1

We could hear heavy small-arms fire and explosions in other parts of the city, but until the shit hit the fan, our area in the Jolan was relatively quiet. We cleared the first three houses in our section, Block Lima, with no trouble. Two were empty. There was a kid in the third one, not armed and not wired up to explode. We made him take off his shirt to be sure. We sent him to the police station with a couple of army guys who were headed that way with their own prisoners. We knew that kid would probably be back on the street by nightfall, because the cop shop was basically a turnstile. He was lucky to be alive at all, because we were still red-assed about losing Albie Stark. Din-Din actually raised his gun, but Big Klew pushed the barrel down and said to leave the kid alone.

‘The next time we see him he’ll have an AK,’ George said. ‘We ought to just kill them all. Fucking roaches.’

The fourth house was the biggest on the block, a regular estate. It had a domed roof and a courtyard with palms on the inside to give it shade. Some rich Ba’athist’s crib, no doubt. The whole thing was surrounded by a high concrete wall painted with a mural of children playing ball and skipping rope and running around while several women looked on. Probably with approval, but it was hard to tell because they were so bundled up in their abayahs. There was also a man standing off to the side. Our terp, Fareed, said he was the mutawaeen. The women watched the children, Fareed said, and the mutawaeen watched the women to make sure they did nothing that might incite lust.

We all got a kick out of Fareed, because his accent made him sound like a Yooper from Traverse City. Lots of the terps sounded like Michiganders, who knows why. ‘Dat picture means dis house, the al’atfal, da kiddies, can come und play.’

‘So it’s a funhouse,’ Donk said.

‘No, dey don’t allow fun in da house,’ Fareed said. ‘Just in da yard.’

Donk rolled his eyes and snickered, but no one laughed outright. We were still thinking of Albie, and how it could have been any one of us.

‘Come on, you guys,’ Taco said. ‘Let’s get some.’ He handed Fareed the bullhorn that had GOOD MORNING VIETNAM printed on the side in Sharpie and told him

2

Billy is snapped back from Fallujah by the sound of Alice running down the stairs. She bursts into the apartment, hair flying out behind her. ‘Someone’s coming! I was spritzing the plants and saw the car turn into the driveway!’

One look at her face tells Billy not to waste time asking if she’s sure. He gets up and goes to the periscope window.

‘Is it them, do you think? The Jensens coming back early? I turned off the TV but I had coffee, the place smells of it, and there’s a plate on the counter! Crumbs! They’ll know somebody’s been—’

Billy pushes the curtain back a few inches. He couldn’t see the new car if it was able to pull all the way up, the angle is wrong, but because his leased Fusion is in the driveway, he can. It’s a blue SUV with a scratch running down the side. For a moment he doesn’t know where he’s seen it before, but it comes to him even before the driver gets out. It’s Merton Richter, the real estate agent who rented him the apartment.

‘Did you lock the door?’ Billy jerks his chin upward.

Alice shakes her head, her eyes big and scared, but maybe that’s okay. It might be even if Richter tries the door and peeks in when there’s no answer to his knock. The Jensens asked him to water their plants, after all. But he may be coming here, and Billy isn’t wearing the wig, let alone the fake stomach. He’s in a T-shirt and his workout shorts.

The front door opens and they hear Richter step inside. The puke has been cleaned up, but will he detect the smell? It’s not like they opened the door to air out the foyer.

Billy wants to wait and see if Richter goes up to the Jensens’ but knows he can’t afford to. ‘Turn on the computers.’ He sweeps his hand around, indicating the AllTechs. And Christ, Richter isn’t going up there, he’s coming down here. ‘You’re my niece.’

It’s all he has time for. He slams down the lid of the Mac Pro, runs for the bedroom, and shuts the door. As he crosses to the bathroom, where the fake belly is hanging on the back of the door, he hears Richter knock. She’ll have to open it because he’ll know from the car in the driveway that someone is home. When she does he’ll see a young woman half Billy’s age, bruised and still flushed from her run down the stairs. Only that’s not the exercise Richter will think of first. This is bad.

Billy puts the belly in the small of his back so he can cinch the strap, but he misses the buckle and the belly falls to the floor. He picks it up and tries again. This time he gets the strap in the buckle, but he pulls it too tight and can’t turn the belly to his front even when he sucks in his gut. When he loosens the strap, the fucking thing falls down again. Billy bumps his head on the washbasin, picks up the appliance, tells himself to calm down, and buckles the strap. He rotates the belly into position.

Back in the bedroom, Billy can hear the murmur of voices. Alice giggles. It sounds nervous rather than amused. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He yanks on chinos and then the sweatshirt, both because it’s quicker than a button-up and because Alice was right, fat guys think baggy clothes make them look less fat. The blond wig is on the bureau. He grabs it and jams it on over his black hair. In the living room Alice laughs again. He reminds himself not to say her name because for all Billy knows, she’s given their visitor a false one.

He takes two big breaths to calm himself, puts on a smile that he hopes will look embarrassed – as if he’s been caught doing the necessary – and opens the door. ‘We have company, I see.’

‘Yes,’ Alice says. She turns to him with a smile on her lips and an expression of naked relief in her eyes. ‘He says he rented you the apartment.’

Billy frowns, trying to remember, then smiles as it comes to him. ‘Oh yes, right. Mr Ricker.’

