At five the next morning, the alarm clock sang out and Dorsey flopped over onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. Gretchen rose immediately from the far side of the mattress, punching the alarm switch as she went naked down the hall and into the shower. Dorsey listened to the pipes rattle as the hot water struggled up from the basement tank.
They had made love fiercely the night before, Dorsey erasing the previous day, Gretchen alternately responding and initiating with the passion that never failed to surprise him. But even the serenity that followed their coupling could not take the edge from Dorsey’s dream, a repeating flight from men chasing him and, worse, catching him. On any other morning when Gretchen had early rounds at the hospital, Dorsey would doze until just before six and then throw on whatever clothes were handy and drive her to work. This morning was different. His dreams had one foot in reality. From all sides, he thought; they’re coming at me from all sides. Won’t even let a man get his sleep.
By the time Gretchen returned from the shower wrapped in her terry-cloth robe, Dorsey had on his gray cotton sweatsuit and was sitting at the edge of the bed lacing his Brooks walking shoes, the ones with paint splattered on them. “You’re up,” she said. Her tone mimicked wonder.
“Sleep seems suddenly to be bad for me.” Dorsey stood and tested the strength of his legs with a few deep-knee bends. “I’ll be back in plenty of time to run you to work.”
Dorsey took Wharton to South Sixteenth Street, then made a right onto Carson, his arms and legs pumping in unison. The trees along Carson were few in number and widely spaced, but collectively they had produced enough brown and yellow leaves to overflow the gutter and litter the pavement. On the outward leg of his walk, Dorsey kicked at the leaves and thought of Gretchen and money, his father and money, and the investigation—which could also be money. Future cases and new accounts and maybe an exclusive with Fidelity Casualty. That’s money! Dorsey thought.
The return trip, after the turnaround at the foot of the Smithfield Street bridge, went quickly, now that the pace was set and the joints well oiled. The body moved on its own while Dorsey cleared his mind with a daydream of Benny Goodman’s clarinet. Finished with “Don’t Be That Way,” he moved on to a fantasy of Ellington’s piano with the horn section as backup. He was so immersed in the last bars of “Mood Indigo,” when he crossed the alley bisecting the block between Carson and Wharton, he almost missed the first sign of surveillance. A few doors up the alley, its left wheels on the curb, was a radio van with the Channel Three logo across its rear double doors.
Dorsey moved cautiously down the alley, nearly doubled into a crouched position, until he was certain the van was unmanned. Peering through the passenger-side window he saw the citizen band radio and police scanner and wished he could remember the name of the thief who had sold him the telephone answering machine. Cleaning out the van would help even things, Dorsey told himself, for the shit they plan to put you through. He also wished for an ice pick to do in the tires.
He left the alley and moved down to the corner of Wharton and South Sixteenth, again crouching and staying close to the red brick of the corner house. Craning his neck past the building’s edge, he saw yesterday’s cameraman huddled in the doorway across from his own. Dorsey figured him to be alone until he spotted a second man sitting in a car parked halfway down the block at the far-side curb. Dorsey wondered if there was a third man on the back door.
Trotting back to the alley, Dorsey shaped his plans. Keeping at a brisk pace but mindful of his knee, he crossed South Sixteenth and took the alley for three blocks, then went back to Wharton on South Thirteenth. After waiting for a truck to pause at the intersection’s stop sign, he sprinted across Wharton and continued down to the next alley, running parallel to Wharton and back to South Sixteenth. Carefully, he approached his own thin back yard. Nobody’s on the back door, Dorsey decided. So they’re watching the car, not the house. Simple bastards.
Dorsey entered the house through the back door and found Gretchen at the kitchen table, dunking a tea bag in her cup. She wore her work uniform. “Forget the front-door key?” she asked, smiling over the rim of the cup.
“Company out front.” Dorsey continued on through the kitchen and hallway to the front office.
Gretchen followed and watched as he peeked through the drawn curtains. “Seems like you do a lot of window peeking these days.”
“Channel Three again,” Dorsey said. “Two of them. One’s the cameraman from yesterday. Probably want not only to follow me but also to get a few candid shots as I head out for another day of evil doings. Think I’ll stay put.”
“I suppose that means I take the bus to work.”
Gretchen watched Dorsey seat himself at the desk and lift the telephone receiver.
“Take the car,” Dorsey said.
“Won’t you need it today?” Gretchen asked, approaching the desk. “I thought you would. I can’t see getting away from the hospital before five or five-thirty. And I wanted to go to my place tonight.”
“Please, take the car.” Dorsey dialed a number. “Park in the garage, like always, then give the keys to Bennie. You know, the guy you pay on the way out? I’m sending Russie over on the bus to drive the car back here. I’ll get you when the shift is over.”
Gretchen shook her head. “You’re sending Russie? He drives? He has a license?”
