The Plant. Part 34

"Fortyfive thousand?" Herb whispered. His eyes had a suspicious gleam to them, as if he were about to break down and cry. "Fortyfive thousand dollars?"

"Retroactive to April 4th, same as Rid." He turned to me. "And seriously, Rid-ditch the Rastus."

"It's gone for good as of now," I said.

He nodded. "As for me," he said, "what does the Bible say? 'The laborer is worthy of his hire.' I'm now making forty. How much should I get for steering the good ship Zenith away from the rocks of the lee sh.o.r.e and into the open sea, where the trade winds blow?"

"How about sixty?" Bill asked.

"Make it sixtyfive," Sandra proposed giddily. After all, it was Sherwyn Redbone's money Roger was spending.

"No," Roger said, "no need to be vulgar, not the first year, anyway. I think fifty thousand will be fine."

"Not bad for any of us, considering the plant's doing it all," Bill said.

"That's not true," John said, a little sharply. "We've always had the skills to do this job, all of us. The plant is just giving us the opportunity."

"Besides," Herb said, "it's getting room and board. What more does it require? An ivy doesn't exactly need a new car, does it?" He looked at Bill. "Are you sure you don't want me to join the disposal crew? I will, if you want me."

Bill Gelb thought it over, then shook his head. "Two of us should do just fine. But we ought to put the...you know, the remains...in something. I wonder what there is?"

Which was when Herb went into the supply closet, rummaged awhile, then came back out dragging the rug remnant behind him.

It turned out to be just the right size. Bill and I were exempted from the task of gift-wrapping Carlos Detweiller, and I thought Sandra would stay with us out in the hall (exempting herself, as it were, by virtue of her s.e.x), but she pitched in with a will. And all around us Zenith hummed contentedly, putting a floor under us, sending out what the Beach Boys (another whitebread favorite of mine) would probably call "good vibrations."

"Telepathy seems to improve teamwork," Bill commented, and I had to admit it was true. Sandra and Herb spread out the rug beside Sandra's desk. Roger and John lifted Detweiller and deposited him face-down at one end of the rug. Then, working together, they simply rolled him up like a Devil Dog pastry, securing the whole with the heaviest twine the supply closet could provide.

"Man, he bled a lot," Bill said. "That rug's a mess."

"The plant will suck up most of it today and Sunday," I said.

"You really think so?"

I really did. I also thought that I could get up most of the residue with a good application of Genie Rug Cleaner. The final result might not fool a police forensics specialist, but if the police wind up in here, our b.u.t.ts are probably going to be baked, anyway. To an ordinary outsider, the remaining stain on Sandra's carpet will look as if someone spilled a pot of coffee there a few months ago. Maybe the only real question is whether or not Sandra can live with that manta-ray shadow in the place where she earns her daily bread. If she can't, I suppose I can replace that particular piece of carpet. Because it's as Roger says: such minimal expenses will soon no longer annoy us.

"You're sure you can get this truck?" Roger called out from Sandra's office. He was sitting back on his heels and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "What if the guy's gone for the weekend?"

"He's home," Bill said, "or at least he was an hour and a half ago. I saw him on my way out. And for fifty dollars, he'd rent me his grandmother. He's a nice enough guy, but he's got this little problem." He mimed sniffing, first closing one nostril and then the other.

"Make sure he's there," Roger said, then turned to John. "Body disposal bonuses at Christmas for all of us. Make a note."

"Sure, just don't put it in your monthly report," John said, and we all laughed. I suppose that must sound gruesome, but it was the cheeriest, most collegial laughter you ever heard. I believe that Sandra, with a tiny smear of Carlos Detweiller's blood on her forearm and another on her right palm, laughed hardest of all.

Bill went in his office and got on the phone. Roger and John moved Carlos, now wrapped in the brown rug remnant, down to the reception area, behind LaShonda's desk.

"I can see his shoes," Sandra said. "They're sticking out a little."

"Don't worry, it'll be okay," Herb said, and just like that I knew that he's been doing the horizontal bop with the lady fair. Well, mo powah to him, is all dis fella kin say. Might be no mo playin truck-drivah and l'il girl hitchhikah, praise de Lawd.

"Nothing's going to be okay until that homicidal idiot's taken care of," Sandra said. She started to brush her hair back, saw the blood on her hand, and grimaced.

Bill came out of his office, smiling. "One old but serviceable panel truck, at our service," he said. "Bread company advertising logos on the sides, very faded. Riddley, we take it away this afternoon at four-in less than three hours, in other words-and I bring it back later tonight. No questions asked, although I had to agree to mileage, as well. Two bits per. That okay, boss?"