‘Richter,’ he says, and extends his hand. Billy shakes it, still smiling, trying to read what Richter is thinking. He can’t. But Richter will have noticed the bruises on her face and her nervousness. Those are impossible to miss. And is Billy’s hand sweaty? Probably.

‘I was in the …’ Billy points vaguely toward the bedroom and the bathroom beyond.

‘Quite all right,’ Richter says. He looks at the screens of the AllTech laptops, which are cycling through all sorts of pre-loaded clickbait: the wonders of acai berries, two weird little tips for erasing wrinkles, doctors plead with you not to eat this vegetable, see what these ten child stars look like now.

‘So this is what you do?’ Richter asks.

‘As a sideline. I earn most of my beer and skittles doing IT work. Travel around a lot, don’t I, dear?’

‘Yes,’ Alice says, and gives another of those jagged giggles. Richter slips her a quick side-glance, and in it Billy sees that whatever Alice may have told Richter while Billy was fumbling with the fucking fake stomach, the man believes that she’s Dalton Smith’s niece like he believes the moon is made of green cheese.

‘Fascinating stuff,’ Richter says, bending to squint at the screen that’s just changed from the dangerous vegetable (corn, as it happens, which isn’t even a real vegetable) to ten famous unsolved murders (JonBenét Ramsey leading the pack). ‘Just fascinating.’ He straightens up and looks around. ‘I like what you’ve done to the place.’

Alice has neatened it up a bit, but otherwise it’s the same as it was when he moved in. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Richter?’

‘Well, I just came to give you a little heads-up.’ Richter, recalled to business, smooths his tie and puts on a professional smile. ‘A consortium called Southern Endeavor has bought up those storage sheds back there on Pond Street and the houses, the few that remain, here on Pearson Street. Which includes this one. They’re planning on a new shopping mall that should revitalize this whole section of town.’

Billy doubts that malls can revitalize anything in the age of the Internet, including themselves, but he says nothing.

Alice is calming down, and that’s good. ‘I’ll just go in the bedroom and let you men talk,’ she says, and does just that, closing the door behind her.

Billy puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back and forth on his feet, making the fake stomach bulge a bit against the sweatshirt. ‘The storage sheds and houses are going to be knocked down, is that what you’re telling me? Including this one, I assume.’

‘Yes, but you’ll have six weeks to find new accommodations.’ Richter says it as if conveying a great gift. ‘Six weeks is firm, I’m afraid. Give me a forwarding address before you move out, Cuz, and I’ll be happy to refund any rent that’s owing.’ Richter sighs. ‘I’ll have to tell the Jensens when I leave here. That could be harder, because they’ve been here longer.’

It’s not for Billy to tell him that Don and Beverly will be looking for a new place anyway, maybe to buy instead of to rent, when they get back from their cruise. But he does tell Richter that the Jensens will be gone for awhile and he’s been taking care of their plants. ‘Me and my niece, that is.’

‘Very neighborly of you. And she’s a lovely girl.’ Richter licks his lips, perhaps just to moisten them, perhaps not. ‘Do you have a phone number for the Jensens?’

‘I do. It’s in my wallet. Will you excuse me for just a sec?’

‘Of course.’

Alice is sitting on the bed and looking at him with big eyes. Most of the color has left her face, making the bruises even more prominent. What? those eyes say. And How bad?

Billy raises a hand and pats the air with it: Be cool, be cool.

He gets his wallet and goes back into the living room, remembering to walk fat. Richter is bent over one of the AllTechs, hands on knees, tie hanging down like a stopped pendulum, looking at the wonders of the avocado, nature’s most perfect vegetable (it’s actually a fruit). For one moment Billy actually considers lacing his fingers together and bringing the hammer down on the back of Richter’s neck, but when Richter turns, Billy just opens his wallet and holds out a slip of paper. ‘Here it is.’

Richter takes a little pad from his inner pocket and jots down the number with a silver pencil. ‘I’ll give them a ringy-dingy.’

‘I can do it, if you want.’

‘By all means, by all means, but I’ll still have to call them myself. Part of the job. Sorry to trouble you, Mr Smith. I’ll let you go back …’ His eyes flick briefly to the bedroom door. ‘… to whatever you were doing.’

‘I’ll see you out,’ Billy says. Pitching his voice lower, he says ‘I want to talk to you about …’ He tilts his head to the bedroom.

‘None of my business, Cuz. This is the twenty-first century.’

‘I know, but it’s not like that.’

They walk up the stairs to the foyer. Billy brings up the rear, puffing a little. ‘Got to lose some weight.’

‘Join the club,’ Richter says.

‘That poor kid’s my sister Mary’s girl,’ Billy says. ‘Mary’s husband left her a year ago and she picked up this loser, I think in a bar. Bob somebody. He’s been after the girl and beat her up when she wouldn’t come across for him, if you know what I mean.’

‘I get it.’ Richter is looking out the foyer door like he can’t wait to get back to his car. Maybe the story makes him uncomfortable, Billy thinks. Or maybe he just wants to get away from me.

‘Here’s the other piece. Mary’s got quite the temper, doesn’t like anyone telling her her business.’

‘Know the type,’ Richter says, still looking out the door. ‘Know it very well.’

‘I’ll keep my niece for a week, maybe ten days, let Sis cool down a bit, then take her back and talk to her about Bob.’

‘Got it. Wish you luck.’ He turns to Billy and offers a hand with a smile to go with it. The smile looks genuine. Richter may believe his story. On the other hand, he may be acting as if his life depends on it, which he might think it does. Billy gives him a good firm shake.

