The Bachman Books

If Ordner's face was a facade, there was no crack in it. His features continued to register modulated distress, no more. 'Do you really believe that?' Ordner asked.

'Yes. You only give a damn about the Blue Ribbon as it affects your status in the corporation. So let's cut the shit. Here.' He slid his resignation across the Lucite top of the desk.

Ordner gave his head another little shake. 'And what about the people you've hurt, Bart? The little people. Everything else aside, you were in a position of importance.' He seemed to taste the phrase. 'What about the people at the laundry who are going to lose their jobs because there's no new plant to switch to?'

He laughed harshly and said: 'You cheap son of a bitch. You're too fucking high to see down, aren't you?'

Ordner colored. He said carefully: 'You better explain that, Bart.'

'Every single wage earner at the laundry, from Tom Granger on down to Pollack in the washroom, has unemployment insurance. It's theirs. They pay for it. If you're having trouble with that concept, think of it as a business deduction. Like a four-drink lunch at Benjamin's.'

Stung, Ordner said, 'That's welfare money and you know it. '

He reiterated: 'You cheap son of a bitch.'

Ordners's hands came together and formed a double fist. They clenched together like the hands of a child that has been taught to say the Lord's Prayer by his bed. 'You're overstepping yourself, Bart.'

'No, I'm not. You called me here. You asked me to explain. What did you want to hear me say? I'm sorry, I screwed up, I'll make restitution? I can't say that. I'm not sorry. I'm not going to make restitution. And if I screwed up, that's between me and Mary. And she'll never even know, not for sure. Are you going to tell me I hurt the corporation? I don't think even you are capable of such a lie. After a corporation gets to a certain size, nothing can hurt it. It gets to be an act of God. When things are good it makes a huge profit, and when times are bad it just makes a profit, and when things go to hell it takes a tax deduction. Now you know that. '

Ordner said carefully: 'What about your own future? What about Mary's?'

'You don't care about that. It's just a lever you think you might be able to use. Let me ask you something, Steve. Is this going to hurt you? Is it going to cut into your salary? Into your yearly dividend? Into your retirement fund?'

Ordner shook his head. 'Go on home, Bart. You're not yourself.'

'Why? Because I'm talking about you and not just about bucks?'

'You're disturbed, Bart.'

'You don't know,' he said, standing up and planting his fists on the Lucite top of Ordner's desk. 'You're mad at me but you don't know why. Someone told you that if a situation like this ever came up you should be mad. But you don't know why. '

Ordner repeated carefully: 'You're disturbed.'

'You're damn right I am. What are you?'

'Go home, Bart.'

'No, but I'll leave you alone and that's what you want. Just answer one question. For one second stop being the corporation man and answer one question for me. Do you care about this? Does any of it mean a damn to you?'

Ordner looked at him for what seemed a long time. The city was spread out behind him like a kingdom of towers, wrapped in grayness and mist. He said: 'No.'

'All right,' he said softly. He looked at Ordner without animosity. 'I didn't do it to screw you. Or the corporation. '

'Then why? I answered your question. You answer mine. You could have signed on the Waterford plant. After that it would have been someone else's worry. Why didn't you?'

He said: 'I can't explain. I listened to myself. But people talk a different language inside. It sounds like the worst kind of shit if you try to talk about it. But it was the right thing. '

Ordner looked at him unflinchingly. 'And Mary?'

He was silent.

'Go home, Bart, Ordner said.

'What do you want, Steve?'

Ordner shook his head impatiently. 'We're done, Bart. If you want to have an encounter session with someone, go to a bar.'

'What do you want from me?'

'Only for you to get out of here and go home.'

'What do you want from life, then? Where are you hooked into things?'

'Go home, Bart.'

'Answer me! What do you want?' He looked at Ordner nakedly.

Ordner answered quietly, 'I want what everyone wants. Go home, Bart.'

He left without looking back. And he never went there again.

When he got to Magliore's Used Cars, it was snowing hard and most of the cars he passed had their headlights on. His windshield wipers beat a steady back-and-forth tune, and beyond their sweep snow that had been defrosted