Dorsey stood at the kitchen sink, thoroughly soaking a dish towel under the faucet. He had toyed with the idea of a shower, wanting to rinse away a clammy sheen of fear, but thought better of it. The telephone could not go unmanned. Even Radovic was not stupid enough to tell a recording machine that he knew how to get in touch with a wanted man. Miss the call and miss the chance, the only one you can figure on. And until the cops find Damjani or until Damjani finds you, you’ll spend your time looking over your shoulder and suggesting to Gretchen that she change her address.
On his way back to the phone he stopped at a hall closet and pulled out an olive-drab field jacket complete with MP patches. He went to the office, draped the field jacket across the chaise, and sat down wearily in the swivel chair. Gently, with his head back, he laid the dish towel across his eyes, the pull of the towel causing his stitches to sting. For the next hour he did not move. The phone remained silent.
Refreshed, calmer, Dorsey lifted the telephone receiver and dialed Gretchen’s number. After eight unanswered rings he returned the receiver to its cradle and took an address book from the desk’s center drawer. This time he dialed the emergency room at Mercy Hospital. A triage nurse answered, then went to find Gretchen.
“Dr. Keller is unavailable at the moment,” the nurse said, coming back on the line. “She said to let you know she will call you, but probably not today. She’s got double shifts, today and I think tomorrow.”
So that’s how she found the time to take off for home, Dorsey thought as he hung up. Sarcastically, he told himself it was a good thing he had Damjani to keep him occupied.
Dorsey took the revolver from the desktop; holding it upside down, he broke open the cylinder and shook out the spent shells. After fitting the barrel and stock back together, he picked up the field jacket and shook it out before putting it on. It hung loose and baggy from the shoulders despite Dorsey’s having gained fifteen pounds since the day he was mustered out, and he recalled it had been three sizes too large on the day it was issued.
Taking the revolver in his left hand, he worked it up his right sleeve, bringing it to rest at the midpoint of the forearm with the barrel pointed downward. Next, he let his right arm fall straight from a cocked position and the revolver slipped freely down his arm onto his palm. He tried it several more times, and with every repetition the revolver dropped into his hand. Perhaps too freely, Dorsey thought, but what is the alternative? In the jacket’s flap pocket it would show. And when Damjani sees you go for it you’ll never get there. The right sleeve is the only place.
He practiced for another ten minutes, tensing his forearm muscles to hold the pistol more firmly. Satisfied that it would work, Dorsey stripped off the field jacket and reloaded the revolver. As he did so, the phone rang.
“Hello,” Dorsey said, hoping it was Gretchen. He let the field jacket fall to the floor.
“Mr. Dorsey?” The voice was that of a young man.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Dorsey, this is Jay McGregor. I’m one of Mr. Hickcock’s assistants here at Channel Three. We’re running a story live tonight on “The Western Pennsylvania Journal,” and we need you to confirm or deny on several issues.”
“You have Sam Hickcock call me,” Dorsey said, dismissing the caller. “And when you see him, tell him for me he should know better than to have a go-fer do his work for him.”
There was a silence as McGregor paused before speaking. “Ah, actually, Mr. Dorsey, it was at Mr. Hickcock’s insistence that I called you. We need to run a few things past you. Just a few points on your investigation of Father Jancek and Movement Together, especially the statement you obtained from this Arthur Demory person.”
Now it was Dorsey’s turn to pause, giving himself time to come to grips with what he had just heard. Jesus Christ, Hickcock has my report!
“Tell Hickcock to call me. That’s all.” Dorsey hung up.
He sat in the swivel chair, but it wouldn’t recline far enough for him. It wouldn’t go all the way back, to where everything went dark. And the walls and ceiling, he wanted them to close in around him, isolating him from the outside where everyone could read his report. Jesus, he thought again, Hickcock has the report! How and from whom? And who do you talk to to get the answers to those two questions?
Corso, he thought, had to be him. But he didn’t get a copy. Not from you, anyway, but from someone else, sure as hell. Maybe like this. The report is express-mailed to Munt. He calls Corso after reading it, wants to talk it over with him. But Corso says he doesn’t have a copy, so Munt faxes it to him. Corso reads it, calculates a price, and sells it to Hickcock. But why not sell it to the priest? And then again, he could have sold it to both. Fucking Corso. Fucking Hickcock. They’ve got my report.
The telephone rang again and Dorsey, certain of who it would be, was tempted to let the tape machine pick it up. He lifted the receiver on the third ring. He had guessed right; it was Meara.
“Listen,” Dorsey said. “I just got a call from—”
“Oh, no, you listen.” Meara’s voice bit at Dorsey’s ear. “I just had a call too. Actually it was a couple of calls. Some kid named McGregor called to allow me the opportunity to confirm or deny most everything I read in what I thought was your confidential report. What the hell did you do, sell it to the news guys? You bastard! Don’t tell me; you get to play yourself in the movie version.”
“Wait, now, hold on.” Dorsey was out of the chair, pacing circles around the desk. “I issued three copies of the report. You, Munt, and Cleardon. That was it. Didn’t even send one to Corso, who was supposed to get a copy. Even still, it had to be him that released it. He’s pulled this shit before.”