Richter exclaims, ‘Women! Can’t live with em and can’t shoot em outside the state of Alabama!’

It’s a joke, so Billy laughs. Richter lets go of his hand, opens the door, then turns back. ‘I see you shaved off your mustache.’

Startled, Billy raises two fingers to his upper lip. What he did was forget to put it on in his haste, and maybe that’s for the best. The mustache is tricky, it needs spirit gum to hold it, and if he applied it crooked, or the spirit gum showed, Richter would have known it was fake and wondered what the fuck.

‘Got tired of picking food out of it,’ Billy says.

Richter laughs. Billy can’t tell if it’s forced. It might be. ‘I hear that, Cuz. Loud and clear.’

He trots down the steps to his scratched SUV, shoulders a bit hunched, maybe because it’s chilly this morning, maybe because he’s expecting Billy to put a bullet in the back of his neck.

He gives a wave before getting in. Billy waves back. Then he hurries downstairs.

3

Billy says, ‘I’m going to visit your bad date today. Tomorrow I’m getting out of Dodge.’

Alice puts a hand to her mouth but drops it when her index finger brushes against her swollen nose. ‘Oh God. Did he recognize you?’

‘My instinct says no, but he’s observant, noticed I didn’t have my mustache anymore—’

‘Jesus!’

‘He assumed I shaved it off, so it’s okay. At least I think so. I’m willing to push my luck one more day. Did you give him a name?’

‘Brenda Collins. My best friend in high school. Did you—’

‘Give him a different one? No, just called you my niece. I told him your mother’s boyfriend beat you up because you wouldn’t go to bed with him.’

Alice nods. ‘That’s good. It covers everything.’

‘Which doesn’t mean he’ll believe it. Stories are one thing, seeing is another. What he saw was a middle-aged fat man with a banged-up underage girl.’

Alice draws herself up, looking offended. Under other circumstances it might have been funny. ‘I’m twenty-one! A legal adult!’

‘Do you get carded in bars?’

‘Well …’

Billy nods, case closed.

‘Maybe,’ Alice says, ‘if you really mean to … well … confront Tripp, we shouldn’t wait until tomorrow. Maybe we should go right now.’

4

He stares at her, simultaneously believing that pronoun and not believing it. And what’s worse, she’s looking at him like it’s a foregone conclusion.

‘Holy shit,’ Billy says. ‘You really do have Stockholm Syndrome.’

‘I don’t because I’m not a hostage. I could have walked out anytime from the Jensens’ apartment, as long as I was quiet on the stairs. You would never have noticed because you’d’ve been all wrapped up in your writing.’

Probably true, Billy thinks. And furthermore—

Alice says it for him. ‘If I was going to run away, I could have done it the first time you went out. For the morning-after pill.’ She pauses, then adds, ‘Plus I gave him a false name.’

‘Because you were scared.’

Alice shakes her head vehemently. ‘You were in the other room. I could have whispered that you were William Summers, who killed that man at the courthouse. We would have been upstairs and in his car before you finished putting on that.’ She pokes him in the fake belly.

‘You can’t go with me. It’s nuts.’

Still, the idea is starting to seep down, like water in dry earth. She can’t go with him all the way to Vegas, but if they can work out a story that protects the Dalton Smith identity, which is now in dire peril, then maybe …

‘Maybe you could go by yourself if you leave Tripp and his friends alone. Because if anything happens to them, they’d connect it to me. Tripp and his friends, I mean. They wouldn’t want to go to the police, but they might decide to hurt me.’

Billy has to hide a smile. She is playing him, and doing a good job of it on short notice. This is quite a change from the puking semiconscious girl he fished out of the rain, the one who sometimes has panic attacks in the night. Billy thinks it’s a change for the better. Plus, she’s right – anything he does to those three they would connect to her. Assuming, that is, she’s the only woman they date-raped last week, which seems likely.

‘Yes,’ Alice says, watching him from under her eyebrows and still playing him for all she’s worth. ‘I guess you better leave them unpunished.’ Then she asks him what he’s smiling about.

‘Nothing. Just that I like you. My friend Taco would have said you’ve got some gimme to you.’

‘I don’t know what that means.’

‘It doesn’t matter. But yeah, those guys need a payback for what they did. I need to think about this.’

Alice says, ‘Can I help you pack while you think?’

5

It’s Billy who does the packing. It doesn’t take long. There’s no room for her new clothes in his suitcase, but he finds a plastic Barnes & Noble bag, the kind with handles, on the top shelf of the bedroom closet and dumps her stuff into that. He carries the AllTechs out to the Fusion in a stack.

While he does that, Alice goes through the Jensens’ apartment with a dish towel and a spray bottle of Lysol and water, wiping down surfaces. She pays special attention to the TV remote, which they’ve both used, and doesn’t neglect the light switches. When she goes downstairs, Billy helps her wipe down the basement apartment, paying particular attention to the bathroom: fixtures, shower head, mirror, the toilet’s flush handle. It takes them about an hour.

‘I think we’re done,’ she says.

‘What about the key to the Jensens’ apartment?’

‘Oh glory,’ she says. ‘I’ve still got it. I’ll wipe it down and … what? Slip it under the door?’

