Roadwork (12 page)

He turned around. Magliore was still regarding him with fascination.

“Come here.”

He walked over.

Magliore tapped the glass top of his desk. Under the glass there were several snapshots: A dark woman who was grinning into the camera with sunglasses pushed back on top of her wiry hair; olive-skinned kids splashing in a pool; Magliore himself walking along the beach in a black bathing suit, looking like King Farouk, a large collie at his heel.

“Dump out,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Everything in your pockets. Dump it out.”

He thought of protesting, then thought of Mansey, who was hovering just behind his left shoulder. He dumped out.

From his topcoat pockets, the stubs of the tickets from the last movie he and Mary had gone to. Something with a lot of singing in it, he couldn’t remember the name.

He took off his topcoat. From his suit coat, a Zippo lighter with his initials—BGD—engraved on it. A package of flints. A single Phillies Cheroot. A tin of Phillips milk of magnesia tablets. A receipt from A&S Tires, the place that had put on his snow tires. Mansey looked at it and said with some satisfaction: “Christ you got burned.”

He took off his jacket. Nothing in his shirt breast pocket but a ball of lint. From the right front pocket of his pants he produced his car keys and forty cents in change, mostly in nickles. For some reason he had never been able to fathom, nickles seemed to gravitate to him. There was never a dime for the parking meter; only nickles, which wouldn’t fit. He put his wallet on the glass-topped desk with the rest of his things.

Magliore picked up the wallet and looked at the faded monogram on it—Mary had given it to him on their anniversary four years ago.

“What’s the G for?” Magliore asked.

“George.”

He opened the wallet and dealt the contents out in front of him like a solitaire hand.

Forty-three dollars in twenties and ones.

Credit cards: Shell, Sunoco, Arco, Grant’s, Sears, Carey’s Department Store, American Express.

Driver’s license. Social Security. A blood donor card, type A-positive. Library card. A plastic flip-folder. A photostated birth certificate card. Several old receipted bills, some of them falling apart along the fold seams from age. Stamped checking account deposit slips, some of them going back to June.

“What’s the matter with you?” Magliore asked irritably. “Don’t you ever clean out your wallet? You load a wallet up like this and carry it around for a year, that wallet’s hurting.”

He shrugged. “I hate to throw things away.” He was thinking that it was strange, how Magliore calling him a shitbird had made him angry, but Magliore criticizing his wallet didn’t bother him at all.

Magliore opened the flip-folder, which was filled with snapshots. The top one was of Mary, her eyes crossed, her tongue popped out at the camera. An old picture. She had been slimmer then.

“This your wife?”

“Yeah.”

“Bet she’s pretty when there ain’t a camera stuck in her face.”

He flipped up another one and smiled.

“Your little boy? I got one about that age. Can he hit a baseball? Whacko! I guess he can.”

“That was my son, yes. He’s dead now.”

“Too bad. Accident?”

“Brain tumor.”

Magliore nodded and looked at the other pictures. Fingernail clippings of a life: The house on Crestallen Street West, he and Tom Granger standing in the laundry washroom, a picture of him at the podium of the launderers’ convention the year it had been held in the city (he had introduced the keynote speaker), a backyard barbecue with him standing by the grill in a chefs hat and an apron that said: DAD’S COOKIN‘, MOM’S LOOKIN’.

Magliore put the flip-folder down, bundled the credit cards into a pile, and gave them to Mansey. “Have them photocopied,” he said. “And take one of those deposit slips. His wife keeps the checkbook under lock and key, just like mine.” Magliore laughed.

Mansey looked at him skeptically. “Are you going to do business with this shitbird?”

“Don’t call him a shitbird and maybe he won’t call me a dork again.” He uttered a wheezy laugh that ended with unsettling suddenness. “You just mind your business, Petie. Don’t tell me mine.”

Mansey laughed, but exited in a modified stalk.

Magliore looked at him when the door was closed. He chuckled. He shook his head. “Dork,” he said. “By God, I thought I’d been called everything.”

“Why is he going to photocopy my credit cards?”

