Dorsey awoke to find himself at his desk, the early light of a winter sun cutting through the window, catching flying dust in shafts. Lifting his head from the blotter, he wiped grains of sleep from the edges of his eyes and took a fast inventory of the desktop: two beer cans, both crunched in the middle; the Olivetti portable with an empty ribbon box beside it; his steno pad, thinner now that the pages of notes had been torn away and crumbled. Neatly stacked to the left was the final draft of his report.
He took the report in hand and began to proofread, impressed by his ability to compose in a state of near-exhaustion. The first fifteen pages were all he remembered typing, yet the narrative flowed easily through the remaining twenty-three. It weighed about a pound, Dorsey estimated. But like a hundred-pound millstone, it would take P. I. Stockman straight to the muddy bottom.
Dorsey checked his wristwatch, confirming four hours until his lunch date. Upstairs he stripped and took a thirty-minute shower, scrubbing away the ink under his nails left by the typewriter ribbon, the dirt of six counties, and the animal-sweat stench of the penitentiary. He dressed casually in corduroy slacks and rag sweater topped off by a camel-hair sport jacket. After retrieving the morning paper from the front door, he went into the kitchen and brewed a four-cup pot of coffee. He downed all four cups while scanning the paper and listening to a tape of the Ellington band, Johnny Hodges taking off on alto sax.
The day’s first stop was at a copier service on Carson. Dorsey ordered three copies of the report, one each for Corso at FC, Meara at the DA’s office, and Cleardon at corporate headquarters. Waiting on the copier, he stared out at Carson, the sidewalk peopled with deliverymen and shoppers, and thought back to Bernie’s warning about Corso. The man sells cases, Dorsey thought. This one could bring a high price. Stockman has a lot riding on this and he could raise enough cash to convince Corso that the risk was worth taking. The set procedure is for Corso to receive a copy of the report; that’s what you agreed to. But he sells cases. Sighing, Dorsey turned from the window and considered his options. Fuck it, he decided, Corso gets shit. The report can go to Munt, tucked safely away at the home office in Syracuse.
With the copies in a legal portfolio next to him on the front seat, Dorsey drove through light traffic on the Tenth Street bridge and into the Armstrong Tunnels, moving slowly to allow his eyes to adjust to the abrupt fall of night. Just off of Ross Street he pulled to the curb, stuck a quarter in the meter, and trotted up the steps of the Allegheny County Courthouse. A short elevator ride to the third floor let him off opposite the District Attorney’s office.
“Mr. Meara can’t see you now, he’s in deposition.”
The receptionist was in her fifties. A thick paperback was open and face down at the center of her low steel desk. Dorsey figured it to be the type that promises the reader young American women in Paris and bedroom scenes every seventy pages.
“Like I said, he’s in deposition,” the receptionist repeated. As she spoke her left eye closed against the smoke of a cigarette stuck in the corner of her mouth. “After that he’s got meetings. He’s tied up all day. Gotta call ahead. I keep telling you people—”
Dorsey raised his right hand, pointing his index finger to center the woman’s attention. “Okay, honey, let’s get this straight. I don’t want to see Bill Meara. What I want is to leave this little package for him. And it’s something important, so it better get to him. I’ll be back this afternoon, and at that time Bill Meara will want to see me, no matter what needs to be canceled.” Dorsey dropped a copy of the report onto the desk. “Another thing: what’s this ‘you people’ stuff? And one last thing: quit reading that crap. It’ll ruin your eyes.”
Out on the sidewalk, Dorsey pumped four quarters into the parking meter. There was still time to kill before lunch. It was dangerous to arrive early. Don’t look anxious and come off as the needy one, because you are not. Demory’s statement is a trump card, ace high. Nobody can take the trick away.
At a stationery store he purchased two large envelopes, addressed one to Charles Cleardon and the other to John Munt. He took them to the postal window at the Federal Courthouse, mailed the reports by overnight express, and started back along Grant Street for his appointment. Passing the county courthouse again, he took a detour and walked through the center courtyard, where the judges and politicians had once parked their cars and Russie had washed and waxed them. Dorsey stopped by the fountain at the yard’s center, picturing how Russie must have looked, his sleeves rolled to the elbow and his hands plunging into buckets of sudsy water. And always in a hurry, Dorsey remembered, keeping so busy the joke was that there was no way he could be a county employee. Should’ve had the memorial service here. Could’ve saved the priest’s fee and Russie would have been home. But it’s okay, Dorsey told him, it’s okay. The checks are in the mail. For the payback.
