1

Billy shows up at Nick’s borrowed McMansion a bit before seven on Thursday evening. He has read somewhere that the polite guest arrives five minutes early, no more and no less. Paulie is the official greeter this time. Nick is once more waiting in the hall, thus out of sight of any passing law enforcement drones – unlikely but not impossible. His smile is turned up to maximum, arms outstretched to enfold Billy in a hug.

‘Chateaubriand on the menu. I got a cook, I don’t know what he’s doing in this rinky-dink town, but he’s great. You’re going to love it. And save some room.’ He holds Billy back at arm’s length and drops his voice to a hoarse whisper. ‘I heard a rumor about Baked Alaska. You have to be tired of microwave dinners, right? Right?’

‘That’s right,’ Billy says.

Frank appears. In an ascot and a pink shirt, with his hair combed in gleaming swoops and swirls piled high above an Eddie Munster widow’s peak, he looks like the hoodlum in a gangster movie who gets killed first. He’s got some glasses and a big green bottle on a tray. ‘Champers. Mote and Shandon.’

He sets down the tray and eases the cork from the bottle’s neck. No pop and no splurt. Frankie Elvis may not know French, but his opening technique is superb. So is his pour.

Nick lifts a glass. The others do likewise. ‘To success!’

Billy, Paulie, and Frank clink and drink. The Champagne goes pleasantly to Billy’s head at once, but he refuses another glass. ‘I’m driving. Don’t want to get stopped.’

‘That’s Billy,’ Nick says to his amigos. ‘Always thinking two steps ahead.’

‘Three,’ Billy says, and Nick laughs like this is the funniest thing he’s heard since Henny Youngman died. The amigos dutifully follow suit.

‘Okay,’ Nick says. ‘Enough with the bubble-water. Mangiamo, mangiamo.’

It’s a good meal, starting with French onion soup, progressing to beef marinated in red wine, and ending with the promised Baked Alaska. It’s served by an unsmiling woman in a white uniform, except for the dessert course. Nick’s hired chef wheels that in himself to the expected applause and compliments, nods his thanks and leaves.

Nick, Frank, and Paulie carry the conversation, which is mostly about Vegas: who is playing there, who is building there, who is looking for a casino license. As if they don’t understand that Vegas is obsolete, Billy thinks. Probably they don’t. There is no sign of Giorgio. When the serving woman comes in with after-dinner liqueur, Billy shakes his head. So does Nick.

‘Marge, you and Alan can leave now,’ Nick says. ‘It was a great meal.’

‘Thanks, but we’ve just started to clean up the—’

‘We’ll worry about that tomorrow. Here. Give this to Alan. Car-fare, my old man would have said.’ He pushes some bills into her hand. She mutters that she will and turns to go. ‘And Marge?’

She turns back.

‘You haven’t been smoking in the house, have you?’

‘No.’

Nick nods. ‘Don’t linger, okay? Billy, let’s you and me go in the living room for a little chin-chin. You guys, find something to do.’

Paul tells Billy it was good seeing him and heads for the front door. Frank follows Marge into the kitchen. Nick drops his napkin into the smeared remains of his dessert and leads Billy into the living room. The fireplace at one end is big enough to roast the Minotaur. There are statues in niches and a ceiling mural that looks like a porno version of the Sistine Chapel.

‘Great, isn’t it?’ Nick says, looking around.

‘It sure is,’ Billy says, thinking that if he had to spend too much time in this room, he might lose his mind.

‘Sit down, Billy, take a load off.’

Billy sits. ‘Where’s Giorgio? Did he go back to Vegas?’

‘Well, he might be there,’ Nick says, ‘or he might be in New York or Hollywood talking to movie people about this great book he’s agenting.’

None of your business, in other words, Billy thinks. Which is, in a way, fair enough. He’s just an employee, after all. What they’d call a hired gun in the old Western movies Mr Stepenek used to like.

Thinking of Mr Stepenek makes him think of a thousand junked cars – it seemed like a thousand to a kid, anyway, and maybe there really were that many – with their cracked windshields winking in the sun. How many years since he last thought of that automobile graveyard? The door to the past is open. He could push it shut, latch and lock it, but he doesn’t want to. Let the wind blow in. It’s cold but it’s fresh, and the room he’s been living in is stuffy.

‘Hey, Billy.’ Nick is snapping his fingers. ‘Earth to Billy.’

‘I’m here.’

‘Yeah? Thought for a minute I lost you. Listen, are you actually writing something?’

‘I am,’ Billy says.

‘Real life or made up?’

‘Made up.’

‘Not about Archie Andrews and his friends, is it?’ Smiling.

Billy shakes his head, also smiling.

‘They say that a lot of people writing fiction for the first time use their own experiences. “Write what you know,” I remember that from senior English. Paramus High, go Spartans. That the case with you?’

Billy makes a seesaw gesture with one hand. Then, as if the idea has just occurred to him: ‘Hey, you aren’t getting up on what I’m writing, are you?’ A dangerous question, but he can’t help himself. ‘Because I wouldn’t want—’

‘God, no!’ Nick says, sounding way past surprised, sounding actually shocked, and Billy knows he’s lying. ‘Why would we do that even if we could?’

‘I don’t know, I just …’ A shrug. ‘… wouldn’t want anyone peeking. Because I’m no writer, just trying to stay in character. And passing the time. I’d be embarrassed for anyone to see it.’

‘You put a password on the laptop, right?’

Billy nods.

