Roadwork - Stephen King [30]
"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 fakepine-paneled walls. God knew how many agencies were bugging this place. "Just stuff," he finished, and the words came out on crutches.
"You mean stuff like dope and whores ('hoors') and off-track betting? Or did you want to buy a hitter to knock off your wife or your boss?" Magliore saw him wince and laughed harshly. "That's not too bad, mister, not bad at all for a shitbird. That's the big 'What if this place is bugged' act, right? That's number one at the police academy, am I right?"
"Look, I'm not a-"
"Shut up," Mansey said. He was holding the J.C. Whitney catalogue in his hands. His fingernails were manicured. He had never seen manicured nails exactly like that except on TV commercials where the announcer had to hold a bottle of aspirin or something. "If Sal wants you to talk, he'll tell you to talk."
He blinked and shut his mouth. This was like a bad dream.
"You guys get dumber every day," Magliore said. "That's all right. I like to deal with dummies. I'm used to dealing with dummies. I'm good at it. Now. Not that you don't know it, but this office is as clean as a whistle. We wash it every week. I got a cigar box full of bugs at home. Contact mikes, button mikes, pressure mikes, Sony tape recorders no bigger than your hand. They don't even try that much anymore. Now they send shitbirds like you."
He heard himself say: "I'm not a shitbird."
An expression of exaggerated surprise spread across Magliore's face. He turned to Mansey. "Did you hear that? He said he wasn't a shitbird."
"Yeah, I heard that," Mansey said.
"Does he look like a shitbird to you?"
"Yeah, he does," Mansey said.
"Even talks like a shitbird, doesn't he?"
"Yeah. "
"So if you're not a shitbird," Magliore said, turning back to him, "what are you?"
"I'm-" he began, not sure of just what to say. What was he? Fred, where are you when I need you?
"Come on, come on," Magliore said. "State Police? City? IRS? FBI? He look like prime Effa Bee Eye to you, Pete?"
"Yeah," Pete said.
"Not even the city police would send out a shitbird like you, mister. You must be Effa Bee Eye or a private detective. Which is it?"
He began to feel angry.
"Throw him out, Pete," Magliore said, losing interest. Mansey started forward, still holding the J.C. Whitney catalogue.
"You stupid dork!" He suddenly yelled at Magliore. "You probably see policemen under your bed, you're so stupid!You probably think they're home screwing your wife when you're here!"
Magliore looked at him, magnified eyes widening. Mansey froze, a look of unbelief on his face.
"Dork?" Magliore said, turning the word over in his mouth the way a carpenter will turn a tool he doesn't know over in his hands. "Did he call me a dork?"
He was stunned by what he had said.
"I'll take him around back," Mansey said, starting forward again.
"Hold it," Magliore breathed. He looked at him with honest curiosity. "Did you call me a dork?"
"I'm not a cop," he said. "I'm not a crook, either. I'm just a guy that heard you sold stuff to people who had the money to buy it. Well, I've got the money. I didn't know you had to say the secret word or have a Captain Midnight decoder ring or all that silly shit. Yes, I called you a dork. I'm sorry I did if it will stop this man from beating me up. I'm " He wet his lips and could think of no way to continue. Magliore and Mansey were looking at him with fascination, as if he had just turned into a Greek marble statue before