Roadwork by Stephen King, Richard Bachman Page A

made him wince. The heater had disarmed his face and he had to squint his eyes to keep them from tearing.
    There was an automobile junkyard back here. It stretched for acres, amazing the eye. Most of the cars had been gutted of parts and now they sat on their wheel rims or axles like the victims of some awful plague who were too contagious to even be dragged to the dead-pit. Grilles with empty headlight sockets gazed at him raptly.
    He walked back out front. The mechanic was installing the muffler. An open bottle of Coke was balanced on a pile of tires to his right.
    He called to the mechanic: “Is Mr. Magliore in?” Talking to mechanics always made him feel like an asshole. He had gotten his first car twenty-four years ago, and talking to mechanics still made him feel like a pimply teenager.
    The mechanic looked over his shoulder and kept working his socket wrench. “Yeah, him and Mansey. Both in the office.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Sure.”
     
    He went into the office. The walls were imitation pine, the floor muddy squares of red and white linoleum. There were two old chairs with a pile of tattered magazines between them— Outdoor Life, Field and Stream, True Argosy. No one was sitting in the chairs. There was one door, probably leading to an inner office, and on the left side, a little cubicle like a theater box office. A woman was sitting in there, working an adding machine. A yellow pencil was poked into her hair. A pair of harlequin glasses hung against her scant bosom, held by a rhinestone chain. He walked over to her, nervous now. He wet his lips before he spoke.
    “Excuse me.”
    She looked up. “Yes?”
    He had a crazy impulse to say: I’m here to see Sally One-Eye, bitch. Shake your tail.
    Instead, he said: “I have an appointment with Mr. Magliore.”
    “You do?” She looked at him warily for a moment and then riffled through some slips on the table beside the adding machine. She pulled one out. “Your name is Dawes? Barton Dawes?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Go right in.” She stretched her lips at him and began to peck at the adding machine again.
    He was very nervous. Surely they knew he had conned them. They were running some kind of midnight auto sales here, that much had been obvious from the way Mansey had spoken to him yesterday. And they knew he knew. Maybe it would be better to go right out the door, drive like hell to Monohan’s office, and maybe catch him before he left for Alaska or Timbuktu or wherever he would be leaving for.
    Finally, Freddy said. The man shows some sense.
    He walked over to the door in spite of Freddy, opened it, and stepped into the inner office. There were two men. The one behind the desk was fat and wearing heavy glasses. The other was razor thin and dressed in a salmon-pink sports coat that made him think of Vinnie. He was bending over the desk. They were looking at a J.C. Whitney catalogue.
    They looked up at him. Magliore smiled from behind his desk. The glasses made his eyes appear faded and enormous, like the yolks of poached eggs.
    “Mr. Dawes?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Glad you could drop by. Want to shut the door?”
    “Okay.”
    He shut it. When he turned back, Magliore was no longer smiling. Neither was Mansey. They were just looking at him, and the room temperature seemed to have gone down twenty degrees.
    “Okay,” Magliore said. “What is this shit?”
    “I wanted to talk to you.”
    “I talk for free. But not to shitbirds like you. You call up Pete and give him a line of crap about two Eldorados.” He pronounced it “Eldoraydos.” “You talk to me, mister. You tell me what your act is.”
    Standing by the door, he said: “I heard maybe you sold things.”
    “Yeah, that’s right. Cars. I sell cars.”
    “No,” he said. “Other stuff. Stuff like ...” He looked around at the fake-pine-paneled walls. God knew how many agencies were bugging this place. “Just stuff,” he finished, and the words came out on crutches.
    “You mean