Roger nodded. "This guy lives downstairs from you, right?"

"Right. He's a stockbroker. Buying vehicles at auction and turning them over is just a sideline. I think he scams the insurance companies when he can, as well. I could have gotten a hea.r.s.e, actually, but that seemed...I don't know... ostentatious."

To me, the idea of taking Detweiller to a Jersey landfill in a hurry-up wagon seemed not ostentatious but downright creepy. I kept my mouth shut on the subject, however.

"And this place in Paramus?" John asked. "It's safe? Relatively safe?"

"According to some of the talk I've heard at Ginelli's game, it's as safe as the grave." Bill saw our faces and grimaced. "To coin a phrase."

"All right," Roger said heavily. "Sandra's office looks more or less okay. Let's clean up Herb's and John's and then get the h.e.l.l out of here."

We did it, then adjourned to the cafeteria a block over to get something to eat. None of us had much in the way of appet.i.te, and Bill left early to conclude negotiations with the fellow downstairs.

Outside the cafeteria, on the curb, John took my arm. He looked tired but composed. In better shape than before I left for home, actually. "Riddley, are you okay with this?"

"Fine with it," I said.

"Want me to ride along?"

I thought it over, then shook my head. "Three's a crowd. I'll call you when it's taken care of. But it may be late."

He nodded, started away, then turned back and grinned. There was something heartbreakingly sweet about it. "Welcome to the Green Thumb Editorial Society," he said.

I sketched him a little salute. "Good to be here."

As it was. And when I got to Bill's place shortly thereafter, the old panel truck was already parked at the curb. Bill was standing next to it, smoking a cigarette and looking entirely at peace.

"Let's pick up some cargo and take it to Jersey," he said.

I clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm your man," I said.

We arrived back at 490 around quarter to five. At that hour on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon, the building was as quiet as it ever gets. Absolutely dead, to coin another phrase. John's nemesis lay where we had left him, neatly tied into his bundle of rug.

"Look at the plant, Riddley," Bill said, but I already had. Runners had worked their way to the end of the corridor. There they cl.u.s.tered, barely held back by the garlic John and Roger had rubbed on the sides of the door. The tips were raised, and I could see them quivering. I thought of hungry diners looking in a restaurant window, and shivered a little. If not for the garlic, those advance feelers would already have worked their way into the carpet and around the corpse's feet. Zenith is on our side, I feel quite sure of that, but neither a stiff d.i.c.k nor a hungry belly has much in the way of conscience, I'm afraid.

"Let's get him out of here," I said.

Bill agreed. "And make a note to refresh the garlic on that door. Tomorrow, maybe."

"I don't think garlic will hold it forever," I said.

"What do you mean?"

Because we were back under Zenith's telepathic umbrella, I thought my response at him rather than saying it out loud: It's got to grow. If it can't grow, it'll die. But before it dies, it might- Get mean? Bill finished for me.

I nodded. Yes, it might get mean. I'm sure that Detweiller and General Hecksler would say it had gotten fairly mean already.

We carried the rolled-up length of rug down the hall to the elevator, which opened at the touch of a b.u.t.ton. There was no one else in the building to divert it to another location, of that I was positive. We would have heard their thoughts.

"We're not going to have any problems at all, are we?" I asked Bill as we rode down. Mr. Detweiller lay between us, a troublesome fellow soon to take up permanent residence in New Jersey. "No little unexpected Hitchc.o.c.k touches."

Bill smiled. "I don't think so, Riddley. We're going to roll all sevens. Because the force is with us."

And so it has been.

By the time the truck's headlights picked out the sign on the edge of Route 27-PETERBOROUGH DISPOSAL CO. LANDFILL ABSOLUTELY NO TRESPa.s.sING-it was full dark and the moon was riding high in the sky. High and dreamy. It crossed my mind that the same moon was looking down on my Mama's fresh grave in Blackwater.

There was a chain across the dirt road leading to the land fill, but it appeared to be looped over the posts to either side, not locked. I got out, slipped one of the loops free, and then motioned Bill to drive through. Once he was on the other side, I refixed the chain and got back in.

"The mob uses this place, I take it?" I asked.

"That's the rumor." Bill lowered his voice a little. "I heard one of Richie Ginelli's pals say that Jimmy Hoffa is taking an extended vacation out this way."

