He sat bolt upright, spilling his drink on the rug. “No one except maybe me.”

Then what about the guns, George? What about the guns?

Trembling, he picked up his glass and made another drink.

He was having lunch with Tom Granger at Nicky’s, a diner three blocks over from the laundry. They were sitting in a booth, drinking bottles of beer and waiting for their meals to come. There was a jukebox, and it was playing “Good-bye Yellow Brick Road,” by Elton John.

Tom was talking about the Mustangs-Chargers game, which the Chargers had won 37-6. Tom was in love with all the city’s sports teams, and their losses sent him into frenzies. Someday, he thought as he listened to Tom castigate the whole Mustangs’ roster man by man, Tom Granger will cut off one of his ears with a laundry pin and send it to the general manager. A crazy man would send it to the coach, who would laugh and pin it to the locker room bulletin board, but Tom would send it to the general manager, who would brood over it.

The food came, brought by a waitress in a white nylon pants suit. He estimated her age at three hundred, possibly three hundred and four. Ditto weight. A small card over her left breast said:

Thanks For Your Patronage

Nicky’s Diner

Tom had a slice of roast beef that was floating belly up in a plateful of gravy.

He had ordered two cheeseburgers, rare, with an order of French fries. He knew the cheeseburgers would be well done. He had eaten at Nicky’s before. The 784 extension was going to miss Nicky’s by half a block.

They ate. Tom finished his tirade about yesterday’s game and asked him about the Waterford plant and his meeting with Ordner.

“I’m going to sign on Thursday or Friday,” he said.

“Thought the options ran out on Tuesday.”

He went through his story about how Thom McAn had decided they didn’t want the Waterford plant. It was no fun lying to Tom Granger. He had known Tom for seventeen years. He wasn’t terribly bright. There was no challenge in lying to Tom.

“Oh,” Tom said when he had finished, and the subject was closed. He forked roast beef into his mouth and grimaced. “Why do we eat here? The food is lousy here. Even the coffee is. My wife makes better coffee”

“I don’t know,” he said, slipping into the opening. “But do you remember when that new Italian place opened up? We took Mary and Verna.”

“Yeah, in August. Verna still raves about that ricotta stuff… no, rigatoni. That’s what they call it. Rigatoni.”

“And that guy sat down next to us? That big fat guy?”

“Big, fat…” Tom chewed, trying to remember. He shook his head.

“You said he was a crook.”

“Ohhhhh.” His eyes opened wide. He pushed his plate away and lit a Herbert Tareyton and dropped the dead match into his plate, where it floated on the gravy. “Yeah, that’s right. Sally Magliore.”

“Was that his name?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Big guy with thick glasses. Nine chins. Salvatore Magliore. Sounds like the specialty in an Italian whorehouse, don’t it? Sally One-Eye, they used to call him, on account of he had a cataract on one eye. He had it removed at the Mayo Clinic three or four years ago… the cataract, not the eye. Yeah, he’s a big crook.”

“What’s he in?”

“What are they all in?” Tom asked, tapping his cigarette ash into his plate. “Dope, girls, gambling, crooked investments, sharking. And murdering other crooks. Did you see that in the paper? Just last week. They found some guy in the trunk of his car behind a filling station. Shot six times in the head and his throat cut. That’s really ridiculous. Why would anyone want to cut a guy’s throat after they just shot him six times in the head? Organized crime, that’s what Sally OneEye’s in.”

“Does he have a legitimate business?”

“Yeah, I think he does. Out on the Landing Strip, beyond Norton. He sells cars. Magliore’s Guaranteed Okay Used Cars. A body in every trunk.” Tom laughed and tapped more ashes into his plate. Gayle came back and asked then if they wanted more coffee. They both ordered more

“I got those cotter pins today for the boiler door,” Tom said. “They remind me of my dork.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, you should see those sons of bitches. Nine inches long and three through the middle.”

“Did you mention my dork?” he asked, and they both laughed and talked shop until it was time to go back to work.

He got off the bus that afternoon at Barker Street and went into Duncan’s, which was a quiet neighborhood bar. He ordered a beer and listened to Duncan bitch for a little while about the Mustangs-Chargers game. A man came up from the back and told Duncan that the Bowl-a-Score machine wasn’t working right. Duncan went back to look at it, and he sipped his beer and looked at the TV. There was a soaper on, and two women were talking in slow, apocalyptic tones about a man named Hank. Hank was coming home from college, and one of the women had just found out that Hank was her son, the result of a disastrous experiment that had occurred after her high school prom twenty years ago.

Freddy tried to say something, and George shut him right up. The circuit breaker was in fine working order. Had been all day.

That’s right, you fucking schizo! Fred yelled, and then George sat on him. Go peddle your papers, Freddy. You’re persona non grata around here.

“Of course I’m not going to tell him,” said one of the women on the tube. “How do you expect me to tell him that?”

“Just… tell him,” said the other woman.

“Why should I tell him? Why should I knock his whole life out of orbit over something that happened twenty years ago?”

“Are you going to lie to him'?”

“I’m not going to tell him anything.”

“You have to tell him.”

“Sharon, I can’t afford to tell him.”

“If you don’t tell him, Betty, I’ll tell him myself.”

“That fucking machine is all fucked to shit,” Duncan said, coming back. “That’s been a pain in the ass ever since they put it in. Now what have I got to do? Call the fucking Automatic Industries Company. Wait twenty minutes until some dipshit secretary connects me with the right line. Listen to some guy tell me that they’re pretty busy but they’ll try to send a guy out Wednesday. Wednesday! Then some guy with his brains between the cheeks of his ass will show up on Friday, drink four bucks’ worth of free beer, fix whatever’s wrong and probably rig something else to break in two weeks, and tell me I shouldn’t let the guys throw the weights so hard. I used to have pinball machines. That was good. Those machines hardly ever fucked up. But this is progress. If I’m still here in 1980, they’ll take out the Bowl-a-Score and put in an Automatic Blow-Job. You want another beer?”

“Sure,” he said.

Duncan went to draw it. He put fifty cents on the bar and walked back to the phone booth beside the broken Bowl-a-Score.

He found what he was looking for in the yellow pages under Automobiles, New and Used. The listing there said: MAGLIORE’s USED CARS, Rt. 16, Norton 892-4576

Route 16 became Venner Avenue as you went farther into Norton. Venner Avenue was also known as the Landing Strip, where you could get all the things the yellow pages didn’t advertise.

He put a dime in the phone and dialed Magliore’s Used Cars. The phone was picked up on the second ring, and male voice said: “Magliore’s Used Cars.”

“This is Dawes,” he said. “Barton Dawes. Can I talk to Mr. Magliore?”

“Says busy. But I’ll be glad to help you if I can. Pete Mansey.”

“No, it has to be Mr. Magliore, Mr. Mansey. It’s about those two Eldorados.”

“You got a bum steer,” Mansey said. “We’re not taking any big cars in trade the rest of the year, on account of this energy business. Nobody’s buying them. So-”