Roadwork by Stephen King, Richard Bachman Page A

domino theory to hell over in Southeast Asia, he just took it and put it to work on the American economy. Worked lousy over there. Works great over here. What are you drinking?”
    “Scotch-rocks would be fine.”
    “Got it right here.”
    He went to a fold-out cabinet, produced a fifth of scotch which returned only pocket change from your ten when purchased in a cut-rate liquor store, and splashed it over two ice cubes in a pony glass. He gave it to him and said, “Let’s sit down.”
    They sat in wing chairs drawn up by the electric fire. He thought: If I tossed my drink in there, I could blow that fucking thing to blazes. He almost did it, too.
    “Carla couldn’t be here either,” Ordner said. “One of her groups is sponsoring a fashion show. Proceeds to go to some teenage coffeehouse down in Norton.”
    “The fashion show is down there?”
    Ordner looked startled. “In Norton? Hell no. Over in Russell. I wouldn’t let Carla down in the Landing Strip with two bodyguards and a police dog. There’s a priest ... Drake, I think his name is. Drinks a lot, but those little pick’ninnies love him. He’s sort of a liaison. Street priest.”
    “Oh.”
    “Yes.”
    They looked into the fire for a minute. He knocked back half of his scotch.
    “The question of the Waterford plant came up at the last board meeting,” Ordner said. “Middle of November. I had to admit my pants were a little loose on the matter. I was given ... uh, a mandate to find out just what the situation is. No reflection on your management, Bart—”
    “None taken,” he said, and knocked back some more scotch. There was nothing left in there now but a few blots of alcohol trapped between the ice cubes and the glass. “It’s always a pleasure when our jobs coincide, Steve.”
    Ordner looked pleased. “So what’s the story? Vin Mason was telling me the deal wasn’t closed.”
    “Vinnie Mason has got a dead short somewhere between his foot and his mouth.”
    “Then it’s closed?”
    “Closing. I expect to sign us into Waterford next Friday, unless something comes up.”
    “I was given to understand that the realtor made you a fairly reasonable offer, which you turned down.”
    He looked at Ordner, got up, and freshened the blots. “You didn’t get that from Vinnie Mason.”
    “No.”
    He returned to the wing-back chair and the electric fire. “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me where you did get it?”
    Ordner spread his hands. “It’s business, Bart. When I hear something, I have to check into it—even if all my personal and professional knowledge of a man indicates that the something must be off-whack. It’s nasty, but that’s no reason to piss it around.”
    Freddy, nobody knew about the turn-down except the real estate guy and me. Old Mr. Just Business did a little personal checking, looks like. But that’s no reason to piss it around, right? Right, George. Should I blow him out of the water, Freddy? Better be cool, George. And I’d slow down on the firewater.
    “The figure I turned down was four-fifty,” he said. “Just for the record, is that what you heard?”
    “That’s about it.”
    “And that sounded reasonable to you.”
    “Well,” Ordner said, crossing his legs, “actually, it did. The city assessed the old plant at six-twenty, and the boiler can go right across town. Of course, there isn’t quite as much room for expansion, but the boys uptown say that since the main plant had already reached pretty much optimum size, there was no need for the extra room. It looked to me as if we might at least break even, perhaps turn a profit ... although that wasn’t the main consideration. We’ve got to locate, Bart. And damn quick.”
    “Maybe you heard something else.”
    Ordner recrossed his legs and sighed. “Actually, I did. I heard that you turned down four-fifty and then Thorn McAn came along and offered five.”
    “A bid the realtor can’t accept, in good faith.”
    “Not yet, but our option to