It was Dorsey who had insisted on the Wheel Café. Hickcock had suggested a lunch date at a small Greek restaurant near the TV station, but Dorsey had no intention of going onstage, allowing Hickcock to show him off to his fellow reporters, impressing them with his insider connections. Use him, Dorsey warned himself; don’t let him use you. He’ll get his chance at the book-signing party, if it gets that far—and maybe it will. Things are turning in your direction. Now, if Gretchen . . .
Dorsey stopped just inside the café doors and took in the restaurant, appreciating the continuity; it never changed. Long and wide, the room had a thirty-foot ceiling covered with old worked tinplate. The bar was dark wood and ran from the front entrance to the swinging kitchen doors, deep into the gloom of the poorly lit far corner. To the right was a line of booths, and a bartender signaled Dorsey to the last of them.
“Jesus Christ,” Hickcock said as Dorsey slipped into the booth. “This is your idea of a place to eat? The room needs paint. Maybe five or six coats. What’s the attraction?”
“It’s old,” Dorsey said. “Not restored, not refurbished. Just old.”
A bartender dressed in white shirt and dark pants topped with a white linen apron, double-wrapped, passed the booth and slapped down two menus. Dorsey pushed them away and hailed the bartender. “Hey, Cas, we made up our minds already.” The bartender backed up to the booth and yanked a bill pad from under the apron. “Give us the hot sausage,” Dorsey said. “Two each, and two drafts.” Hickcock began to protest but Dorsey cut him off. “They’re small, the sandwiches. And they’re different.”
The beer came before the food and Dorsey thanked the bartender as he headed into the kitchen. He sipped his beer and turned to Hickcock. “So, what’s on your mind?”
“I’m here to find out what’s on your mind.”
Hickcock looked much more composed than at their first meeting. His hair was freshly cut and there was no way his suit was off the rack. Healthy and in control; no longer a beggar.
“You’ve been watching the news regularly, I assume. My reports, I mean. And the new girl, the one I told you about, there’s another couple of weeks before she gets here. By then the news direction will be solid and she’ll have to toe the line I establish.”
“You came through.” Dorsey drank his beer, tipping the glass to Hickcock. “What you said would happen—well, it happened. Good as your word. So what’s next? You called me last night, not the other way around.”
Hickcock drank off a little beer, pensively swishing it about on his tongue. “What’s next is for you to trust me. And for you to tell me what you know.”
“Some of it, maybe.” The bartender returned with the sandwiches and Dorsey quieted. The sandwiches were on smallish buns, the sausage split and grilled with onion. Dorsey dug in, taking half of a sandwich in one bite.
“C’mon, Dorsey. No fuckin’ around, okay?” Hickcock took a neat bite of his lunch. “We have to be together on this. And besides, I need more. I need it now. I can’t keep repeating the same things I already know, and people in general already know. Viewers get bored; they’ll switch the channel to catch a “Benny Hill” rerun. You want to string it out, give it to me in small portions, that’s okay with me for now, as long as the information comes in a steady stream. Do it in steps, but someday soon you’ll have to give it all up.”
Dorsey drank the last of his beer and tapped the tabletop for a refill. “It’ll keeping coming, as long as you stay straight with me. And yeah, I do have something for you today. Two things, actually.” Dorsey told him about Father Jancek’s appearance at Russie’s memorial service, omitting his own kidnapping and conversation with Louis Preach. The bartender set a fresh beer in front of Dorsey and left.
“So who else saw?” Hickcock asked. “Give me the names.”
“No witnesses.” For a moment Dorsey toyed with the idea of giving up Dexter, but the memory of Dexter’s forty-five urged caution. “Just me.”
“Is this bullshit? I have no use for bullshit, things that can’t be confirmed.”
“Since when has confirmation of a story ever been a hot issue with you?” Dorsey finished off the second sandwich, chewing as he spoke. “You just tell the good people out there in TV land that the information came from a trusted and knowledgeable source. I’ve heard you use that phrase in the past. And maybe the priest won’t deny it, hoping to prove his compassion for all men. He’ll get some mileage out of it, but you, you’ll prove to your audience that you’re the man with the inside information. I can hear those tuner dials clicking away, leaving “Benny Hill” far behind.”
