The Fall-Down Artist (30 page)

Carmen Avolio and his Brownsville rent-a-cars flashed through Dorsey's mind, along with Kenny Borek and all the other happy motorists. They had taken it one step further. They got the liability settlements and cashed in on disability policies.

“This drivin' business,” Demory said, his cigarette at the corner of his mouth. “The Professor, he could only tell us about that. No cars behind the Wall to practice on. Had to develop the touch on the job.”

Demory continued, explaining how it had been necessary to stay on the move, going from city to city in an east-west direction. He kept to the larger urban areas, where one injury claim looked much like the next and overloaded claims adjustors paid out settlements quickly to keep the paperwork flowing. And where a fall-down man could, at least for a time, remain invisible. Dorsey liked the feel of it. It was all genuine; the ring of truth was there from the first.
Only one stumbling block remained. Why, Dorsey asked himself, if the money is good and easy, why branch out to armed robbery?

“And through this—ah, private practice of yours, you came to meet up with Jack Stockman, right?” Dorsey caught the grin on the inmate's face, his reaction to “private practice.” “You two being colleagues and all, in the same line of work. And through P. I. you met the priest. Tell me I'm wrong.”

Demory fired a cigarette off of the security glass, laughing when Dorsey instinctively ducked the red embers. “That's about how it went,” Demory said. “but I only met the priest once, and that was later on.” Demory lit another smoke. “I did a job in Pittsburgh. Figured it would go easy like all the rest. During regular visiting hours, I go to this hospital and look for the housekeeping department. You know, the janitors and shit? What I was lookin' for was a janitor with a mop and bucket, to lead me to that nice wet floor where he just mopped up somebody's puke. But I can't find any. So, like a million fuckin' other visitors, I go to the snack bar for a milkshake, the only thing my poor sick relative can keep down. From there I find a nice quiet wing of the hospital and step up to the counter at the nurses' station. The shake goes on the edge of the counter and while I ask for directions to my loved one's room the cup goes over the side, and there's milkshake all over the floor. I fumble around sayin' how sorry I am while they call housekeeping. Fifteen minutes later, just after the janitor finishes the floor and leaves, I come on back to apologize again. And my feet fly out from under me on the wet tile and I hit the deck. All because of one slick spot the janitor left behind. Instant fall-down.”

Dorsey laughed. “Sounds easy, the way you tell it. But I guess it takes a true artist. Tell me about Stockman.”

“The fuckin' hospital risk manager turned out to be a hard motherfucker. Must've read the report on how it happened and decided not to pay.”

“And you being a smart-ass, you pushed him.”

“Should've let it pass.” Demory shrugged. “Pissed me off, him not payin' up, so I figured on calling his bluff. Asked some people I knew and heard Jack Stockman was the man. Looked like an easy case, so Jack took it. Without checking me out first.”

“P. I. never knew it was fake?” Dorsey asked.

“Never got around to that part. Jack said he knew the risk manager, and the two of them would work it out. Jack said the guy knew how the game was played and there'd be some money coming my way. Anyways, Jack and the hospital guy had a meeting, and Jack read the accident report. Next thing Jack did was boot my ass out of his office. But he must've liked me, 'cause he called when he needed me.”

“Just a second,” Dorsey said, working up an inquisitive expression. “Needed you for what? To consult on a case maybe?”

“In a way.” Demory coughed, gagging, and nearly doubled over before overcoming it. “Who you think taught all them union boys? Personal injury, auto, workers' comp. Gold mine of knowledge, that's what I am. Them union boys didn't know their ass from first base. I'm the one changed all that.”

So we've finally arrived, Dorsey thought. But should we go further? He's a talker, but is he a bullshitter? Let's not waste any more time entertaining this jailbird, not in this green metal cage. C'mon, man, call for the check.

“I could listen all day.” Dorsey gave one last smile before going serious. “But war stories I can get anytime. You want to tell me about P. I. Stockman and the priest. And believe me, I appreciate it. But I gotta be straight with you. Something doesn't feel right.”

