The Bachman Books

report, that's what they know. The cost accountant says, Listen. They're extending 784 through Westside and the Blue Ribbon is standing right in the way, along with half the residential district. And the directors say, Oh, is that right? How much are they allowing us on the property? And that's it. Christ, if Don and Ray Tarkington were alive, they'd have those cheap highway department fucks in court with so many restraining orders on their heads that they wouldn't get out from under until the year 2000. They'd go after them with a good sharp stick. Maybe they were a couple of buck-running paternalistic bastards, but they had a sense of place, Vinnie. You don't get that out of a cost accountant's report. If they were alive and someone told them that the highway commission was going to bury the laundry in eight lanes of composition hot-top, you would have heard the scream all the way down to city hall.'

'But they're dead,' Vinnie said.

'Yeah, they're dead, all right.' His mind suddenly felt flabby and unstrung, like an amateur's guitar. Whatever he had needed to say to Vinnie had been lost in a welter of embarrassing personal stuff. Look at him, Freddy, he doesn't know what I'm talking about. He doesn't have a clue. 'Thank God they're not here to see this.'

Vinnie didn't say anything.

He gathered himself with an effort. 'What I'm trying to say, Vinnie, is that there are two groups involved here. Them and us. We're laundry people. That's our business. They're cost accountant people. That's their business. They send down orders from on high, and we have to follow them. But that's all we have to do. Do you understand?'

'Sure, Bart,' Vinnie said, but he could see that Vinnie didn't understand at all. He wasn't sure he did himself.

'Okay,' he said. 'I'll speak to Ordner. But just for your information, Vinnie, the Waterford plant is as good as ours. I'm closing the deal next Tuesday.'

Vinnie grinned, relieved. 'Jesus, that's great.'

'Yes. Everything's under control.'

As Vinnie was leaving, he called after him: 'You tell me how that German restaurant is, okay?'

Vinnie Mason tossed him his number 1 grin, bright and full of teeth, all systems go. 'I sure will, Bart.'

Then Vinnie was gone and he was looking at the closed door. I made a mess of that, Fred. I didn't think you did so badly, George. Maybe you lost the handle at the end, but it's only in books that people say everything right the first time. No, I frigged up. He went out of here thinking Barton Dawes has lost a few cards out of his deck. God help him he's right. George, I have to ask you something, man to man. No, don't shut me off. Why did you buy those guns, George? Why did you do that?

Thump, the circuit breaker.

He went down on the floor, gave Ron Stone the salesmen's folders, and when he walked away Ron was bawling for Dave to come over and look at this stuff, might be something in it. Dave rolled his eyes. There was something in it, all right. It was known as work.

He went upstairs and called Ordner's office, hoping Ordner would be out drinking lunch. No breaks today. The secretary put him right through.

'Bart!' Steve Ordner said. 'Always good to talk with you.'

'Same here. I was talking to Vinnie Mason a little earlier, and he seemed to think you might be a little worried about the Waterford plant.'

'Good God, no. Although I did think, maybe Friday night, we could lay out a few things-'

'Yeah, I called mainly to say Mary can't make it.'

'Oh?'

'A virus. She doesn't dare go five seconds from the nearest john.'

'Say, I'm sorry to hear that.'

Cram it, you cheap dick.

'The doctor gave her some pills and she seems to be feeling better. But she might be, you know, catching.'

'What time can you make it, Bart? Eight?'

'Yeah, eight's fine.'

That's right, screw up the Friday Night Movie, prick. What else is new?

'How is the Waterford business progressing, Bart?'

'That's something we'd better talk about in person, Steve.'

'That's fine. ' Another pause. 'Carla sends her best. And tell Mary that both Carla and I . . .'

Sure. Yeah. Blah, blah, blah.

November 22, 1973

He woke up with a jerk that knocked the pillow onto the floor, afraid he might have screamed. But Mary was still sleeping in the other bed, a silent mound. The digital clock on the bureau said:

4:23 A.M.

It clicked into the next minute. Old Bea from Baltimore, the one who was into consciousness-raising hydrotherapy, had given it to them last Christmas. He didn't mind the clock, but he had never been able to get used to the click when the numbers changed. 4:23 click, 4:24 click, a person could go nuts.

He went down to the bathroom, turned on the light, and urinated. It made his heart thump heavily in his chest.