“Yes and no, I think.” Dorsey listened to the ringing at the other end of the line. Looking at Gretchen, he said, “Guy lives on the second floor and you have to call on the bar phone. Takes forever.” Dorsey rested his elbows on the desk and spoke into the receiver. “Sorry to get you up. . . . Oh, you were up. Do me a favor? . . . Good, here’s the deal.”
Ten minutes later Gretchen left as Dorsey watched from the window. The cameraman tensed at first and lifted the minicam but stopped halfway up, disappointment registering on his face. The man in the car, which was an LTD, showed no reaction at all. Cool son of a bitch, Dorsey thought.
Dorsey caught a quick shower and dressed casually in jeans and sport shirt. In the kitchen he brewed a small pot of coffee and reheated oatmeal that Gretchen had made earlier. With one long arm he retrieved the morning paper from the front doormat—the paperboy rarely missed—and with his meal he began to wander through the sports section.
Halfway through his second cup of coffee, Dorsey heard movement in the back yard. There were three knocks at the back door, a moment’s pause, and then another three. “C’mon in,” Dorsey called. “It’s open.”
Russie walked through the door with two sets of car keys in his hand. “Car’s parked up in front of the bar. Al’s van’s just out back in the alley. He says it’s okay, he won’t need it today.”
Dorsey rose from his seat and pressed a ten-dollar bill into Russie’s hand. “Cup of coffee? Something to eat?”
Russie accepted the offer of coffee and poured himself a cup. He took off his watch cap and opened his zippered jacket, then took a seat opposite Dorsey. “The guys outside, they here ’cause of the stuff on TV?” Russie sipped at his coffee, bending to the cup instead of lifting it.
“Because of yesterday. That’s right.”
“People like to hold on to hard feelings,” Russie said. “Get a hard-on for a guy, they don’t like to let go. Gives them something to live for. Remember Tootsie Reagan, he was pissed at your old man for years? All ’cause Tootsie had a dumbbell of a son-in-law that he wanted made into a constable. Wasn’t satisfied that your father fixed up the kid with a job onna public works truck. Tootsie took it as a pride thing, and when your father told him the kid was an asshole and he could take the truck job or nothin’, Tootsie said forget it. The kid didn’t get shit. And Tootsie got pissed.”
“Tootsie was a dipshit,” Dorsey said. “Tried his best to make trouble for the old man afterward, something about splitting some ballots, I think. But he never got anywhere.” Dorsey folded his paper and pushed it to Russie.
“And Tootsie just got hotter.” Russie took the paper and placed his cap over it. “And when he ended up out on his ear, all he had to live for was hatin’ your father. How’s your father doin’, anyways?”
“Good, I think. Called yesterday, left a message. I’ll get back to him today.”
“Still the same between you guys?” Russie asked. “Me and your father go way back. I know him good. Knows how to take care of a guy.”
Dorsey ran his eyes over Russie, examining the plain work pants and cotton shirt, looking into the guileless face and eyes. Maybe he’s simple, but surely not stupid, Dorsey concluded. And Bernie wonders why I take care of him. As if he needed it.
When Russie had finished his coffee and was gone, Dorsey cleared the breakfast dishes and went to the front office to check the street. The cameraman was gone but the watcher in the LTD was still in place. Resigning himself to being on the opposite side of a surveillance, Dorsey put on some music and began to peck out a brief outline of the previous day’s events on the Olivetti. When he finished he took from the file cabinet the investigation reports on the four men and one woman who had shared the stage with Damjani and Father Jancek. He read slowly, taking notes on a yellow legal pad.
At ten o’clock, by Bernie’s arrangement, a bicycle messenger delivered a portable dictaphone and three cassette tapes. They want to get your reports, Bernie had said in the back booth at Al’s, fast as you can talk them. So they can digest them. Sounds like stomach trouble, Dorsey had told him. Try Zantac.
Dorsey turned down the music to a murmur and spoke softly into the microphone, hoping his spoken reports would play as well as his written ones. Working slowly through his outline, he touched on each of the investigations that had led to Midland. Radovic, fiercely proud of the manpower he could muster to back up his threats. Karen Stroesser, who examined bumpers like a researcher for Consumer Reports, looking for the safest car in which to have an accident. And Damjani, the master of ceremonies. Then there’s Father Jancek, he told himself, a man you know very little about.
Twice during the dictation, Dorsey was interrupted by the telephone. He let the answering machine pick up the calls but set the volume so he could listen in.
“About yesterday,” Sam Hickcock said over the line. “Don’t take the stuff I said on TV seriously. I couldn’t come away from your place empty-handed. I’d’ve caught hell if I had nothing on the day’s big story, especially if I came back without film. But the offer to hear your side of the story still stands. Call me.” Hickcock left his number.
“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.”