“Fuck you talkin' about?” Demory ground out his cigarette on the countertop, then pushed back his chair, screeching across the tile floor. One hell of a reaction, Dorsey thought, impressed. Wasted half a cigarette.

Dorsey rose to his feet and braced himself against the counter, his face inches from the glass. “I'll tell you what
the fuck I'm talkin' about. So you think you're hot shit, no insurance scam you can't pull off. The money pours in and you live the good life, nice stable income. It's all going great, no reason to stray. But just the same, you grab a gun and hit a convenience store. What the fuck is that about? Why didn't you stay with what works? Tell me; I'm anxious to hear all about it.”

“Can't do that shit forever,” Demory said.

“Why the fuck not?” Dorsey watched the anger drain from the black man's face; his lips and tongue worked silently in a search for words. “That's right, Arthur, you've got a job here to do. And you're supposed to convince me to believe you. So get going, Arthur, make a believer out of me.”

“They know, man.” Demory spoke to the floor. “I've been indexed.”

“Yeah, sure, I've seen the Criminal Index report on you. Inspiring, but who gives a shit?”

“No, no, not that.” Demory held his hands with palms out as if surrendering. “Ain't talkin' about the Criminal motherfuckin' Index. This is the Claims Index. They got my identity. So I'm fucked.”

“And that's how the hospital risk manager caught on to you. And that's why P. I. Stockman sent you packing. He's handled shaky cases before. But you being on the index, that must've really pissed him off. Tell me I'm wrong.”

“You got it right,” Demory said. “Congratu-fucking-lations.”

Dorsey pulled back from the glass and paced the room. There's no doubt this man is the genuine article, he thought. Only an insider would know the indexes. Somewhere along the line some adjuster knew Demory for a fraud and gave his ID to an index service, those noble listings of repeat claimants. Guys who have a habit of falling down on every other sidewalk they cross. Dorsey laughed as he thought of the hospital risk manager running Demory's name and statistics through the service. He pictured the computer lighting
up like a Christmas tree. Son of a bitch, this guy is the real thing.

“Which index service has your name?” Dorsey stood behind the chair, leaning into the back supports. “Or didn't the Professor tell you the names?”

“He told me everything.” Demory pulled his chair close to the glass and sat and fired a cigarette. The grin was back on his face. “Cleveland Index for sure; that's what fucked me locally. Probably one or two more, I figure out west. That's where I did most of my work. Satisfied?”

Dorsey stepped around the chair, took his pen and steno pad from the countertop, and sat. “I'll be satisfied if you don't kack out from the smokes before we get through.” Dorsey clicked out the tip of his ballpoint. “Now tell me all about it.”

With Dorsey interrupting with questions, it took four hours to get the whole story. Twice they called the guard to bring more cigarettes for Demory, who never missed a link in the chain; one cigarette ignited the next. Dorsey didn't dispute the facts; his questions served only to fill in the gaps in the story. Relaxed, the inmate explained that his second contact with Stockman was after the robbery.

“It was maybe three weeks after the cops cracked me. I was in county jail, Pittsburgh, all that time. My record, and the gun, sent my bail through the fuckin' ceilin'. Judge decided I was a danger to the community and a sure bet to take off. Which I was planning to do. Bail was set at seventy-five thousand. Like I was some kinda motherfuckin' baby raper or some shit. Anyways, there was no way to get up bail, so I sat.”

“And in steps P. I., right?”

“That's it. Fuckin' P. I.” Demory shook his head, laughing at the nickname. “Guard just took me off the range and walked me to this office. And get this, the office was outside the security area. And right behind this desk is Stockman. The guard sits me in the chair and leaves, shuttin' the door. Now, check it out. I got no cuffs on my wrists and
no manacles on my legs, and I'm outside of the range in a room where a guy could hand me a howitzer. In an office, not no glass and telephone like on visiting day. So I knew Stockman had clout, pull like I never seen. And I know if this guy says he can do something, he can.”