“Give it a rest,” Meara said. “If it wasn’t you, it must have been one of your many fuck-ups that let this news guy have it. Maybe you left a copy in the photocopying machine. Something idiotic like that.”
“So don’t believe me,” Dorsey said. “It doesn’t matter now. What matters is what we do from here on in.”
“Drop the ‘we’ shit.”
“Huh?” Dorsey grunted, fearful.
“What I’m saying,” Meara said, “is the same thing I just told McGregor. Neither myself nor anyone in my office have had any dealings with you. We are not presently conducting an investigation of Movement Together, nor do we intend to do so in the future. I told you from the start; fuck up and I don’t know you.”
“Hey, slow down,” Dorsey said. “You’re forgetting our ace, Demory. We still have him and he can tell it all to the grand jury. We get them to indict and maybe some others can be convinced to come forward.”
“Like I said before,” Meara said, “there were a couple of calls this morning. You remember yesterday, what I said? I told you I checked on Demory, spoke to the medical staff at the prison. Well, one of the nurses called me this morning. It seems a TV film crew is camped at the main gate. They were there to interview Demory, asked the warden for permission. News like that goes through a prison like beer through a bladder. Demory got word before the warden did. And when he figured out what was up, he keeled over.”
“Dead?” Dorsey pictured the jailbird. How sickly and wasted he looked and how he pumped in the nicotine despite it all.
“Close, very close,” Meara said. “In fact his heart did stop for a couple of minutes, but the paddles brought him back. They took him to the ICU at Logan Valley.”
“Good, he’s alive,” Dorsey said. “Then we still have him; he can make a case.” Dorsey’s voice was strained; he was struggling for a toehold.
“Will you please listen to what the fuck I’m saying?” Meara was shouting now. “There is no fucking case in this office. And that’s because there is no investigation being conducted by this office. The only investigation is yours, and it gets local prime-time coverage at ten tonight.”
Dorsey heard the connection break as Meara hung up. He tried to put the receiver in its cradle, missed, and tried again. Stepping away from the desk, he crossed the room and peered out the window at the late-morning emptiness of Wharton Street. It’s down to this, he thought, picturing Demory near death, flat on his back in the ICU, plastic tubing in every available orifice. And then he shifted to a second image, of Russie dead, face down in a slush puddle, the indentation in his skull seeping blood. The bad press that goes over the airwaves, Dorsey thought, directing his thoughts to Russie, I hope the bad press is enough. The priest gets off: no trial, no exposure. But the bad press will put a shadow over him. Yours. Best I could do, along with ridding the world of Damjani. Corso, you bastard. You made me come up short.
Back at the desk, Dorsey found Corso’s number in his address book and dialed. A secretary told him that Mr. Corso had called in sick. Dorsey hung up, called the home number, and got no answer. The next call was to Hickcock on his direct office line. McGregor answered.
“Get your boss,” Dorsey told him. “I only talk to him.”
“Ah, Mr. Dorsey?” McGregor said. “Mr. Hickcock specifically said that he did not wish to take any calls from you. I’m sorry. Perhaps I can help?”
“Help me by putting your boss on the line.” Dorsey pushed McGregor. “Get him on the fucking phone. Now.”
McGregor told Dorsey that he would be hanging up now.
“One more thing,” Dorsey said.
“What’s that?”
“Fuck you.” Dorsey slammed down the phone, wishing he had maintained his composure. Childish, he told himself. But it was all he had left.
The long-term consequences began to nip at Dorsey. From the desk’s center drawer he took two bankbooks, one savings and one checking. On a sheet of blank typing paper he copied the two balance amounts and did a rough estimate of the fee he had coming from Fidelity Casualty. That’ll be good pay, he told himself, but it’s likely to be the last for some time. The stakes were high; you knew that going in, if that’s any comfort. Because, my friend, who wants to hire an investigator who can’t keep his report off the ten o’clock news? No more referrals. Not from Fidelity Casualty and not from Bernie’s firm. So you’re down to the old man’s money, the investment money. The only other option is to have yourself fitted for a security guard’s uniform. And don’t forget to buy yourself a new lunch bucket.
The tape cycled through for the fifth time and Dinah Washington did another encore of “September in the Rain.” Dorsey returned to pacing the floor, stopping now and again to stare out the window, collecting his thoughts: Gretchen, Damjani, the old man’s money. First you kill Damjani to keep yourself and Gretchen alive. Then you take the old man’s money so the two of you can stay together. For Christ’s sake, is it worth it? Hell, yes. Again, it comes down to this.
He dropped back into the swivel, lifted the phone receiver, and dialed his father’s number. The line rang three times and then Mrs. Boyle’s electronically reproduced voice requested that he leave his message at the beep. Dorsey hung up, deciding that even a recorded Ironbox was too much for him. He thought of calling Bernie to see if he could plead his case to the senior partners. Bernie could tell them he was born an asshole but that he’d try to do better in the future. Besides, Dorsey realized, it’s better if Bernie keeps some distance, for his own protection. If they link him to you, the senior partners will find him stupid by association. What’s left is to finish off Damjani and live with Gretchen.
The telephone rang and Dorsey speculated over what he might lose this time if he answered. It was Radovic.
“This is it,” Radovic said. “Listen up.”
“Whatever,” Dorsey said. “What-fucking-ever.”