Dorsey watched the concentration on Hickcock’s face, revealing the struggle within. Buy it, Dorsey thought, and hoped for ESP. C’mon, you can use it. It’ll work. And you like film. The station already has the footage taken outside the church. It’ll work.
“Okay,” Hickcock said, the tension draining from his face. “You said two items.”
“There’s a balding fat man in Johnstown,” Dorsey said. “He mans the Movement’s local office, a few blocks from Otterman Avenue; you know, where the hospitals are? He knows maybe just a little more than nothing, but he thinks he’s important and he’s got a temper. You waltz into that office with your crew and shove a microphone into his face and let him take it from there. He’ll threaten you and hang himself in the process. Maybe he’ll even attack the fearless reporter right on tape. That’s you, buddy.”
Bill Meara wore half-moon glasses at the end of his nose as he skimmed the last few pages of Dorsey’s report. His sleeves were rolled up to mid-bicep and the knot of his tie hung loosely, several inches below his collar. Irish grunt, Dorsey thought again, sitting across the desk from the attorney. And the office, a grunt office: a picture of the county commissioners mounted on a gray wall, one metal desk, and four filing cabinets. And one window overlooking Ross Street.
“Looks good,” Meara said. He flicked on his desk lamp against the fading light of the November afternoon. “But we have some problems too. The first one is your stoolie.” He closed the file folder and slipped it across the desktop to Dorsey. “We’ll have to offer some immunity, at least to the extent that no further time can be added to his present sentence. That’ll take the okay of my higher-ups. The other problem is there’s no grand jury in session right now—not that I would put this before a grand jury here in the city. Not in this county.”
“Why not?” Dorsey asked. “You seem capable.”
Meara scratched at his dark wiry hair and laughed. “For the son of Martin Dorsey, you’re a little light on political sense. You expect me to try a case against a priest here? This is a large industrial city, or a former one anyway. And that means people like you and me. Catholics, Catholics by the bushelful. Forming a jury with a chance of convicting would be next to impossible. And another thing. I have a career in this office as long as I can keep the present DA in office, which he wants very badly. Which he won’t be if I get into the habit of prosecuting priests. Most of the crime took place in Cambria and Westmoreland. Cambria expects to enpanel a grand jury in January. We’ll give it to them, out in the hills where they can latch on to all the Protestants they need.”
Dorsey was dumbfounded by Meara’s words. The priest; he thinks he can pull in Father Jancek, at least for an indictment. “You’ll have to back up some,” Dorsey said. “I can’t touch the priest with what I’ve got. Only P. I. can finger him.”
“You don’t know that.” Meara shook his head, frowning. “You left the Sheriff’s office too soon, before you learned to be an investigator. How did you get so far on this job? P. I. won’t rat on him, you’re right. But the guy’s only a priest, and even with good advice from P. I., he fucked up somewhere along the line. Pros fuck up, so he must’ve. Like going to your buddy’s funeral. It’ll come to light. Don’t worry; save your worrying for other problems.”
“Like corroboration,” Dorsey said, ecstatic over the renewed hope of bagging the priest but wanting Meara to move off the subject. Don’t dwell on shortsighted conclusions. “We need more than Demory. Testimony from someone a little less tainted than him. I’ll see what I can do.”
Meara gazed thoughtfully out his window and Dorsey wondered what was next. “There’s another thing,” Meara said, turning back to Dorsey. “About your Mr. Demory, something you neglected to mention in your report. I checked with the prison medical staff: Demory’s a lunger. And along with his lungs, the majority of his coronary arteries are clogged. The man is inoperable. There’s no guarantee he’ll even live to testify. Maybe there’s just enough bullshit in his story for him to have a laugh on his way out.”
“I know what you’re saying,” Dorsey said. “That’s why I got the written statement. In case he’s not around when we need him.”
“No, no.” Meara waved his arms as if flagging down a truck. “Forget it. I know, a signed dying declaration. Don’t bullshit me. I’m the one in this room that finished law school, remember? They exist, but not in a vacuum. All we have is a signed statement, with only you as a witness. My friend, you are no officer of the court, and the man who signed it is a known felon. For all I know the guy’s a pathological liar.”
“You’re a hard-ass; no one had to tell me.” Dorsey left his chair and walked to the window, peering down at Ross Street. “But you’re right. We need more.”
“And that’s up to you.” Meara neatly arranged some papers on his desk. “No county people yet. And maybe never from this office, depending on the sales job I do on the Cambria DA.”