“We have part of a computer. No one owns all of it. People use it on a time-sharing basis. If a person knows the right codes, that person can tap into the memory banks of over fifty corporations that have city business. So I’m going to check on you. If you’re a cop, we’ll find out. If those credit cards are fake, we’ll find out. If they’re real but not yours, we’ll find that out, too. But you got me convinced. I think you’re straight. Dork.” He shook his head and laughed. “Was yesterday Monday? Mister, you’re lucky you didn’t call me a dork on Monday.”

“Can I tell you what I want to buy now?”

“You could, and if you were a cop with six recorders on you, you still couldn’t touch me. It’s called entrapment. But I don’t want to hear it now. You come back tomorrow, same time, same station, and I’ll tell you if I want to hear it. Even if you’re straight, I may not sell you anything. You know why?”

“Why?”

Magliore laughed. “Because I think you’re a fruitcake. Driving on three wheels. Flying on instruments.”

“Why? Because I called you a name?”

“No,” Magliore said. “Because you remind me of something that happened to me when I was a kid about my son’s age. There was a dog that lived in the neighborhood where I grew up. Hell’s Kitchen, in New York. This was before the Second World War, in the Depression. And this guy named Piazzi had a black mongrel bitch named Andrea, but everybody just called her Mr. Piazzi’s dog. He kept her chained up all the time, but that dog never got mean, not until this one hot day in August. It might have been 1937. She jumped a kid that came up to pet her and put him in the hospital for a month. Thirty-seven stitches in his neck. But I knew it was going to happen. That dog was out in the hot sun all day, every day, all summer long. In the middle of June it stopped wagging its tail when kids came up to pet it. Then it started to roll its eyes. By the end of July it would growl way back in its throat when some kid patted it. When it started doing that, I stopped patting Mr. Piazzi’s dog. And the guys said, Wassa matta, Sally? You chickenshit? And I said, No, I ain’t chickenshit but I ain’t stupid, either. That dog’s gone mean. And they all said, Up your ass, Mr. Piazzi’s dog don’t bite, she never bit nobody, she wouldn’t bite a baby that stuck its head down her throat. And I said, You go on and pat her, there’s no law that says you can’t pat a dog, but I ain’t gonna. And so they all go around saying, Sally’s chickenshit, Sally’s a girl, Sally wants his mama to walk him past Mr. Piazzi’s dog. You know how kids are.”

“I know,” he said. Mansey had come back in with his credit cards and was standing by the door, listening.

“And one of the kids who was yelling the loudest was the kid who finally got it. Luigi Bronticelli, his name was. A good Jew like me, you know?” Magliore laughed. “He went up to pat Mr. Piazzi’s dog one day in August when it was hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, and he ain’t talked above a whisper since that day. He’s got a barbershop in Manhattan, and they call him Whispering Gee.”

Magliore smiled at him.

“You remind me of Mr. Piazzi’s dog. You ain’t growling yet, but if someone was to pat you, you’d roll your eyes. And you stopped wagging your tail a long time ago. Pete, give this man his things.”

Mansey gave him the bundle.

“You come back tomorrow and we’ll talk some more,” Magliore said. He watched him putting things back into his wallet. “And you really ought to clean that mess out. You’re racking that wallet all to shit.”

“Maybe I will,” he said.

“Pete, show this man out to his car.”

“Sure.”

He had the door open and was stepping out when Magliore called after him: “You know what they did to Mr. Piazzi’s dog, mister? They took her to the pound and gassed her.”

 

After supper, while John Chancellor was telling about how the reduced speed limit on the Jersey Turnpike had probably been responsible for fewer accidents, Mary asked him about the house.

“Termites,” he said.

Her face fell like an express elevator. “Oh. No good, huh?”

“Well, I’m going out again tomorrow. If Tom Granger knows a good exterminator, I’ll take the guy out with me. Get an expert opinion. Maybe it isn’t as bad as it looks.”

“I hope it isn’t. A backyard and all ...” She trailed off wistfully.

Oh, you’re a prince, Freddy said suddenly. A veritable prince. How come you’re so good to your wife, George? Was it a natural talent or did you take lessons?

“Shut up,” he said.

Mary looked around, startled. “What?”

“Oh ... Chancellor,” he said. “I get so sick of gloom and doom from John Chancellor and Walter Cronkite and the rest of them.”

