Ordner said flatly: “That’s a policy decision, Bart. We’re just a couple of foot soldiers.
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We carry out the orders.” It seemed to him that there was a dart of reproach there.
“Okay. But I wanted my own view on record.”
“Good. It is. But you don’t make policy, Bart. I want that perfectly clear. If the gasoline supplies dry up and all the motels fall flat, we’ll take it on the ear, along with everyone else. In the meantime, we’d better let the boys upstairs worry about that and do our jobs.”
I’ve been rebuked, Fred. That you have, George.
“All right. Here’s the rest. I estimate it will take two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for renovations before the Waterford plant ever turns out a clean sheet.”
“What? ” Ordner set his drink down hard.
Aha, Freddy. Hit a bare nerve there.
“The walls are full of dry rot. The masonry on the east and north sides has mostly crumbled away to powder. And the floors are so bad that the first heavy-duty washer we put in there is going to end up in the basement.”
“That’s firm? That two-fifty figure?”
“Firm. We’re going to need a new outside stack. New flooring, downstairs and up.
And it’s going to take five electricians two weeks to take care of that end. The place is only wired for two-forty-volt circuits and we have to have five-fifty loads. And since we’re going to be at the far end of all the city utility conduits, I can promise you our power and water bills are going to go up twenty percent. The power increases we can live with, but I don’t have to tell you what a twenty percent water-cost increase means to a laundry.”
Ordner was looking at him now, shocked.
“Never mind what I said about the utility increase. That comes under operating overhead, not renovations. So where was I? The place has to be rewired for five-fifty.
We’re going to need a good burglar alarm and closed circuit TV. New insulation. New roofing. Oh yeah, and a drainage system. Over on Fir Street we’re up on high ground, but Douglas Street sits at the bottom of a natural basin. The drainage system alone will cost anywhere from forty to seventy thousand dollars to put in.”
“Christ, how come Tom Granger hasn’t told me any of this?”
“He didn’t go with me to inspect the place.”
“Why not?”
“Because I told him to stay at the plant.”
“You did what?”
“That was the day the furnace went out,” he said patiently. “We had orders piling up and no hot water. Tom had to stay. He’s the only one in the place that can talk to that furnace.”
“Well Christ, Bart, couldn’t you have taken him down another day?”
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He knocked back the rest of his drink. “I didn’t see the point.”
“You didn’t see the-” Ordner couldn’t finish. He set his glass down and shook his head, like a man who has been punched. “Bart, do you know what it’s going to mean if your estimate is wrong and we lose that plant? It’s going to mean your job, that’s what it’s going to mean. My God, do you want to end up carrying your ass home to Mary in a basket? Is that what you want?”
You wouldn’t understand, he thought, because you’d never make a move unless you were covered six ways and had three other fall guys lined up. That’s the way you end up with four hundred thousand in stocks and funds, a Delta 88, and a typewriter that pops out of a desk at you like some silly jack-in-the-box. You stupid fuckstick, I could con you for the next ten years. I just might do it, too.
He grinned into Ordner’s drawn face. “That’s my last point, Steve. That’s why I’m not worried.”
“What do you mean?”
Joyously, he lied:
“Thorn McAn had already notified the realtor that they’re not interested in the plant.
They had their guys out to look at it and they hollered holy hell. So what you’ve got is my word that the place is shit at four-fifty. What you’ve also got is a ninety-day option that runs out on Tuesday. What you’ve also got is a smart mick realtor named Monohan, who had been bluffing our pants off. It almost worked.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting we let the option run out. That we stand pat until next Thursday or so.
You talk to your boys in cost and accounting about that twenty percent utility hike. I’ll talk to Monohan. When I get through with him, he’ll be down on his knees for two hundred thousand.”
“Bart, are you sure?”
“Sure I am,” he said, and smiled tightly. “I wouldn’t be sticking out my neck if I thought somebody was going to cut it off.”
George, what are you doing???
Shut up, shut up, don’t bother me now.
“What we’ve got here,” he said, “is a smart-ass realtor with no buyer. We can afford to take our time. Every day we keep him swinging in the wind is another day the price goes down when we do buy.”
“All right,” Ordner said slowly. “But let’s have one thing clear, Bart. If we fail to exercise our option and then somebody else does go in there, I’d have to shoot you out of the saddle. Nothing-”
“I know,” he said, suddenly tired. “Nothing personal.”
“Bart, are you sure you haven’t picked up Mary’s bug? You look a little punk tonight.
”
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You look a little punk yourself, asshole.
“I’ll be fine when we get this settled. It’s been a strain.
“Sure it has.” Ordner arranged his face in sympathetic lines. “I’d almost forgotten . . .
your house is right in the line of fire, too.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve found another place?”
“Well, we’ve got our eye on two. I wouldn’t be surprised if I closed the laundry deal and my personal deal on the same day.”
Ordner grinned. “It may be the first time in your life you’ve wheeled and dealed three hundred thousand to half a million dollars between sunrise and sunset.”
“Yes, it’s going to be quite a day.”
On the way home Freddy kept trying to talk to him-scream at him, really-and he had to keep yanking the circuit breaker. He was just pulling onto Crestallen Street West when it burnt out with a smell of frying synapses and overloaded axons. All the questions spilled through and he jammed both feet down on the power brake. The LTD screeched to a halt in the middle of the street, and he was thrown against his seat belt hard enough to lock it and force a grunt up from his stomach.
When he had control of himself, he let the car creep over to the curb. He turned off the motor, killed the lights, unbuckled his seat belt, and sat trembling with his hands on the steering wheel.
From where he sat, the street curved gently, the streetlights making a graceful flashhook of light. It was a pretty street. Most of the houses which now lined it had been built in the postwar period 1946-1958, but somehow, miraculously, it had escaped the Fifties Crackerbox Syndrome, and the diseases that went with it: crumbling foundation, balding lawn, toy proliferation, premature aging of cars, flaking paint, plastic storm windows.
He knew his neighbors-why not? He and Mary had been on Crestallen Street almost fourteen years now. That was a long time. The Upslingers in the house above them; their boy Kenny delivered the morning paper. The Langs across the street; the Hobarts two houses down (Linda Hobart had baby-sat for Charlie, and now she was a doctoral student at City College); the Stauffers; Hank Albert, whose wife had died of emphysema four years ago; the Darbys’ and just four houses up from where he was parked and shaking in his car, the Quinns. And a dozen other families that he and Mary had a nodding acquaintance with-mostly the ones with small children.
A nice street, Fred. A nice neighborhood. Oh, I know how the intellectuals sneer at suburbia-it’s not as romantic as the rat-infested tenements or the hale-and-hearty back-to-the-land stuff. There are no great museums in suburbia, no great forests, no great challenges.
But there had been good times. I know what you’re thinking, Fred. Good times, what 146
are good times? There’s no great joy in good times, no great sorrow, no great nothing.
Just blah. Backyard barbecues in the summer dusk, everybody a little high but nobody getting really drunk or really ugly. Car pools we got up to go see the Mustangs play. The fucking Musties, who couldn’t even beat the Pats the year the Pats were 1-12. Having people in to dinner or going out. Playing golf over at the Westside course or taking the wives to Ponderosa Pines and driving those little go-karts. Remember the time Bill Stauffer drove his right through that board fence and into some guy’s swimming pool?