The Fall-Down Artist by Thomas Lipinski Page A

’em.”
    Dorsey asked for copies of the rental agreements and four out of five names were familiar: Borek and Stroesser, Klazak from Homestead, and Stark from Greensburg. Only the Uniontown man was a stranger. All four had been the subjects of investigations done for Fidelity Casualty. Before leaving the office, Dorsey placed a call to Ray Corso. Carmen collected two dollars for the copies and three for the toll call.
    Dorsey gave Corso a quick rundown on what he had found, hoping his voice conveyed what he thought was the gravity of the situation, an organized rip-off. He also suggested that they meet as soon as possible to map out a strategy.
    â€œIt’s certainly something to think about.” Corso sounded preoccupied. “Write up the report and enclose the rental agreements. When they get here I’ll have the legal people look it all over. Then maybe we’ll get together and review a few things.”
    â€œRay, please listen.” Dorsey was fighting Corso’s famed inertia. “Four, maybe five guys, here alone are putting shitover on you. All have lost wages to figure in on a final liability settlement. We have to talk.”
    â€œSend in the report,” Corso said, ending the conversation.
    Dorsey knew Corso’s history and knew he was a jumper. Claims work is filled with nomads moving from company to company, and Ray Corso was a true bedouin. One step ahead of the ax, Corso moved to another job, pushing a hoax as a successful claims manager, just as his former employer learned to appreciate the magnitude of his shortsighted laziness. The Inert One. Dorsey thought the nickname was well earned. Slow-boat, pipe-smoking asshole was another.
    Next day, enjoying the scenery and a tape of Count Basie backing up Sinatra, Dorsey headed for Beaver County and Midland. As he drove, he ran through the pertinent facts of his next case. Edward Damjani, twenty-six years of age, resided in Midland. Employed by Kensington Steel as a crane man, he was receiving $335 per week in workers’ compensation benefits. Diagnosed as suffering a low back strain, he treated primarily with a chiropractor and occasionally with a local orthopedic who was known to Dorsey as a claims whore. The medical reports showed Damjani to be a big man, six feet seven inches and 240 pounds. As Dorsey pondered the last of these facts, Basie and Sinatra closed out, the tape ended, and the radio came on.
    â€œFriends in Jesus, this is Father Andrew Jancek. The past few years have seen disastrous changes in our lives, the types of changes that serve to illustrate how tenuous are our security and faith in our fellowman. Institutions on which we have learned to rely, institutions to which we gave our labor and loyalty, have purposely betrayed our faith in them. Our labor’s fruit has been stripped from us and used to enrich others, who now turn their backs to us.
    â€œTo the workers of this area, a job is more than a weekly paycheck. The work we do shapes our lives: how we deal with others, how we raise our families, how we practiceour faith and pass on our values. The theft of our jobs is truly the theft of our souls. Please join my friends and me in our efforts to recover our jobs and our dignity. Any contribution, large or small, in time or money, will aid in our crusade to halt the plans of our so-called industrial leaders to desert the working person. Thank you.”
    An announcer provided an address for contributions, which was followed by a weather update. “Christ,” Dorsey said, “the guy does radio spots too.” Makes sense, he thought, more sense than those late-night TV spots.
    Crossing the Ohio River at Shippingport, under the shadows of the nuclear plant’s twin cooling towers, Dorsey recalled that Midland was laid out like most river-valley mill towns. Kensington Steel occupied all the riverfront within the city limits, conveniently situated to receive bargeloads of coal and to expel