Stephen King - The Plant

“Thank you, Bill.”

“Did she... you know, did she suffer?”

“No. I don't believe she did.”

“Good. That's good.”

“Yes,” I said.

The John Denver song ended and was replaced by something infinitely worse: Sammy Davis Jr. singing about the candyman. Who can take a rainbow, dip it in a dream? Shuddering, I turned the radio off again. But the John Denver song lingered in my head: Gee it's good to be back home again.

We alit on the Jersey side, me in the passenger seat and Bill behind the wheel of the old truck with the fading Holsum Bread stickers on the sides. He had borrowed it from a friend, who hopefully has no idea of what we were transporting, rolled up in an old rug-remnant which Herb Porter found in the supply closet.

When, some hours before, Bill finished outlining his plan, Roger asked: “Who's going to go with you, Bill? You can't do it alone.”

“I will,” I said.

“You?” John asked. “But you're—” He stopped there, but we were still on the fifth floor, still in Zenith's presence, and we all heard the continuation of his thought: —only the janitor!

“Not any more, he's not,” Roger said. “I'm hereby hiring you in an executive capacity, Riddley. If you want it, that is.”

I gave him my Number One Nigger Jim smile, the one which features roughly two thousand huge white teeth. “I'se gwine to be an edituh in dis heah fine cump'ny? Why, sho! Sho! Dat'd be purty good!”

“But not if you talk like that,” John said.

“I'se gwine try to do bettah! Try to improve mah dictive qualities, as well!”

“This smells like bribery to me,” Sandra said. She squeezed my hand and looked at Roger with mistrusting eyes.

“You know better,” Roger said, and of course she did. That sense of family was too strong to deny. God only knows what's ahead of us, but we're in it together. Of that there can no longer be any doubt.

“What are you going to pay him with?” Herb wanted to know. “Smiler's Extra Value coupons? Enders will never approve another editor's salary. And if he finds out you're promoting the janitor, he'll shit.”

“For payroll purposes, Riddley will continue in his janitorial capacity for the time being,” Roger said. He sounded perfectly serene, perfectly sure of himself. “Later, we're going to have all the money we need to pay him a full salary. Riddley, how does $35,000 a year sound to you? Retroactive to today, April 4, 1981?”

“Goodness-gracious-me! I be de flashies' nigga in de Cotton Club!”

“It sounds fine to me, too,” John said, “since it's five a year more than I am currently making.”

“Oh, don't worry about that,” Roger said. “You, Herb, Bill, and Sandra are being raised to... let's see... forty-five a year.”

“Forty-five thousand?” Herb whispered. His eyes had a suspicious gleam to them, as if he were about to break down and cry. “Forty-five 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 shore and into the open sea, where the trade winds blow?”

“How about sixty?” Bill asked.

“Make it sixty-five,” 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 sex), 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 butts 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?”