The Fall-Down Artist Read Online Free

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    â€œThey don’t tell me the numbers or what they’re paying out for,” Dorsey lied. Radovic had a hefty weekly check coming in. “So what’s the guy doing with all his time? Can’t spend it all in a bar. Who does the house repairs? Who keeps up the property?”
    â€œRepairs?” the oldest brother said. “Gimme a break. Nothin’ new on the outside and the drapes are drawn shut. Maybe he makes chicken movies.” The two younger brothers, sitting at the far end of the sofa, elbowed each other and laughed.
    Dorsey ignored the suggestion. “How about his comings and goings? Does he go out and come back about the same time every day?”
    â€œJust to the Hotel Bar. We don’t keep tabs on him.” The oldest brother looked over at his siblings, waiting for his laugh. He got it.
    â€œNo sign of him working? How about when he goes out in the morning, does he carry a lunch pail? How about his car, is he driving something new?”
    â€œHe ain’t drivin’ ’cause he ain’t got a car. Far as lunch is concerned, he don’t leave the house till afternoon.”
    Finishing his interview with the brothers, Dorsey tried a few more homes on Otterman with even weaker results. He checked out the Hotel Bar, which he found with the help of a crossing guard, but only the bartender was in and he was busy loading the coolers and in a bad mood because of it.
    Dorsey returned to his motel, the Sheraton on Bedford,and broke for lunch. With a Diet Coke from the machine in the hall, he tore into three chunks of a ham loaf that Gretchen had taught him to prepare. The ham loaf had been packed in a small Igloo cooler. Dorsey replaced the food with ice from the lobby machine, then topped the ice with six cans of Rolling Rock to chill for the end of the day’s work. This completed, he slipped on a tie, flicked some lint from the lapel of his herringbone jacket, and set off to interview Dr. Tang, Carl Radovic’s treating physician.
    Sitting in an uncomfortable chair in Dr. Tang’s empty waiting room, Dorsey pondered the fact that backwoods America is knee-deep in foreign-born doctors. Every small-town hospital seems staffed almost exclusively with them. Grinning, he recalled a neurologist he had interviewed in Greene County, an Asian whose receptionist had sat in on the conversation to assist the doctor over the rougher spots of the English language. The doctor was straightforward and honest, as Dorsey remembered, but somebody else was writing the great reports he signed.
    â€œThings look kind of slow,” Dorsey said to Dr. Tang’s receptionist, the room’s only other occupant, who sat behind a counter with a sliding glass partition. She was young, but Dorsey knew that even at her age she could have the keeper-of-the-gate syndrome suffered by so many medical receptionists. The higher calling to protect the doctor from answering questions. Nobody sees the wizard.
    â€œIt’s a slow town,” she said, shuffling some papers to the side, seemingly glad for the diversion. “Nobody works anymore, so nobody’s got health insurance, like Blue Cross or Blue Shield. Most can’t afford a visit to the family doc for a cold, let alone fork out an orthopedist’s fee. Even the work comp patients are gettin’ scarce. Fewer jobs for people to get hurt on. Yeah, slow it is.”
    â€œOne guy got hurt at work. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”
    â€œWho’s that?”
    â€œGuy named Carl Radovic. He’s a comp case.”
    â€œOh, him,” the receptionist said. “Just pulled his chartthis morning. You’re next, by the way, soon as Dr. Tang finishes rounds at Conemaugh.”
    â€œAny chance of getting a peek at that chart?” Dorsey used his most ingratiating smile, chancing it. C’mon, he thought, let’s have a look. There’s a resident at Mercy Hospital who’s showing me the way