‘I’ll do it.’ He does, but goes in first to get Don Jensen’s Ruger. He sticks it in his belt, beneath the pregnancy belly. The XL sweatshirt covers it. The revolver is a pricey item, five or six hundred dollars, and Billy doesn’t have that much cash. He leaves two fifties and a C-note on the nightstand, along with a quick scribble that says Took your gun. Will send the balance when I can. More like if he can. Meanwhile, what about Daphne and Walter? Will they die of thirst on their windowsill? Romeo and Juliet of the plant world? Stupid to even wonder, given everything else he has to worry about.

It’s because Bev gave them names, he thinks. He treats each to one final spray for good luck. Then he touches his back pocket, where Shan’s flamingo drawing is folded up and stowed away.

Back downstairs, he takes Alice’s phone out of his hip pocket and holds it out to her. He’s replaced the SIM card.

She takes it with an accusing look. ‘It wasn’t lost. You had it all along.’

‘Because I didn’t trust you.’

‘And now you do?’

‘Now I do. And at some point you need to call your mother. Otherwise she’s going to get worried.’

‘I suppose she would,’ Alice says. Then, with a trace of bitterness: ‘After a month or so.’ She sighs. ‘Okay, and tell her what? I made a friend, we bonded over chicken noodle soup and The Blacklist?’

Billy considers, but comes up empty.

Alice, meanwhile, breaks into a smile. ‘You know what, I’m going to tell her I quit school. She’ll believe that. And I’m going to Cancun with some friends. She’ll believe that, too.’

‘Will she really?’

‘Yes.’

Billy thinks there’s a whole mother–daughter relationship in that single word, complete with tears, recriminations, and slammed doors. ‘You need to work on that a little,’ he says. ‘Right now it’s time to go.’

6

There are two Sherwood Heights exits off the Interstate, both with clusters of fast-food restaurants, gas-em-up quick-stops, and motels. Billy tells Alice to look for a motel that isn’t part of a chain. While she’s busy checking out the signs, he slips the Ruger out of his belt and stows it under the seat. At the second exit she points out the Penny Pines Motel and asks what he thinks. Billy says it looks good. Using one of his Dalton Smith credit cards, he gets them a pair of adjoining rooms. Alice waits in the car, making Billy think of that old song by the Amazing Rhythm Aces, ‘Third Rate Romance.’

They bring in their stuff. He takes the Mac Pro out of the carrybag, puts it on the room’s single table (shaky and needing a shim under one leg), re-zips the bag, and slings it over his shoulder.

‘What do you need that for?’

‘Supplies. I need to do some shopping. And it’s got a good look. Professional. What’s your phone number?’

She gives it to him and he puts it into his contacts.

‘Do you have an address for the condo where these guys live?’ It’s a question he should have asked before, but they’ve been a little busy.

‘I don’t know the number, but it’s Landview Estates, on Route 10. It’s the last stop the bus makes before it gets to the airport and turns around.’ Alice takes him by the sleeve and leads him to the window. She points. ‘Pretty sure that’s Landview Estates, those three on the left. Tripp lives – they live – in building C.’

‘Third floor.’

‘That’s right. I don’t remember the apartment number, but it’s the one at the end of the hall. You have to push a code to get in the front door, and I didn’t see what he put in. It didn’t seem important at the time.’

‘I’ll get in.’ Billy hopes he’s right about that. His expertise is guns, not entering buildings with security doors.

‘Will you come back here before you go there?’

‘No, but I’ll stay in touch.’

‘Are we staying in these rooms tonight?’

‘I don’t know. It depends on how things go.’

She asks if he’s sure he wants to do this. Billy says he is, and it’s the truth.

‘Maybe it’s a bad idea.’

It might be, but Billy means to go through with it anyway, if he can. Those men owe.

‘Tell me no and I’ll back off.’

Instead of doing that, Alice takes one of his hands and squeezes. Hers is cold. ‘Be safe.’

He gets halfway down the hall, then turns back. There’s another question he forgot to ask. He knocks and she opens the door.

‘What does Tripp look like?’

She takes out her phone and shows him a picture. ‘I took this the night we went to the movies.’

The man who drugged her drink and raped her and, along with his two friends, tossed her out of the old van like a piece of trash, is holding up a bag of popcorn and smiling. His eyes sparkle. His teeth are white and even. Billy thinks he looks like an actor in a toothpaste ad.

‘Okay. What about the other two?’

‘One was short and had freckles. The other was much taller, with an olive complexion. I don’t remember which one was Jack and which one was Hank.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

7

The Airport Mall is just up the road from the motel. It’s anchored by a Walmart even bigger than the one in Midwood. Billy locks his car, mindful of the gun under the driver’s seat, and does his shopping. The mask is easy. Halloween is still weeks away, but the stores always put out their holiday shit well ahead of time. He also picks up a cheap pair of binoculars, a package of heavy-duty zip-ties, a pair of thin gloves, a Magic Wand hand mixer, and a can of Easy-Off oven cleaner. Outside, a couple of cops – real ones, not Wally World security guards – are drinking coffee and discussing outboard motors. Billy gives them a nod. ‘Afternoon, officers.’

They nod back and go on with their conversation. Billy walks fat until he’s well into the parking lot, then hurries to the Fusion. He transfers the gun and his purchases to his laptop case and drives the mile and a half to Landview Estates. It’s pretty upscale, the perfect place for swinging singles, but not upscale enough for a security booth manned by a rent-a-cop, and at this time of day the parking lot in front of Building C is fairly empty.