So maybe it goes to trial in Ebensburg, Dorsey thought, because of the priest. And who knows how competent that DA will be? But more important, Father Jancek might just be sitting at the defense table. The priest and P. I. and everyone on Demory’s list will be sitting there. Better get a big table.
“In the meantime,” Meara said, “this report of yours, along with anything else you come up with, stays confidential. I can vouch for myself, and I’m assuming you can vouch for yourself. Keep your mouth shut. Something gets out before we are ready to try for an indictment, we may never get to court. They’ll cover their tracks.”
“I know the drill.” Dorsey was tempted to tell Meara about Corso, but that would take an explanation he wasn’t ready to defend. “I’ll manage.”
“Good.” Meara turned his attention to a thick file he had taken from a desk drawer. “Now we get back to work.”
By five-thirty night had fallen, and a misty rain began that helped further to entangle rush-hour traffic. Dorsey drove away from downtown along Liberty Avenue, and the twenty-minute drive to Gretchen’s apartment took forty-five. Once past the curve near the Bloomfield foot of the bridge, Dorsey began searching for an open parking spot along the curb, which was lined with small shops, Italian restaurants, and the Chinese restaurants that were beginning to infiltrate the area. It took several swings to do it, but Dorsey got the Buick into a spot meant for a Yugo, two doors down from the florist.
Inside, an elderly florist suggested a flower arrangement, promising to make it up fresh. His English was good but the Sicilian roots slipped through. “I showa you,” he said. “You see, justa minute.”
“Carnations,” Dorsey said as the proprietor stepped behind the shop counter. “A dozen.”
The florist leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter. “Wife? Girlfriend maybe? Something special is whata you want. I show you.”
Dorsey waved off the idea and insisted on carnations. “A dozen. You have them, right?”
“Okay, carnations.” The florist headed for the workroom in back. “Carnations, they worka for you, good. You get carnations.”
The carnations were wrapped in extra plastic against the rain. Traffic was still heavy, but it was only another three blocks before the turnoff for Gretchen’s apartment. Dorsey turned left onto a street made up of row houses with aluminum awnings, except for Gretchen’s building, an older apartment house of yellow brick with gargoyles stretching out from the roof. He pulled to the curb about fifteen feet past the building.
The apartment showed signs of a fast getaway. Dorsey maneuvered through the four rooms, encountering a sinkful of dishes, towels on the bathroom floor, and half-open drawers with clothing spilling out. Worse than usual, Dorsey thought, much worse. But you want to have a surprise waiting for her tomorrow, so hop to it.
Policing the apartment took a little over two hours, with Dorsey scrubbing away, sweaty and bare-chested. The shower and tub were the worst, and Dorsey used a wire brush against the mildew, scratching the porcelain. The bathroom sink took more of the same.
Finished, Dorsey washed his arms and torso at the sink and slipped back into his shirt. He checked the carnations in the fluted glass vase he had found in a kitchen cabinet, ensuring that each flower stood independently. After placing the vase at the center of the kitchen table, he took his jacket and left.
The rain had gotten heavier, and Dorsey paused in the building’s lobby to fish in his pocket for his car keys. Isolating them between thumb and index finger, he hunched his shoulders against the rain and started for the Buick at a trot. Ten feet from the car he heard a pistol shot and felt a sliver of yellow brick slice his forehead, an inch above his right eye.
Instinctively, Dorsey dropped to the sidewalk on all fours and began scurrying along toward the Buick, using parked cars as cover. He could hear the sound of running from the far sidewalk and from behind the trunk of the Buick raised his head for a look, and the footfalls went silent. The muzzle flash illuminated the big man behind the gun, and a bullet cut a gash in the Buick’s bumper. Another bullet went a little high, and the flash allowed Dorsey to confirm that it was Damjani. Dorsey took off in a low crouch and heard the ringing of the spent shell dancing along the cement. Jesus Christ, Dorsey thought, looking for a walkway between row houses and finding none. He has an automatic. Pray for a jam.
Blood streamed down Dorsey’s cheek. He stayed on the move, keeping an eye on the far pavement. Damjani kept pace, holding the automatic at the end of an outstretched arm. He fired again, the bullet smashing into the cement at Dorsey’s feet as he dashed between parked cars. Dorsey made a fast turnaround and doubled back in the opposite direction, hoping to juke out Damjani. Over his left shoulder he saw Damjani execute a neat turn with surprising agility for such a big man. There’s nothing this way, Dorsey reminded himself, and turned again. Damjani followed easily.
