The Fall-Down Artist by Thomas Lipinski

Orthodox Church to get to the business district, the beauty of the countryside held on to Dorsey long enough for him to conclude that factory towns were aberrations. Just sooty pockets of life dropped into valleys that were green in summer and surrounded by even greener hills.
    The show lot at Carmen’s Rentals, dominated at the center by an office trailer, was located near Water Street and was clogged with junkers. Dorsey figured them to be second-and third-hand models picked up cheap at the wholesale auction near Harrisburg. When he pulled into the lot and stepped away from the Buick, he found a comical pride in having the best-looking machine in sight. Once inside the office he identified himself to a receptionist and asked to see the owner. Leaving her desk and opening an inner door, she told an unseen someone that the guy from the insurance company was here.
    â€œHow’s that, insurance company?” a voice from the office said. “Here about the accidents?”
    Dorsey shouted past the receptionist that he had come to discuss several of them. The receptionist quickly ushered him in and closed the door as she left.
    A fat young man dressed in jeans and a terry-cloth sport-shirt rose from his seat and offered his hand across a metal desk, the kind Dorsey remembered from community recreation centers. He introduced himself as Carmen Avolio and poured them each a cup of coffee from the Mr. Coffee sitting on a corner filing cabinet. Dorsey took the plastic cup in his fingertips to save his palms from burning.
    â€œSo, what’s it gonna be?” Avolio strained his recliner chair to its limit. “How much higher can my rates go?”
    â€œThe accidents.” Dorsey hoped to string Avolio along. “Face it, there’s been more than one.”
    â€œToo many in too short a time,” Avolio said. “The guy on the phone, the agent, that’s what he said. Still, look what’s on the lot. Crap on wheels. Shit, I get another rate hike, they should just come and shut me down.”
    â€œIt’s the medical.” Dorsey sipped carefully at the coffee. “Crap, sure, but they’ve got people inside them when they get smacked. Borek, for instance.”
    â€œFuckin’ shit, man.” Avolio pulled his weight forward and rested his elbows on the desktop. “Listen, I rent cars, fuckin’ cars. Fast and cheap. A guy comes here because he can’t come up with the daily rate at Hertz or Avis. Only way this place stays open. I start demanding customers take a defensive driving course, I better turn the place into a Seven-Eleven.”
    â€œBusiness is good? High volume?”
    â€œReal good,” Avolio said. “Rural place like this, where people are hard pressed for enough cash for even a used car? Sure, business is good. Young kids, they like to have a car for the weekend even if it’s only a rental. I have ’em coming from all over, hitchhiking to get here. And that’s where these accident-prone assholes come from. From all over.”
    â€œAll over where?” Dorsey asked. The fat man began counting on his fingers.
    â€œThere was Borek from Washington, then a guy from Greensburg, another from Homestead, and a guy from Uniontown. Last was the little blond chick from Somerset, fucked up her knee in a crash on One-nineteen.”
    â€œKaren Stroesser?” Dorsey asked. Stroesser was Dr. Tang’s lateral compartment patient.
    â€œShe’s the one,” Avolio said. “Couldn’t make up her mind which car she wanted. She’d look at one, then ask how heavy it was, kept banging her foot on the bumpers, testing them. Finally she takes out this Chrysler, one of the big ones. And one of the best cars on the lot. Had hopes of having it around for a while. It’ll be okay, the dents and all are pounded out, but people get leery when a car’s been in an accident. They think the frame’s bent no matter what you tell