The Fall-Down Artist (4 page)

“Some,” the receptionist said. “He ain't got much, but he likes to brag like the rest. Most of it I got from a girlfriend; she's in personnel at the mill. Used to be, anyways.
She's laid off now, too. From Carlisle Steel.”

Before they could continue, the intercom buzzed, indicating that Dr. Tang had arrived in his office through a private entrance. Dorsey was shooed in by the receptionist, who reluctantly gave up her audience.

An Asian gentleman, wearing an ill-fitting suit that would have disguised his profession in a larger city, rose from behind his desk and introduced himself as Dr. Tang. His hair was cropped short and his eyes were hidden behind thick lenses.

“Mista Dorsey,” Dr. Tang said blandly, nodding to a chair in front of the desk. “You here to discuss Mista Ravic?”

“Radovic.” Dorsey took his seat. “Carl Radovic. You're his treating physician, correct? You're treating him for a back ailment?”

“Yes, over the last few months. I see him on referral from Dr. Hurst, the plant doctor at Carlisle.” As he spoke, Dr. Tang opened a manila folder and reviewed its contents. “The man has a problem.”

“What's the diagnosis, doctor?” Dorsey took a sheet of paper from a manila folder of his own and handed it to the doctor. It was Radovic's signed release for medical information, photocopied from Fidelity Casualty's claim file.

“To me, looks like a disc,” Dr. Tang said, eyes on the paper Dorsey had handed to him. “Herniated at L5-S1. Lots of pain; patient says he have pain running down his leg. Disc is out, striking a nerve. Possibly sciatic.”

“Herniated disc,” Dorsey mumbled, again looking through the folder on his lap, faking a search. “What do the tests say? CT scan, myelogram?”

“I examine him,” the doctor said. His eyes abruptly left the paper and settled on Dorsey. “All the signs, he have all the signs. Straight leg is positive. Tender over the sciatic notch. Can't bend, and range of motion is narrow.”

“Doctor,” Dorsey said, “I'm not here to start an argument, but isn't it standard for some type of pictures, other than X rays, to be taken? What you just mentioned are
clinical observations. Any test results in his chart?”

“CT scan.” Dr. Tang's glare sharpened as he handed out the test report to Dorsey. Looking over the results, Dorsey concluded that Radovic suffered only the signs of advancing age for a laborer: spurring on several vertebrae and a bulging disc at L5-S1.

“There's a recommendation for a myelogram.” Dorsey indicated the report, passing it back to Dr. Tang. “Has one been scheduled, doctor?”

“Not by me. Patient will not consent.”

“But isn't a myelogram the way to go to decide whether or not surgery is indicated?”

“What can I say?” Dr. Tang grinned, as if in triumph. “Mista Radovic refuse even to consider surgery. Said this on first exam. He didn't care what I say: no myelogram and no surgery.”

“Without your ever raising the question, he refused a myelogram and surgery?” Dorsey was intrigued that a steelworker would be familiar with a myelogram. Familiarity gotten from a good coach, he concluded.

“Correct.”

“No myelogram, but you're sure it's a herniation?” Dorsey thought he'd take a chance, tempted by the opportunity to show off. “No myelogram, inconclusive CT. So really, doctor, you're basing your diagnosis and finding of disability on believing the patient's subjective complaints?” It was a short-lived and Pyrrhic victory, and Dorsey saw his error even as he committed it. Never alienate your subject, he reminded himself. Be a friend and get the information you came for.

First Dr. Tang stumbled, then he exploded. “Of course I believe. He came here and say he have pain, I got to believe. I'm not crazy! You know how serious that is, ignoring, disbelieving the patient? He say he hurts, I try to figure out why he hurts!”

“What happens if you can't figure it out?”

“Then I send him somewhere else, let somebody else try. Not perfect, you know.”

Yeah, Dorsey thought, somebody else will try. Somebody on the Pittsburgh Express, maybe. The patient goes right on the cycle, the treatment cycle. Dorsey had never seen proof, but he had been hearing about the Pittsburgh Express for years. Just rumors, rumors that small-town locals like Dr. Tang only treated patients until it was time for surgery. Then the patient was farmed out to one of a select number of neurosurgeons or orthopedists in Pittsburgh. After surgery, it was home again to the local doctor for a long convalescence and regularly scheduled examinations.