Billy pulls into a spot facing the door, takes off the fake stomach, and waits. After twenty minutes or so a sporty Kia Stinger pulls in and two young women get out with shopping bags. Billy raises the binoculars. They go to the door and push some buttons on the keypad, but one of them is in the way and Billy gets nothing. The next arrival, twenty minutes later, is a man … but not one Billy is looking for. This guy is in his fifties. He also stands between Billy and the pad, rendering the binocs useless.

This isn’t going to work, he thinks.

He could try going in with a legitimate resident (‘Would you hold the door a second? Thanks!’), but that probably just works in the movies. Also, this is a slack time of day. Only two people have entered in forty minutes, and no one at all has come out.

Billy shoulders his computer bag and walks around to the back of the building. The first thing he sees in the smaller auxiliary parking lot is the van. Now he can read the bumper sticker: DEAD-HEADS SUCK. Unless the van’s broken down, always a possibility, at least one of these fuckwits is home.

There are two big garbage dumpsters on the left of what must be a service door. On the right is a lawn chair and a rusty little table with an ashtray on it. The door is propped open a few inches with a brick, because this is the kind of door that locks as soon as you shut it, and whoever comes out here to smoke doesn’t want to bother unlocking it each time he goes back in.

Billy goes to the door and peeks through the gap. He sees a dim hallway, no one in it. There’s music, Axl Rose wailing ‘Welcome to the Jungle.’ Thirty feet or so along are open doors on the left and right. The music is coming from the one on the right. Billy enters and walks briskly down the hall. When you’re in a place where you don’t belong, you have to act like you do. The room on the left is a laundry, with a few coin-op washers and driers inside. The one on the right goes down to the basement.

Someone is down there, singing along with the music. And not just singing. Billy can’t see him but he can see his shadow, and the shadow is dancing. Someone, probably the building super, has taken a pause in whatever chore he came down to do – re-setting a breaker, hunting out a can of touch-up paint – to fantasize that he’s on Dancing with the Stars.

There’s an oversized freight elevator at the end of the hall, doors open, sides hung with furniture pads, but Billy doesn’t even think about using it. The machinery will be in the basement and if the elevator starts up, the shadow dancer will hear it. There’s a door to the left of the elevator marked STAIRS. Billy climbs to the third-floor landing. There he unzips his laptop case. He puts on the gloves and the mask. He puts the zip-ties in his pants pocket. He has the Ruger in his left hand and the can of oven cleaner in his right. He cracks the stairway door and peeks out into a little lobby. It’s empty. So is the hallway beyond. There’s one apartment door on the left, one on the right, and one at the end. That will be the one where the rapin’ roomies live.

Billy walks down the hall. There’s a bell, but instead of using it he knocks good and loud. He gives it a pause, then knocks even louder.

Footsteps approach. ‘Who is it?’

‘Police, Mr Donovan.’

‘He’s not here. I’m just one of his roommates.’

‘You don’t get a prize for that. Open up.’

The man who opens the door is olive-skinned and at least six inches taller than Billy. Alice Maxwell is five-four at most, and the thought of this big man hulking over her infuriates Billy.

‘What—’ The guy’s face goes slack as he beholds a man in a Melania Trump mask with a laptop bag slung over his shoulder.

‘Get them panties down.’ Billy says, and sprays him in the eyes with Easy-Off.

8

Jack or Hank, whichever one it is, stumbles backward, pawing at his eyes. Foam drips off his cheeks and plops from his jaws. He stumbles over a hassock in front of a wicker chair with a hood – what Billy thinks is called a ‘bungalow chair’ – and goes sprawling. It’s a swinging singles living room for sure, with a curving two-person couch – Billy knows that one, it’s a ‘love-seat’ – facing a big-screen TV. There’s a round table with a laptop on it and a bar in front of a wide window that looks toward the airport. Billy can see a plane taking off, and he’s sure if the fuckwit could see it, he’d wish he was on it. Billy slams the hall door shut. The guy is yelling that he’s blind.

‘No, but you will be if you don’t get your eyes rinsed out pretty fast, so pay attention. Hold out your hands.’

‘I can’t see! I can’t see!’

‘Hold out your hands and I’ll take care of you.’

Jack or Hank is rolling around on the wall-to-wall carpet. He’s not holding out his hands, he’s trying to sit up, and this guy is too big to fool with. Billy drops the laptop bag and kicks him in the stomach. He lets out a whoof of air. Splatters of foam fly and land on the carpet.

‘Did I stutter? Hold out your hands.’

He does it, eyes squeezed shut, cheeks and forehead bright red. Billy kneels, holds his wrists together, and secures him with one of the zip-ties before the man on the floor knows what’s happening.

‘Who else is here?’ Billy’s pretty sure there’s no one. If there was, this man’s bellowing would have brought them in a hurry.

‘Nobody! Ah Christ, my eyes! They burn!’

‘Get up.’

Jack or Hank blunders to his feet. Billy grabs him by the shoulders and turns him toward the passthrough that gives on the kitchen. ‘March.’

Jack or Hank doesn’t march, but he stumbles forward, waving his arms in front of him for obstacles. He’s breathing fast and hard but not whooping for breath the way Alice was; there’s no need to teach him the first verse of ‘Teddy Bears’ Picnic.’ Billy shoves him until the buckle of his pants hits the front of the sink. The faucet has a sprayer attachment. Billy turns on the water and points the spray at Jack or Hank’s face. He also gets wet in the process, but that’s all right. It’s actually refreshing.

