The Bachman Books

'It's not over Johnny,' he said, not knowing if it was true or not. Maybe he still would have made an effort to save himself, to save the life that had existed under a protective dome of routine for the last twenty years. But when the priest had walked quickly past them down the hall, almost running, to the place where Johnny lay dying or dead, and when Arnie Walker had made that funny whining noise high up in his throat, he had given up. Like driving a car in a skid, or fooling yourself that you were driving, and then just taking your hands off the wheel and putting them over your eyes.

'It's not over Johnny,' he repeated.

'Well, listen . . . listen . . . ' Ron sounded very upset.

'Look, I'll talk to you later, Ron,' he said, not knowing if he would or not. 'Go on, have them punch out.'

'Okay. Okay, but-'

He hung up gently.

He took the phone book out of the drawer and looked in the yellow pages under GUNS. He dialed Harvey's Gun Shop.

'Hello, Harvey's.'

'This is Barton Dawes,' he said.

'Oh, right. Those shells came in late yesterday afternoon. I told you I'd have them in plenty of time for Christmas. Two hundred rounds.'

'Good. Listen, I'm going to be awfully busy this afternoon. Are you open tonight?'

'Open nights until nine right up to Christmas.'

'Okay. I'll try to get in around eight. If not, tomorrow afternoon for sure.'

'Good enough. Listen, did you find out if it was Boca Rio?'

'Boca . . . ' Oh, yes, Boca Rio, where his cousin Nick Adams would soon be hunting. 'Boca Rio. Yeah, I think it was.'

'Jesus, I envy him. That was the best time I ever had in my life.'

'Shaky cease-fire holds,' he said. A sudden image came to him of Johnny Walker's head mounted over Stephan Ordner's electric log fireplace, with a small polished bronze plaque beneath, saying:

HOMO LAUNDROMAT

November 28, 1973

Bagged on the corner of Deakman

'What was that?' Harry Swinnerton asked, puzzled.

'I said, I envy him too,' he said, and closed his eyes. A wave of nausea raced through him. I'm cracking up, he thought. This is called cracking up.

'Oh. Well, I'll see you, then.'

'Sure. Thanks again, Mr. Swinnerton.'

He hung up, opened his eyes, and looked around his denuded office again. He flicked the button on the intercom.

'Phyllis?'

'Yes, Mr. Dawes?'

'Johnny died. We're going to shut it down.'

'I saw people leaving and thought he must have.' Phyllis sounded as if she might have been crying.

'See if you can get Mr. Ordner on the phone before you go, will you?'

'Surely.'

He swiveled around in his chair and looked out the window. A road grader, bright orange, was lumbering by with chains on its oversize wheels, lashing at the road. This is their fault, Freddy. All their fault. I was doing okay until those guys down at City Hall decided to rip up my life. I was doing fine, right, Freddy?

Freddy?

Fred?

The phone rang and he picked it up. 'Dawes.'

'You've gone crazy,' Steve Ordner said flatly. 'Right out of your mind.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean that I personally called Mr. Monohan this morning at nine-thirty. The McAn people signed the papers on the Waterford plant at nine o'clock. Now what the fuck happened, Barton?'

'I think we'd better discuss that in person.'

'So do I. And I think you ought to know that you're going to have to do some fast talking if you want to save your job.'

'Stop playing games with me, Steve.'

'What?'