On his way out through the reception area, Dorsey picked up a copy of the CT scan. He also got the name of the girl at Carlisle Steel: Claudia Maynard.

“Think you'll find her at home?” The receptionist leaned through the open partition. “Not likely. That girl has been on the go ever since the layoff. Signed up for unemployment, and when it came time to get her mail-in claims she took off for Myrtle Beach. Might still be there.”

That evening in his room, the Olivetti portable on the chair seat, Dorsey sat at the edge of the bed, pecking away with two fingers, composing his report of the day's activity. His attention was divided among writing the report, watching the Bulls and Knicks play an exhibition game on the room's TV set, and listening to Roy Eldridge strain his trumpet on the tape player, packed along for the trip. At the foot of the bed was the Igloo cooler with a fresh layer of ice over the Rolling Rock.

Threading a clean sheet of paper into the typewriter carriage, Dorsey once again realized that his ability to prepare a well-written report was his bread and butter. He often spoke like a leftover from the old films and recordings he loved, but knowing his way around a typewriter kept him in business. For years he had wondered who to thank, the nuns at Sacred Heart grade school or the instructors in his one year of law school.

Pulling on a beer, Dorsey worked his way through the morning hours, describing his interview of the three Grub brothers, as he had come to call them. Although they had
not meant to, the three boys had provided useful information. Radovic was a loner, a lifelong bachelor whose only interest was the beer at the Hotel Bar. It didn't impact directly on the claim, Dorsey typed, but knowing this about Radovic was helpful in planning a surveillance. Anywhere that Radovic might go, other than the Hotel Bar or a grocery store, might be significant. He could be up to something. Maybe working on the side.

Dorsey next described his meeting with Dr. Tang, wincing as he forced himself to relive the botched job. But even here he found material to build on. He concentrated on the physician's defensive posture and the clear pleasure he had displayed when he told Dorsey that no myelogram or surgery would be done, thinking this ended the investigation.

A final section was reserved for the gift Dorsey had received from Dr. Tang's receptionist. “Low-key interrogation” was his label for the method he had used to obtain this information. There is a distinct possibility, Dorsey wrote, that Mr. Radovic had prior knowledge of a planned reduction of manpower at Carlisle Steel that allowed him to schedule his accident. Also, the most likely source of information, a personnel secretary, had been able to finance a prolonged stay at a popular East Coast resort. Dorsey went on to state his firm resolve, if possible, to interview the woman. Finishing the report and knowing he could never properly realign the paper once it was out of the carriage, he did his proofreading while the page was still in the typewriter. Then he put the Olivetti in its case, opened a fresh beer, and stretched out on the bed, watching the Knicks cross the center court stripe and listening to the last notes drip from Roy Eldridge's horn.

Bernie, Dorsey thought. That guy can be a pain in the ass. This work from Corso is a windfall, nothing else, part of the cycle. Some insurance exec tells his people to get tough on claims and hire investigators; it'll save us a bundle. Six months down the road a new exec may be in charge and come up with another idea: these investigations are a waste. Cancel them; we'll save a bundle.

Bernie don't know shit. There's nothing funny going on, and the old man doesn't have the pull to be part of it. It is what it is.

He missed Gretchen. He thought of putting through a call but she would never take it, not during her shift. Her work was too important, the future of her career even more so.

The following morning Dorsey rose and dressed himself in a matching gray sweatsuit and worn-down Brooks running shoes. By seven o'clock he was off on his daily forty-five-minute exercise session, walking at a brisk pace around the Johnstown basin, arms pumping in unison with his legs. It was a regime he had begun two years ago following the surgical repair of a ligament in his left knee.

The injury had occurred in a football game on Thanksgiving morning. Bernie had invited Dorsey out to Mellon Park to play in a game between the younger members of his law firm and the staff of a local legal aid service. “A struggle between the haves and have-nots,” Bernie had dubbed it. An hour into the game Dorsey had stepped forward to tag a ball carrier when a skinny paralegal on the other team dove into Dorsey's left leg, clipping him. In his hospital room after surgery, casted from toe to hip, Dorsey received a visit from Bernie.