“You shouldn’t hate the messenger because of the message,” she said, and looked at John Chancellor with doubtful, troubled eyes.

“I suppose so,” he said, and thought.
You bastard, Freddy.

Freddy told him not to hate the messenger for the message.

They watched the news in silence for a while. A commercial for a cold medicine came on—two men whose heads had been turned into blocks of snot. When one of them took the cold pill, the gray-green cube that had been encasing his head fell off in large lumps.

“Your cold sounds better tonight,” he said.

“It is. Bart, what’s the realtor’s name?”

“Monohan,” he said automatically.

“No, not the man that’s selling you the plant. The one that’s selling the house.”

“Olsen,” he said promptly, picking the name out of an internal litter bag.

The news came on again. There was a report on David Ben-Gurion, who was about to join Harry Truman in that great Secretariat in the sky.

“How does Jack like it out there?” she asked presently.

He was going to tell her Jack didn’t like it at all and heard himself saying, “Okay, I guess.”

John Chancellor closed out with a humorous item about flying saucers over Ohio.

 

He went to bed at half past ten and must have had the bad dream almost at once—when he woke up the digital clock said:

In the dream he had been standing on a comer in Norton—the comer of Venner and Rice Street. He had been standing right under the street sign. Down the street, in front of a candy store, a pink pimpmobile with caribou antlers mounted on the hood had just pulled up. Kids began to run toward it from stoops and porches.

Across the street, a large black dog was chained to the railing of a leaning brick tenement. A little boy was approaching it confidently.

He tried to cry out:
Don’t pet that dog! Go get your candy!
But the words wouldn’t come out. As if in slow motion, the pimp in the white suit and planter’s hat turned to look. His hands were full of candy. The children who had crowded around him turned to look. All the children around the pimp were black, but the little boy approaching the dog was white.

The dog struck, catapulting up from its haunches like a blunt arrow. The boy screamed and staggered backward, hands to his throat. When he turned around, the blood was streaming through his fingers. It was Charlie.

That was when he had wakened.

The dreams. The goddam
dreams.

His son had been dead three years.

It was snowing when he got up, but it had almost stopped by the time he got to the laundry. Tom Granger came running out of the plant in his shirt-sleeves, his breath making short, stiff plumes in the cold air. He knew from the expression on Tom’s face that it was going to be a crummy day.

“We’ve got trouble, Bart.”

“Bad?”

“Bad enough. Johnny Walker had an accident on his way back from Holiday Inn with his first load. Guy in a Pontiac skidded through a red light on Deakman and hit him dead center.
Kapow.”
He paused and looked aimlessly back toward the loading doors. There was no one there. “The cops said Johnny was in a bad way.”

“Holy Christ.”

“I got out there fifteen or twenty minutes after it happened. You know the intersection—”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a bitch.”

Tom shook his head. “If it wasn’t so fucking awful you’d have to laugh. It looks like somebody threw a bomb at a washerwoman. There’s Holiday Inn sheets and towels everywhere. Some people were stealing them, the fucking ghouls, can you believe what people will do? And the truck ... Bart, there’s nothing left from the driver’s side door up. Just junk. Johnny got thrown.”

“Is he at Central?”

“No, St. Mary’s. Johnny’s a Catholic, didn’t you know that?”

“You want to drive over with me?”

“I better not. Ron’s hollering for pressure on the boiler.” He shrugged, embarrassed. “You know Ron. The show must go on.”

“All right.”

He got back into his car and drove out toward St. Mary’s Hospital. Jesus Christ, of all the people for it to happen to. Johnny Walker was the only person left at the laundry besides himself who had been working at the Blue Ribbon in 1953—Johnny, in fact, went back to 1946. The thought lodged in his throat like an omen. He knew from reading the papers that the 784 extension was going to make the dangerous Deakman intersection pretty much obsolete.

His name wasn’t Johnny at all, not really. He was Corey Everett Walker—he had seen it on enough time cards to know that. But he had been known as Johnny even twenty years ago. His wife had died in 1956 on a vacation trip in Vermont. Since then he had lived with his brother, who drove a sanitation truck for the city. There were dozens of workers at the Blue Ribbon who called Ron “Stoneballs” behind his back, but Johnny had been the only one to use it to his face and get away with it.