time. But just one thing: keep some of your stuff at my place, okay? At least till you figure out what you want. It's only a bone, but I love you, so I'll settle for it.”

Gretchen began to cry softly, the tears welling up from the bottom of her eyes, then brimming over, in a way Dorsey had seen before and had committed to memory. “I've been here since Sunday,” she said, her chin resting on her hands, propped on the table. “And I've done nothing but think about us. On the ride out here, I missed the turnpike exit, almost ran off the road. Even with the snow, I wasn't paying attention.”