"Bill," I said, "far be it for Zenith House's most junior editor to tell you what to do-"

"Lay on, MacDuff," he said, smiling.

"-but a poker game where one hears such odd bits of trivia might

not be the place for an ino ffensive editor of paperback originals." "Speak for yourself," he said, and although he was still smiling, I don't believe that what came next was a joke. "If the bad boys cross me, I'll just sic my plant on them."

"That's what Carlos Detweiller thought, and he's making his final pilgrimage in the back of a bread truck," I said.

He looked at me, the smile fading a little. "You might have a point there, partner."

I did have a point there, but I doubt it will stop Bill from his weekend poker forays. Just as I doubt that successfully having it off with Sandra Jackson will stop Herb Porter from the occasional clandestine seat-sniffing expedition. We say "so-and-so should have known better" when soand-so comes to grief, but there is a world of difference between knowing better and doing better. To misquote the Bible, we return to our vices like a dog to its vomit, and when one thinks in such terms, I wonder at our apparent determination to co-exist with Zenith the common ivy. To think that he-or it-can make either our situation or ourselves any better. After considering what I've just written, I must laugh. I'm like a junkie between fixes, temporarily sober and pontificating on the evils of dope. Once I'm back in range of those humming good vibrations, everything will change. I know it as well as I know my own name. Knowing better...and doing better. Between them is the chasm. The dirt road ran through scruffy pine woods for a quarter of a mile and then brought us out into a vast dirt circle filled with trash, discarded appliances, and a stacked wall of junked cars. By the light of a full moon, it looked like the death of all civilization. On the far side was a dropoff, its steep sides covered with more trash. At the bottom, the bulldozers and backhoes looked the size of a child's toys.

"They bulldoze the c.r.a.p down there, then cover it," Bill said. "We'll take him twenty or thirty feet down the slope, then bury him. I've got shovels. I've also got gloves. I'm told there are rats in there as big as terriers." But all that proved to be unnecessary; as Bill had said, the force was with us and we were rolling all sevens. As he drove slowly toward the dropoff and the actual landfill, weaving between those rusty cenotaphs of junk, I saw a cl.u.s.ter of blue objects off to the left. They looked like mansized plastic capsules standing on end.

"Go over there," I said, pointing.

"Why?"

"Just a feeling. Please, Bill."

He shrugged and headed the panel truck that way. As we got closer, a big grin began to dawn on his face. They were the Port-a-Pottys you see at construction sites and in some roadside rest areas, but all these had had the h.e.l.l beaten out of them: dented roofs, broken doors, gaping holes in some of the sides. They were standing about forty feet from the maw of a silent machine that could only be a crusher.

"Think we hit the jackpot, Rid?" Bill asked, grinning. "I think we hit the jackpot. In fact, I think you're a f.u.c.king genius."

There was a length of yellow tape strung around the cl.u.s.ter of blue capsules, with KEEP OUT KEEP OUT KEEP OUT repeating endlessly in big black letters. Stuck to it with a lick of electrical tape was a note written on a piece of cardboard in big hasty letters. I got out and read it by the glow of the panel truck's weak headlights:

TURK! These are the ones I told you about, City of Para. Please get that d.a.m.n Mintz off my back and CRUSH THESE SOME-b.i.t.c.hES MONDAY 1st thing! Thanks Buddy, "I owe you 1."

FELIX.

Bill had joined me and was also reading the note. "What do you think?" he asked.

"I think Carlos Detweiller is going to rejoin the universe as part of a City of Paramus Port-a-Potty reject," I said. "Early Monday morning. Come on, let's get it done. This place gives me a severe case of the creeps."

A gust of wind blew through, rattling trash and sending cans rolling with a sound like rusty laughter. Bill looked around nervously. "Yeah," he said. "Me too. Hang on while I kill the truck headlights."

He popped the lights o ff and then we went around to the back of the truck and pulled out the rolled-up rug with our compadre Carlos inside. The moon had dived behind a cloud and as we ducked under the yellow KEEP OUT tape it re-emerged, once more flooding the wasteland. I felt like a pirate in a Robert Louis Stevenson novel. But instead of "Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum," the tune knocking around in my head was that d.a.m.ned John Denver thing about how good it was to be back home again. In this moonlit memorial to the G.o.ds of conspicuous consumption, I heard new words, my own words: There's a crusher softly rumblin, rats are in the trash; gee it's good to be back home again.

"Hang on, hang on," Bill said, reaching behind him with one hand and propping the rug up with a raised knee. He looked like some bizarre species of stork.