The Fall-Down Artist by Thomas Lipinski Page B

refuse into the already murky water. Next, on the valley flats, were a few streets of small row houses followed by a main street dominated by merchants. From there the land went quickly upward, terraced with the homes of the sons of immigrants and those of displaced cotton sharecroppers. Wooden frame or brick, these homes appeared to have fingernails dug into the hillside, bracing for the next violent storm, natural or economic.
    Ohio Street ran up the hillside, Damjani’s home sat one and a half blocks up from the valley floor, one of several soot-stained brick houses lining the left sidewalk. Dorsey drove past Damjani’s, made a wide U-turn at the next intersection, and slid the Buick to a stop at the curb across the street. His plans to conduct a series of neighborhood interviews changed immediately when he saw what must have been Ed Damjani walk down the steps of number 211’s front stoop.
    Goddamn, Dorsey thought, this has to be the biggest mill hand on record. He had expected a large man, but one who was running to sloppy fat at the waist. Damjani’s figure ran like a V from shoulder to hips, and the rolled sleeves of his flannel shirt strained at the seams. With surprising vigor for an injured man, he strode down the street, away fromDorsey. Hoping to pass himself off as a shopkeeper, Dorsey stripped off his tie and sport coat, allowed Damjani a one-and-a-half block lead, and began his surveillance.
    Lagging behind, Dorsey watched Damjani turn right onto Merchant Street, Midland’s business district. When he followed around the corner and Damjani was nowhere to be seen, Dorsey felt a hard chill. A confrontation like the one with Radovic is sure to go bad for you, he told himself. This guy won’t have to call for help; he could kick the shit out of a Toyota all by himself, take on two at a time. Dorsey sighed with relief when Damjani stepped out from a drugstore, opening a tin of Skoal and shoving a plug deep into his mouth. After sucking at it to his satisfaction, he moved down Merchant Street at a double-time step. A man with an appointment to keep, Dorsey thought.
    The sidewalks of Merchant Street grew more crowded as they moved along, mostly men of Damjani’s age, all dressed like him and moving in the same direction. Also in the crowd, Dorsey spotted a sprinkling of older men, mill pensioners, wearing fedoras and navy or black windbreakers. A block farther, police cruisers could be seen, along with a station wagon bearing the logo of a Pittsburgh television station. In the denser crowd and with better camouflage, Dorsey closed in on Damjani, twice brushing against his arm as they passed bars, coffee shops, and hardware stores.
    When they came to the hall of the steelworkers’ local, Dorsey realized that Damjani had reached his destination. The crowd came to a halt on the sidewalk before the hall, and a ring of police and sheriff’s deputies barred the entrance, allowing people to go in slowly in single file. Dorsey watched as Damjani waved to another young man standing inside the police cordon. The man returned the wave and had a word with one of the deputies, pointing at Damjani. The deputy stood aside, and Damjani moved quickly ahead of the rest and was inside the union hall as the deputy retook his position.
    Whatever it is, Dorsey thought, it’s big and this guylooks to be part of it. He dipped a shoulder and began to glide and angle through the crowd, jockeying for a position in the entry line. Twice he was rebuffed but then found a soft spot in the line and slipped by some retirees. He took a few hard looks and curses but found himself moving single file through the police cordon and into the union hall.
    Staying in step, Dorsey walked through a thin lobby and into a long, low-ceilinged auditorium filled with rows of wooden chairs. Ushers, dressed in work clothes and looking like union brothers, moved the line along toward the front of the auditorium, where a low stage