‘It burns! It still burns!’

‘It’ll go away,’ Billy says, and it will, but hopefully not too soon. He’s betting Alice’s works burned plenty. Maybe still do. ‘What’s your name?’

‘What do you want?’ Now he’s crying. Got to be in his mid to late twenties, tall and at least two-twenty, but he’s crying like a baby.

Billy jams the Ruger into the small of the guy’s back. ‘That’s a gun, so don’t make me ask you again. What’s your name?’

‘Jack!’ he almost screams. ‘Jack Martinez! Please don’t shoot me, please!’

‘Let’s go in the living room, Jack.’ Billy pushes Jack ahead of him. ‘Sit in the wicker seat. Can you see it?’

‘A little,’ Jack weeps. ‘It’s all fucking blurry. Who are you? Why—’

‘Sit down.’

‘You can have my wallet. There’s not much but Tripp keeps a couple of hundred in his bedroom, in the top drawer of the desk, just take it and go!’

‘Sit down.’

He takes Martinez by the shoulders, turns him, and pushes him into the bungalow chair. It’s suspended on a hook-and-rope combo from the ceiling and starts a mild rocking motion when the man’s weight hits it. Martinez peers at Billy through bloodshot eyes.

‘Just sit there a minute and get yourself together.’

There are napkins on the bar next to the ice bucket. Cloth ones, not paper, very nice. Billy takes one and goes to Martinez.

‘Don’t move.’

Martinez sits still and Billy wipes his face, getting rid of the last runnels of foam. Then he steps back. ‘Where are the other two?’

‘Why?’

‘You don’t ask, Jack. I do. Your job is to answer, unless you want another shot of foam. Or a bullet in the knee if you really irritate me. Understand?’

‘Yes!’ The crotch of Martinez’s chinos has gone dark.

‘Where are they?’

‘Tripp went to RBCC to see his advisor. Hank’s at work. He’s a salesman at JossBank.’

‘What’s JossBank?’

‘Joseph A. Bank, it’s a men’s—’

‘Okay, I know what it is. What’s RBCC?’

‘Red Bluff Community College. Tripp’s a graduate student. Part time. History. He’s writing a paper on the Australian and Hungarian War.’

Billy thinks of telling this idiot that Australia had nothing to do with the Hungarian revolution of 1848, but why would he? He’s here to teach a different lesson.

‘When will he be back?’

‘I don’t know. I think he said his meeting was at two. He might stop for coffee after, sometimes he does that.’

‘Chat up a barista, maybe,’ Billy says. ‘That is if she’s new in town and hoping to meet someone nice.’

‘Huh?’

Billy kicks him in the leg. It’s not hard, but Martinez cries out and the bungalow chair starts swinging again. It’s a swinging chair for three swinging roommates.

‘What about Hank? When does he get back?’

‘He gets off at four. Why do you—’

Billy raises the can of Easy-Off. It must still look blurry to Martinez, but he knows what it is and subsides.

‘What about you, Jack? How do you earn your beer and bagels?’

‘I’m a day trader.’

Billy goes over to the laptop on the round table. Numbers are flowing across it, most of them green. It’s Saturday, but someone is trading somewhere, because money never sleeps.

‘Is that your van out back?’

‘No, Hank’s. I’ve got a Miata.’

‘Is the van broken down?’

‘Yeah, blew a head gasket. He’s been taking my car to work this week. The store he works at is in the Airport Mall.’

Billy pulls a regular chair over to the hanging bungalow chair. He sits in front of Martinez. ‘I can be done with you, Jack. If you behave. Can you behave?’

‘Yes!’

‘That means when your roomies come home, you keep perfectly quiet. No yelling out a warning. It’s Tripp I mostly want to deal with, but if you alert him, or Hank, I will give you what I was going to give Tripp. Do you understand me? Are we clear?’

‘Yes!’

Billy takes out his phone and calls Alice. She asks if he’s all right and Billy says he is. ‘I’m with a guy named Jack Martinez. He has something he wants to say to you.’ Billy holds the phone out to Jack. ‘Tell her you’re a worthless piece of shit.’

Jack doesn’t protest, perhaps because he’s cowed, perhaps because that’s how he feels just now. Billy is hoping for that. He’s hoping even day traders can learn.

‘I’m … a worthless piece of shit.’

‘Now say you’re sorry.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Martinez says into the phone.

Billy takes the phone back. Alice sounds like she’s crying. She tells him to be careful and Billy says he will. He ends the call and turns his attention to the red-faced man in the bungalow chair. ‘Do you know what you were apologizing for?’

Martinez nods and Billy decides that’s good enough.

9

They sit there and time passes. Martinez says his eyes still burn, so Billy wets another bar napkin in the bar sink and wipes his face, paying particular attention to his eyes. Martinez thanks him. Billy thinks the man may regain his MAGA swagger eventually, but that’s okay because he also thinks Martinez will never rape another woman. He has been rehabilitated.

Around three-thirty someone comes to the door. Billy stands behind it after first looking at Martinez with a finger to the lips of the Melania mask. Martinez nods. It’s got to be Tripp Donovan because it’s too early for Hank. The key rattles in the lock. Donovan is whistling. Billy holds the Ruger by the barrel and raises it to the side of his face.