“Motherfucker!” Damjani shouted across the street. “Next shot and you’re dead, motherfucker!”
The muzzle flashed again and the bullet passed through the backseat windows of a car Dorsey was using for cover. Searching for a way out, Dorsey saw lights being flashed on at the row house porches and hoped they might frighten off Damjani. Bullshit, this guy is psychotic. He doesn’t frighten, he kills. And forget about counting the shots. The spent shells make it an automatic. The clip might hold as many as twelve, and a blind man can hit one out of twelve. Keeping going, keep moving; movement means you’re alive.
Dorsey started down the line of cars again; Damjani stayed right with him, step for step. Dorsey counted six cars to the intersection and open ground. The intersection, he thought, where Damjani shoots you. The intersection, it’s a no-man’s-land.
Hunkered down behind a car hood, he saw Damjani crab-walking between two cars, crossing the street. He’s not waiting for the intersection; he’s coming for you. Dorsey searched for an escape; the prospect of a mad sprint across the intersection was looking better and better. He slipped into a sprinter’s stance, his legs tensed and ready to kick off, when, in the light of a mercury streetlamp, he spotted a walkway between two row houses, four doors down and two short of the intersection. Hoping to fake Damjani into setting up a shot at the intersection, Dorsey burst out of his stance, pumping arms and legs for the corner. He heard the automatic fire and prayed for a miss and for his knee to hold up as he cut hard and fast into the walkway. The knee stayed steady as he bounced off a wrought-iron porch railing and into the wire gate blocking the walkway. It wasn’t locked and Dorsey worked the latch until his eyes fell on the sign at the gate’s center—GUARD DOG, BEWARE—complete with the face of a police dog. Fuck it, he decided, and pulled open the gate. He ran the length of the walkway, his ears sharp for the sound of a menacing growl. As he ran he tore off his jacket and wrapped it around his left forearm, intending to jab it at the dog’s snout. He reached the end of the walkway unmolested, jumped into the center of a small brick-paved yard at a wrestler’s stance, and heard the rustle of a chain leash to his left. He turned toward it, ready to fight.
It was a beagle. A puppy. On a leash.
“Everybody’s a fuckin’ comedian.” Dorsey took two strides and vaulted over a low cyclone fence to the next yard and then into the next. He heard Damjani’s running feet echoing in the walkway and, much more distantly, the wail of police sirens. The fourth yard had a three-foot cinder-block wall and Dorsey hopped over it, steadying himself on one arm, and dropped to his knees as two shots threw mortar dust from the top of the wall. Dorsey found hope as the sirens grew louder, closer. He can’t be that crazy, Dorsey thought; nobody sticks around to get caught. C’mon, Ed, run for it. Prison is prison, and you won’t like it. Ask Demory.
Another shot was fired, a loud, forceful cough. Not the automatic, Dorsey was sure. He peeked carefully over the wall and saw, two back yards down from Damjani and the beagle, a short round man dressed in T-shirt and bath-robe. In the man’s hands was a deer rifle, complete with telescopic sight. Dorsey turned to see Damjani dropping back into the walkway, a billow of brick smoke coming from the wall where the bullet had struck.
“Later, motherfucker!” Damjani’s voice rang inside the walkway. “Can’t hide for fuckin’ ever. I’m on you forever!”
Dorsey listened to Damjani’s footsteps running toward the street. So it takes a rifle shot to break through his madness. Thank God for the rifle-toting neighbor. Wonder how many friends and relatives he bags each season?
He turned and slid down the wall and sat on his ass, his back resting against the cinder blocks. At rest he could feel the shaking in his legs and hands, and the wise-ass comments weren’t coming through. The shaking moved inward; Dorsey felt as if the organs in his chest were vibrating. The copper taste of blood rolled down his cheek and across his lips.
He hadn’t been followed to Gretchen’s, Dorsey was certain. Not in this weather and traffic, he told himself, not with the precautions you’ve learned to take. No way; Damjani was watching the building. Watching for you or for Gretchen? Would it make a difference to that flipped-out bastard? The psycho knows where she lives and she comes home tomorrow. And Damjani’s on you forever.
That was the moment Dorsey decided he would have to kill Ed Damjani.