The Bachman Books

'That's right. We're part of the Cinemate Releasing chain. They send in all the movies . . . proven box-office stuff. But I'm handling the Westfall Cinema completely.'

'They're going to add on?'

'Yeah, Cinema II and III by next summer. And the Beacon Drive-In, I'll be handling that, too. '

He hesitated. 'Vinnie, you tell me if I'm stepping out of line, but if this Cinemate outfit picks the films and books them, then what exactly do you do?'

'Well, handle the money, of course. And order stuff, that's very important. Did you know that the candy stand alone can almost pay for one night's film rental if it's handled efficiently? Then there's maintenance and-' He swelled visibly, 'and hiring and firing. It's going to keep me busy. Sharon likes it because she's a big movie freak, especially Paul Newman and Clint Eastwood. I like it because all of a sudden I jumped from nine thousand to eleven thousand-five.'

He looked at Vinnie dully for a moment, wondering if he should speak. This was Ordner's prize, then. Good doggie. Here's the bone.

'Get out of it, Vinnie,' he said. 'Get out of it just as quick as you can.'

'What, Bart?' Vinnie's brow wrinkled in honest puzzlement.

'Do you know what the word 'gofer' means, Vinnie?'

'Gopher? Sure. It's a little animal that digs holes-'

'No, gofer. G-O-F-E-R. '

'I guess I don't know that one, Bart. Is it Jewish?'

'No, it's white-collar. It's a person who does errands. A glorified office boy. Gofer coffee, gofer Danish, gofer a walk around the block, sonny. Gofer.'

'What are you talking about, Bart? I mean-'

'I mean that Steve Ordner kicked your special case around with the other members of the board-the ones who matter, anyway-and said, Listen, fellas, we've got to do something about Vincent Mason, and it's a delicate sort of case. He warned us that Bart Dawes was riding a rubber bike, and even though Mason didn't swing quite enough weight to enable us to stop Dawes before he screwed up the waterworks, we owe this Mason something. But of course we can't give him too much responsibility. And do you know why, Vinnie?'

Vinnie was looking at him resentfully. 'I know I don't have to eat your shit anymore, Bart. I know that. '

He looked at Vinnie earnestly. 'I'm not trying to shit you. What you do doesn't mean anything to me anymore. But Chrissakes, Vinnie, you're a young man. I don't want to see him fuck you over this way. The job you've got is a short-term plum, a long-term lemon. The toughest decision you're going to have is when to reorder Buttercup containers and Milky Ways. And Ordner's going to see that it stays that way as long as you're with the corporation.'

The Christmas spirit, if that was what it had been, curdled in Vinnie's eyes. He was clutching his packages tightly enough to make the wrappings crackle, and his eyes were gray with resentment. Picture of a young man who steps out his door whistling, ready for the evening's heavy date, only to see all four tires on his new sports car have been slashed. And he's not listening. I could play him tapes and he still wouldn't believe it.

'As it turned out, you did the responsible thing,' he went on. 'I don't know what people are saying about me now-'

'They're saying you're crazy, Bart,' Vinnie said in a thin, hostile voice.

'That word's as good as any. So you were right. But you were wrong, too. You spilled your guts. They don't give positions of responsibility to people who spill their guts, not even when they were right to do it, not even when the corporation suffers because of their silence. Those guys on the fortieth floor, Vinnie, they're like doctors. And they don't like loose talk any more than doctors like an intern that goes around blowing off about a doctor who muffed an operation because he had too many cocktails at lunch.'

'You're really determined to mess up my life, aren't you?' Vinnie asked. 'But I don't work for you anymore, Bart. Go waste your poison on someone else.'

Santa Claus was coming back, a huge bag slung over one shoulder, bellowing wild laughter and trailing small children like parti-colored exhaust.

'Vinnie, Vinnie, don't be blind. They're sugar-coating the pill. Sure you're making eleven-five this year and next year when you pick up the other theaters, they'll buck you up to maybe fourteen thousand. And there you'll be twelve years from now, when you can't buy a lousy Coke for thirty cents. Gofer that new carpeting, gofer that consignment of theater seats, gofer those reels of film that got sent across town by mistake. Do you want to be doing that shit when you're forty, Vinnie, with nothing to look forward to but a gold watch?'

'Better than what you're doing.' Vinnie turned away abruptly, almost bumping Santa, who said something that sounded suspiciously like watch where the fuck you're going.

He went after Vinnie. Something about the set expression on Vinnie's face convinced him he was getting through, despite the defensive emplacements. God, God, he thought. Let it be.

'Leave me alone, Bart. Get lost.

'Get out of it,' he repeated. 'If you wait even until next summer it may be too late. Jobs are going to be tighter than a virgin's chastity belt if this energy crisis goes into high gear, Vinnie. This may be your last chance. It-'

Vinnie wheeled around. 'I'm telling you for the last time, Bart.'

'You're flushing your future right down the john, Vinnie. Life's too short for that. What are you going to tell your daughter when-'

Vinnie punched him in the eye. A bolt of white pain flashed up into his head and he staggered backward, arms flying out. The kids who had been following Santa scattered as his packages-dolls, GI Joe, chess set-went flying. He hit a rack of toy telephones, which sprayed across the floor. Somewhere a little girl screamed like a hurt animal and he thought Don't cry, darling, it's just dumb old George falling down, I do it