“Nice guys,” Dorsey said, brushing the Demerol webs from his thoughts. “Great buncha fellas. Professionals, straight-up and honest. Guys you can turn your back on and feel good about it.”

“What's the bitch?” Bernie had said. “Lucky the guy was only a paralegal. Imagine the outcome if a lawyer, maybe a full partner, had caught you looking the other way.”

After his walk Dorsey took a long hot shower and then dressed in a checked flannel shirt and blue jeans without a designer label. From the closet he took his army field jacket and draped it across the back of a chair. Watching daytime TV, sticking with the talk shows and avoiding the games, he thought again of calling Gretchen and again thought better
of it. After an on-call shift she needed ten to twelve hours of recovery sleep. Instead, he went to the motel coffee shop and read the Pittsburgh morning paper over eggs and hash browns. At ten-thirty he packed his bags, checked out with an itemized bill for Corso, and put his things in the trunk of the Buick. Wearing his field jacket, he left on foot to begin his surveillance of Radovic.

Standing across the street and halfway up the block from Radovic's house, Dorsey checked his watch and wrote in his pocket notebook that he was in place and beginning the surveillance at eleven-fifteen. Relying on his own experience and the information gotten from the three Grub brothers, Dorsey figured an unemployed bachelor was never out of bed before eleven o'clock. Even then, Dorsey thought, he should be fighting a hangover.

It wasn't until five minutes after one that Radovic emerged from the house and came down the porch steps, shaking the loose handrail and apparently deciding that repairs could wait. With the exception of a blue windbreaker, his clothes matched Dorsey's. Moving down Otterman he fought a stiff wind that played at the few strands of hair stretched across his crown. His gait was brisk and with his shoulders huddled against the wind he gave Dorsey the image of a neckless man whose fleshy head flowed directly into an overweight torso.

Two hours of crisscrossing the street pretending to look for a forgotten address had played on Dorsey's nerves and he started off after Radovic much too quickly, leaving him only a half-block lead. Easy, Dorsey coached himself. Remember the rules. Give 'em rope. You're in a small city, a tight-knit one. They'll pick up on you. There's only so much time. Make it count.

When Radovic passed the Hotel Bar without stopping, Dorsey cursed, having promised himself a cold Rock as a reward for his self-control. Block after block went by. Dorsey marveled at the fat man's stamina, giving him more and more credit for ducking the myelogram. Radovic took
an abrupt left at the next intersection and Dorsey fell back even farther, fearing he had been spotted.

After a ten-count, Dorsey rounded the corner and found the sidewalks empty. Couldn't have gone far, he reasoned. Disabled or not, fat guys only move so fast. Unlike the sidewalk on which he stood, which was lined with worn-down private homes, the far side of the street held storefronts. Most were empty but some were secondhand clothing and furniture shops, the old owners' names obliterated with whitewash and the names of the newcomers announced on hand-printed cardboard signs. Dorsey chose to check the shops. He could be in one of those houses, he told himself, but if he is, you've lost him.

The first two shops were open but had no customers; the next three were closed. He passed a secondhand furniture store; from what he saw through the shop window Dorsey decided the owner had balls putting up a sign that said
ANTIQUES
. At the corner storefront Dorsey peeked through the dirt-streaked window and saw Radovic seated behind a folding table that served as a desk, diligently working the phone and returning Dorsey's stare.

“I'm made,” Dorsey muttered, knowing he would have to go in and play the scene through. Entering the small shop, he noted that the table and matching folding chairs were the total of the room's furnishings. The drab walls were covered with reprinted Wobblies posters, photos of striking railroad workers in Altoona, and front-page newspaper stories recounting the famous steelworkers' strike of the 1890s. Dorsey's eyes went from poster to poster, following plaster cracks that served as a timeline, tracing the history of the American labor movement. The centerpiece of the wall to Radovic's back was a sheet of white butcher paper that announced, in black ink, that this was the Johnstown headquarters of Movement Together.