“And what was that? What did he say he could do?” Dorsey took notes and got the date of the meeting. Feed me P. I., he thought. C'mon, serve him up.

“Said he could get me out,” Demory said. “Said he could get the bail lowered and that he would come up with the bond money. Then he tried to flatter the shit outa me. Said a man of my experience was wasted in jail, that my talents were needed elsewhere.”

“But still, what was it the judge had said?” Dorsey concentrated on the inmate. “You're a potential jumper, considering your record, which you're proud of. P. I. is one savvy son of a bitch. How'd he figure to keep you from running?”

Demory smiled and tapped the ash from his cigarette. “You got it right. P. I. is one savvy son of a bitch. He promised some money I could hold onto if I went inside, which is where I am. And he never doubted I would go inside. Must admit, he got me a good lawyer, free, and that lawyer cut a pretty fair deal. Sentence could have been a lot worse. And one other thing. P. I. said if I jumped he'd send private detectives to bring me back to Pennsylvania, and that my legs might break on the difficult journey back.”

“C'mon, hell,” Dorsey said. “A hard-ass like you, afraid of P. I.?”

“Get fuckin' real, man,” Demory said. “I'm a fuckin' inmate in a county jail, a dangerous motherfucker as far as the world is concerned. Surefire maximum security material. And I'm in a closed room with a guy from the outside. I knew if a guy could arrange this, he could do the job. Besides, I could've jumped bail once I was out, but I done time before. And bein' a fugitive, it's a real fuckin' drag.”

As Dorsey continued to take notes, Demory explained
that bail had been lowered the next day and bond posted. On release he was met on Ross Street, at the jail's public entrance, by two burly and capable-looking men. He was taken to a second-floor apartment on Penn Avenue in Greensburg. The place was clean and the refrigerator was stocked with food and beer. One of the two men told him to rest up, take a few days off.

“Should've seen the ride they drove, piece of shit. This rusted-out Chrysler.”

Dorsey chuckled and remembered the car that had rescued Father Jancek at the funeral. Must be Movement Together's company car. He had Demory repeat the address and the date he arrived.

“And two days was what I got,” Demory continued. “Laid around and worked on the refrigerator. Didn't see a soul. And then, seven o'clock on the third morning, Stockman showed up. From then on I didn't get a rest till I was sentenced here. I
needed
a vacation.”

“Let's hear about this meeting,” Dorsey said. “All you can remember.”

Demory wheezed from deep in his chest and spat phlegm at the floor. “Maybe he didn't think I was all the way on his side, because he started in with the flattery shit again. How I was this great resource. I guess I'm
your
resource now.”

“Just keep going.”

“So he tells me how my talents could be used in the interests of the people.” Demory coughed and spat.

Interests of the people. Dorsey rolled it around on his tongue. P. I. the closet radical, Father Jancek's college chum. The radical gospel according to Father Jancek. “And so you served the people.”

“Damned straight. Now I was the Professor.”

Dorsey grinned as he thought of how even the most corrupt learning is passed by word of mouth, generation to generation. Taking notes, he listened as Demory laid out the scope of the conspiracy. The auto accidents were Stockman's idea, but Demory insisted on using rental cars. “P. I.,
he knew some stuff, but this would've never flown without me. Why wreck your own ride?”

“Can we get into the workers' comp and disability side of the deal?” Dorsey peered at the inmate over the top of the steno pad.

“Again,” Demory said, “P. I. had some good ideas, and he came up with the people who were willing to play the part. But no fuckin' organization. Bunch of guys don't fall down all on the same day without somebody catchin' on. Has to be spread out. They wanted the money fast. Takin' our time was hard to sell to these people.”

“Carlisle Steel, that was the biggest operation,” Dorsey said. “Am I right?”

“Biggest I ever saw.” Demory stuck a cigarette in his mouth and applauded the idea. “Moved on greased wheels. It was an inside job; a girl in the personnel office was in our pocket. She let us know if our people were going in the next layoff. The boys found it easier to play along when they were about to lose their jobs anyway. The fall-down is easy when you know you'll be taken care of.”