Donovan comes in, still whistling. He’s looking very young-man-about-town in his designer jeans and short leather coat, the picture finished off to perfection by the monogrammed briefcase in his hand and the scally cap perched jauntily on his dark hair. He sees Martinez in the bungalow chair with his hands bound together and stops whistling. Billy steps forward and clubs him with the butt of the gun. Not too hard.

Donovan stumbles forward but doesn’t go down like the guys on TV do when they get pistol-whipped. He turns around, eyes wide, hand to the back of his head. Now Billy is pointing the business end of the gun at him. Donovan looks at his hand. There’s a smear of blood on it.

‘You hit me!’

‘Better than what I got,’ Martinez says in a grumbly tone that’s almost funny.

‘Why are you wearing that mask?’

‘Put your hands together. Wrist to wrist.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’ll shoot you if you don’t.’

Donovan puts his hands together wrist to wrist with no further argument. Billy tucks the Ruger into his belt at the front. Donovan rushes at him, which Billy expected. He steps aside and aids Donovan’s forward motion with a hearty push into the closed door. Donovan cries out. Billy grabs him by the collar of his trendy leather coat – perhaps purchased at Joseph A. Bank – and pulls him backward, tripping Tripp over one outstretched leg. He falls on his back. His nose is bleeding.

Billy kneels beside him, first putting Don Jensen’s gun in his belt at the back so Donovan can’t make a grab for it, then holding out one of the ties. ‘Put your hands together, wrist to wrist.’

‘No!’

‘Your nose is bleeding but not broken. Put your hands together or I’ll fix that.’

Donovan puts his hands together. Billy binds his wrists and then calls Alice to tell her two down and one to go. He doesn’t put Donovan on the phone because Donovan doesn’t seem like he’s ready to apologize. At least not yet.

10

Tripp Donovan, sitting on the love-seat, keeps trying to engage Billy in conversation. He says he knows why Billy is here, but whatever that girl Alice told him is total self-protecting bullshit. She was horny, she wanted it, she got it, everyone parted friends, end of story.

Billy nods agreeably. ‘You took her home.’

‘That’s right, we took her home.’

‘In Hank’s van.’

Donovan’s eyes shift at that. He’s got that magic mixture of charm and bullshit, it’s worked for him his whole life and he even expects it to work on the home invader in the Melania Trump mask, but he doesn’t like that question. It’s a knowing question.

‘No, the Love Machine’s broken down in the back parking lot.’

Billy says nothing. Martinez says nothing, and Donovan doesn’t see his roomie’s you fucked up look. Donovan is concentrating on Billy.

‘That a Pro?’ Nodding at the computer bag on the floor. ‘Sweet cruncher, man.’

Billy says nothing. He’s sweating inside the plastic shell of the mask and he can’t wait to get it off. He can’t wait to finish his business and get out of this swinging bachelor pad.

At quarter to five another key rattles in the lock and in comes the third little pig, a small and dapper porker in a black three-piece suit set off by a tie as red as the blood on Alice Maxwell’s thighs. Hank makes no trouble. He sees the blood on Donovan’s face and Martinez’s swollen eyes and when Billy tells him to hold out his hands he does so with only token protest and allows Billy to zip-tie his wrists. Billy leads him to the round table.

‘Here we are,’ Billy says. ‘All in our places with bright shiny faces.’

‘There’s money in my desk,’ Donovan says. ‘In my room. Also some dope. World-class coke, man. An eightball.’

‘I’ve got some cash, too,’ Hank says. ‘Only fifty, but …’ He gives a what-can-you-do shrug. Billy can almost like this one. Stupid considering what he did but true. The flesh under his eyes and around his mouth is white with terror, but he’s behaving and putting up a good front.

‘Oh, you know this isn’t about money.’

‘I told you—’ Donovan begins.

‘He knows the whole thing, Tripp,’ Martinez says.

Billy turns to Hank. ‘What’s your last name?’

‘Flanagan.’

‘And the van out back, the Love Machine … that’s yours, right?’

‘Yes. But it’s broken down. The head gasket—’

‘Blew, I know. But it was running last week, yeah? You guys took Alice home in it after you were done with her?’

‘Don’t say anything!’ Donovan barks.

Hank ignores him. ‘What are you? Her boyfriend? Her brother? Oh boy.’

Billy says nothing.

Hank lets out a sigh. It sounds wet. ‘You know we didn’t take her home.’

‘What did you do with her?’

Donovan: ‘Don’t say anything!’ This seems to be his scripture.

‘Bad advice, Hank. Just say it and spare yourself a lot of grief.’

‘We dropped her off.’

‘Dropped her off? Is that what you want to call it?’

‘Okay, we dumped her,’ he says. ‘But man … she was talking, okay? And we knew she had her phone and money for an Uber. She was talking!’

‘And making perfect sense?’ Billy asks. ‘Holding a conversation? Tell me that if you fucking dare.’

Hank doesn’t tell him that. He starts to cry, which tells Billy something else.

Billy calls Alice. He doesn’t make Hank tell her he’s a worthless piece of shit, because the man’s tears make it clear he already knows that. He only asks Hank to say he’s sorry. Which he does and sounds like he means it. For whatever that’s worth.

Billy turns to Donovan. ‘That leaves you.’

11

The swinging roommates are cowed. No one’s going to run for the door because they know the intruder in the mask would clothesline them if they tried. Billy goes to his computer bag and takes out the Magic Wand hand mixer. It’s a slim stainless steel cylinder about eight inches long. Its electrical cord has been bound into a neat bow by two twist ties.

