He cleaned out his desk, throwing away personal papers and his personal account books. He wrote his resignation on the back of a printed wash formula and slipped it into a laundry pay envelope. He left the impersonal things-the paper clips, the Scotch tape, the big book of checks, the pile of blank time cards held together with robber bands.

He got up, took the two degrees off the wall, and threw them into the wastebasket. The glass covering the Laundry Institute diploma shattered. The squares where the degrees had hung all these years were a little brighter than the rest of the wall, and that was all.

The phone rang and he picked it up, thinking it would be Ordner. But it was Ron Stone, calling from downstairs.

“ Bart?”

“Yeah.”

“Johnny passed away a half hour ago. I guess he never really had a chance.”

“I’m very sorry. I want to shut it down the rest of the day, Ron.”

Ron sighed. “That’s best, I guess. But won’t you catch hell from the big bosses?”

“I don’t work for the big bosses anymore. I just wrote my resignation.” There. It was out. That made it real.

A dead beat of silence on the other end. He could hear the washers and the steady thumping hiss of the ironer. The mangler, they called it, on account of what would happen to you if you ever got caught in it.-

“I must have heard you wrong,” Ron said finally. “I thought you said-”

“I said it, Ron. I’m through. It’s been a pleasure working with you and Tom and even Vinnie, when he could keep his mouth shut. But it’s over.”

“Hey, listen, Bart. Take it easy. I know this has got you upset-”

“It’s not over Johnny,” he said, not knowing if it was true or not. Maybe he still would have made an effort to save himself, to save the life that had existed under a protective dome of routine for the last twenty years. But when the priest had walked quickly past them down the hall, almost running, to the place where Johnny lay dying or dead, and when Arnie Walker had made that funny whining noise high up in his throat, he had given up. Like driving a car in a skid, or fooling yourself that you were driving, and then just taking your hands off the wheel and putting them over your eyes.

“It’s not over Johnny,” he repeated.

“Well, listen… listen…” Ron sounded very upset.

“Look, I’ll talk to you later, Ron,” he said, not knowing if he would or not. “Go on, have them punch out.”

“Okay. Okay, but-”

He hung up gently.

He took the phone book out of the drawer and looked in the yellow pages under GUNS. He dialed Harvey’s Gun Shop.

“Hello, Harvey’s.”

“This is Barton Dawes,” he said.

“Oh, right. Those shells came in late yesterday afternoon. I told you I’d have them in plenty of time for Christmas. Two hundred rounds.”

“Good. Listen, I’m going to be awfully busy this afternoon. Are you open tonight?”

“Open nights until nine right up to Christmas.”

“Okay. I’ll try to get in around eight. If not, tomorrow afternoon for sure.”

“Good enough. Listen, did you find out if it was Boca Rio?”

“Boca…” Oh, yes, Boca Rio, where his cousin Nick Adams would soon be hunting. “Boca Rio. Yeah, I think it was.”

“Jesus, I envy him. That was the best time I ever had in my life.”

“Shaky cease-fire holds,” he said. A sudden image came to him of Johnny Walker’s head mounted over Stephan Ordner’s electric log fireplace, with a small polished bronze plaque beneath, saying:

Bagged on the corner of Deakman

“What was that?” Harry Swinnerton asked, puzzled.

“I said, I envy him too,” he said, and closed his eyes. A wave of nausea raced through him. I’m cracking up, he thought. This is called cracking up.

“Oh. Well, I’ll see you, then.”

“Sure. Thanks again, Mr. Swinnerton.”

He hung up, opened his eyes, and looked around his denuded office again. He flicked the button on the intercom.

“Phyllis?”

“Yes, Mr. Dawes?”

“Johnny died. We’re going to shut it down.”

“I saw people leaving and thought he must have.” Phyllis sounded as if she might have been crying.

“See if you can get Mr. Ordner on the phone before you go, will you?”

“Surely.”

He swiveled around in his chair and looked out the window. A road grader, bright orange, was lumbering by with chains on its oversize wheels, lashing at the road. This is their fault, Freddy. All their fault. I was doing okay until those guys down at City Hall decided to rip up my life. I was doing fine, right, Freddy?

Freddy?

Fred?

The phone rang and he picked it up. “Dawes.”

“You’ve gone crazy,” Steve Ordner said flatly. “Right out of your mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I personally called Mr. Monohan this morning at nine-thirty. The McAn people signed the papers on the Waterford plant at nine o’clock. Now what the fuck happened, Barton?”

“I think we’d better discuss that in person.”

“So do I. And I think you ought to know that you’re going to have to do some fast talking if you want to save your job.”

“Stop playing games with me, Steve.”

“What?”

“You’ve got no intention of keeping me on, not even as the sweeper. I’ve written my resignation already. It’s sealed up, but I can quote it from memory. 'I quit. Signed, Barton George Dawes.'”

“But why?” He sounded physically wounded. But he wasn’t whining like Arnie Walker. He doubted if Steve Ordner had done any whining since his eleventh birthday. Whining was the last resort of lesser men.

“Two o’clock?” he asked.

“Two is fine.”

“Good-bye, Steve.”

“Bart-”

He hung up and looked blankly at the wall. After a while, Phyllis poked her head in, looking tired and nervous and bewildered beneath her smart Older Person hairdo. Seeing her boss sitting quietly in his denuded office did nothing to improve her state of mind.

“Mr. Dawes, should I go? I’d be glad to stay, if-”

“No, go on, Phyllis. Go home.”

She seemed to be struggling to say something else, and he turned around and looked out the window, hoping to spare them both embarrassment. After a moment, the door snicked closed, very softly.

Downstairs, the boiler whined and died. Motors began to start up in the parking lot.

He sat in his empty office in the empty laundry until it was time to go and see Ordner. He was saying good-byes.

Ordner’s office was downtown, in one of the new high-rise office buildings that the energy crisis might soon make obsolete. Seventy stories high, all glass, inefficient to heat in winter, a horror to cool in summer. Amroco’s offices were on the fifty-fourth floor.

He parked his car in the basement parking lot, took the escalator up to lobby level, went through a revolving door, and found the right bank of elevators. He rode up with a black woman who had a large Afro. She was wearing a jumper and was holding a steno notebook.

“I like your Afro,” he said abruptly, for no reason.

She looked at him coolly and said nothing. Nothing at all.

The reception room of Stephan Ordner’s office was furnished with free-form chairs and a redheaded secretary who sat beneath a reproduction of Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers.” There was an oyster-colored shag rug on the floor. Indirect lighting. Indirect Muzak, piping Mantovani.

The redhead smiled at him. She was wearing a black jumper, and her hair was bound with a hank of gold yarn. “Mr. Dawes?”

“Yes.”

“Go right in, please.”

He opened the door and went right in. Ordner was writing something at his desk, which was topped with an impressive slab of Lucite. Behind him, a huge window gave on a western view of the city. He looked up and put his pen down. “Hello, Bart,” he said quietly.