‘Here’s what I’ve been thinking about,’ Billy says. ‘That men don’t know what it’s like to be raped unless they’ve been raped themselves. You, Mr Donovan, are about to have a reasonable facsimile of that experience.’

Donovan tries to lunge up from the love-seat and Billy pushes him back. When he lands the cushion makes a farting sound. Martinez and Flanagan don’t move, only stare at the mixer with big eyes.

‘What I need you to do is stand up, push down your pants and undershorts, then lie on your stomach.’

‘No!’

Donovan has gone white. His eyes are even bigger than those of his roommates. Billy hardly expected instant compliance. He takes the Ruger from his belt. He remembers Pablo Lopez, one of the squad’s Funhouse casualties. Bigfoot Lopez had that Dirty Harry speech down pat, the one that ends with Harry saying You’ve got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well do you, punk? Billy can’t remember it all, but he has the gist.

‘This isn’t my gun,’ he says. ‘I borrowed it. I know it’s loaded, but I don’t know what the loads are. I didn’t check them. If you don’t drop trou and lie on your stomach, I’m going to shoot you in the ankle. Point blank. So you’ve got to ask yourself one question – ball or hollow point? If they’re hard point, you’ll probably walk again, but only after a lot of pain and therapy and you’ll limp for the rest of your life. If they’re softnose, most of your foot is going to say adios. So here’s the deal. Roll the dice on the bullet or get cornholed. Your choice.’

Donovan begins to blubber. His tears don’t make Billy feel pity; they make him want to hit the man in the mouth with the butt of the Ruger and see how many of those toothpaste-ad teeth he can knock out.

‘Let me put it to you another way. Either you can endure short-lived pain and humiliation or you can drag your left foot around for the rest of your life. Assuming the doctors don’t amputate. You have five seconds to decide. Five … four …’

On three, Tripp Donovan stands up and drops trou. His cock has shriveled to a noodle and his balls are barely visible at all.

‘Mister, do you have to—’ Martinez begins.

‘Shut up,’ Hank says. ‘He deserves it. Probably we all do.’ To Billy he says, ‘Just so you know, I didn’t put it in, just on her belly.’

‘Did you come?’ Billy knows the answer to that question.

Hank lowers his head.

Donovan is lying down on the carpet. His ass is white, the buttocks clenched.

Billy takes a knee beside the prone man’s hip. ‘You want to stay still, Mr Donovan. Still as you can, anyway. You can be grateful I’m not going to plug this thing in. I considered it, believe me.’

‘I’ll fuck you up,’ Donovan sobs.

‘No one is getting fucked up today but you.’

Billy sets the base of the hand mixer on Donovan’s right asscheek. Donovan jerks and gasps.

‘I thought about picking up some goo while I was shopping – you know, body lotion, massage oil, even Vaseline – but I decided against it. Alice didn’t get any lube, did she? Unless maybe you spit on your hand before you went in.’

‘Please don’t,’ Donovan sobs.

‘Did Alice say that? Probably not, she was probably too roofied out to say much of anything. One thing she did say was “Don’t choke me.” She probably would have said more if she could. Here we go, Mr Donovan. Hold still. I won’t tell you to relax and enjoy it.’

12

Billy doesn’t draw it out as he thought he might. He doesn’t have the heart for it. Or the stomach. When he’s finished he takes pictures of Tripp and the other two with his phone. Then he pulls the mixer out of Tripp, wipes his prints, and tosses it away. The cylinder rolls under the round table with Martinez’s laptop on it.

‘Each of you stay right where you are. This is almost over, so don’t fuck it up on the homestretch.’

Billy goes into the kitchen and grabs a paring knife. When he comes back, none of them have moved. Billy tells Hank Flanagan to hold out his hands. Hank does, and Billy cuts the zip-tie holding him. ‘Mister?’ Hank says, sounding timid. ‘You lost your wig.’

He’s right. The blond wig is lying against the baseboard like a small dead animal. A rabbit, maybe. It must have come off when Donovan rushed him and Billy threw him against the door. Did he remember to glue it on before leaving the basement apartment? Billy can’t remember but guesses he didn’t. He doesn’t try putting it on because he has the mask to contend with, just holds it in the hand not holding the Ruger GP.

‘I have pictures of all of you, but because Mr Donovan is the only one with a hand mixer sticking out of his ass, he’s the star of the show. I don’t think you’re going to call the police, because then you’d have to explain why I broke in but left without taking any money or valuables, but if you should decide to whomp up some kind of story that doesn’t involve gang rape, this picture is going on the Internet. With an explanation. Any questions?’

There are no questions. It’s time for Billy to go. He can stow the mask and don the wig on the way to the third-floor lobby. But he wants to say something else before he goes. He feels he has to. The first thing that comes to mind is a question: don’t any of you have sisters? And surely they have mothers, even Billy had one of those, although she wasn’t very good at the job. But such a question would be rhetorical. Preaching, not teaching.

Billy says, ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves.’

He leaves, taking off the mask as he hurries down the hall and putting it in the unzipped computer bag. He’s thinking that he’s not much better than those guys, really, pot calling the kettle black, but thinking that way is no good. What he tells himself as he puts on the wig and trots down the stairs is that he’s stuck with himself and must make the best of it. It’s cold comfort, but cold is better than none.