‘Then nobody will.’ Nick leans forward, his brown eyes on Billy’s. He lowers his voice like he did when telling Billy about the Baked Alaska. ‘Is it hot? Threesomes, and all that?’

‘No, huh-uh.’ A pause. ‘Not really.’

‘Get some sex in there, that’s my advice. Because sex sells.’ He chuckles and goes to a cabinet across the room. ‘I’m going to have a splash of brandy. Want some?’

‘No thanks.’ He waits for Nick to come back. ‘Any word on Joe?’

‘Same old same old. His lawyer’s appealing the extradition like I told you and the whole thing is on hold, maybe, who knows, because Johnny Judge is off on vacation.’

‘But he’s not talking about what he knows?’

‘If he was, I’d know.’

‘Maybe he might have an accident in jail. Never get extradited at all.’

‘They’re taking very good care of him. Out of gen-pop, remember?’

‘Oh yeah. Right.’ That seems a little convenient is an observation Billy can’t make. It would be a bit too smart.

‘Be patient, Billy. Settle in. Frankie says you’re meeting the neighbors out there in Midwood.’

So. He hasn’t seen Frank in the neighborhood, but Frank has seen him. Nick is checking his sexy new lappie at will and also keeping an eye on him at his temporary home. Billy thinks again of 1984.

‘I am.’

‘And in the building?’

‘There too, sure. Mostly at lunch. The food wagons.’

‘That’s great. Blend in with the scenery. Become part of the scenery. You’re good at that. I bet you were good at it in Iraq.’

I was good at it everywhere, Billy thinks. At least after I killed Bob Raines I was.

Time to change the subject. ‘You said there was going to be a diversion. Said we’d talk about it later. Is this later enough?’

‘It is.’ Nick takes a mouthful of brandy, swirls it around like it’s mouthwash, swallows. ‘Happens to feed into an idea I wanted to try out on you. The diversion is going to be a couple of flashpots. Do you know what those are?’

Billy does, but shakes his head.

‘Rock bands use em. There’s a bang and a big flash of light. Like a geyser. When I know for sure that Joe is coming east, I’ll have a couple planted near the courthouse. One for sure in the alley that runs behind that café on the corner. Paulie suggested putting one in the parking garage, but it’s too far away. And besides, what terrorist blows up a fucking parking garage?’

Billy makes no attempt to hide his alarm. ‘Planting those things isn’t going to be Hoff’s job, is it?’

Nick doesn’t bother to swirl the second mouthful of brandy, just gulps it down. He coughs, and the cough turns into a laugh. ‘What, you think I’m stupid enough to give a job like that to a grande figlio di puttana like him? I’d be sad if that was your opinion of me. No, I’ve got a couple of my guys coming in. Good boys. Trustworthy.’

Billy thinks, You don’t want Hoff placing the flashpots, because that could come back to you, but you don’t mind him procuring the gun and placing it in the shooter’s nest, because that will come back to me. How stupid do you think I am?

‘I’ll probably be in Vegas when this thing goes down, but Frankie Elvis and Paul Logan will be here with the two other guys I’m bringing in. If you need anything, they’ll take care of you.’ He leans forward again, earnest and smiling. ‘It’s going to be a beautiful thing. The gunshot goes, scaring everybody. Then the flashpots go – BOOM, BOOM! – and anybody who’s not running already starts running then and screaming their heads off. Active shooter! Suicide bombers! Al-Qaeda! ISIS! Whatever! But the real beauty of it? Unless somebody breaks a leg running away, nobody gets hurt except for Joel Allen. That’s his real name. Court Street is in a panic, and that brings me to what I wanted to talk to you about.’

‘Okay.’

‘Now I know you’re used to planning your own getaways, and you’ve always been good at it – fucking Houdini, like I said – but Giorgio and I had a little idea. Because …’ Nick shakes his head. ‘Man, this could be a tough one, even for you and even if we panic the street with the flash-bangs. Which we will. If you’ve already got something worked out, go with God. But if you don’t …’

‘I don’t.’ Although he’s getting there. Billy gives a big dumb self smile. ‘Always happy to listen, Nick.’

2

He’s home – he guesses the yellow house is home, at least for a while – by eleven P.M. All of his Amazon swag is in the closet. It would have stayed there until he got the call that Allen is headed east from Los Angeles, but things have changed. Billy is uneasy.

He takes the stuff out to the car and stows it in the trunk. He won’t be spending all of tomorrow in the fifth-floor office, and that’s okay. The nice thing about being the Gerard Tower’s writer in residence is that he’s not a working stiff who has to keep regular hours. He can come in late and leave early. He can take a stroll if the urge strikes him. If anyone asks he can say he’s working over a new idea. Or doing research. Or just taking an hour or two off. Tomorrow he will stroll nine blocks to 658 Pearson Street. It’s a three-story house on the border of municipal downtown. Billy has already looked at the house on Zillow, but that’s not good enough. He wants eyes on.

He locks the car and goes back inside. He brought the shiny new MacBook Pro back from his office and parked it on the kitchen table. Now he opens it and reads what he’s written as Benjy Compson. It’s only a couple of pages, ending with Benjy shooting Bob Raines. He reads it over three times, trying to see it as Nick must have. Because Nick has read it, after that crack about writers using their own experiences Billy has no doubt of it.

He doesn’t care if Nick finds out about his childhood, for all Billy knows Nick has checked that out already. What Billy does care about is protecting the dumb self, at least for now. He won’t be able to sleep until he makes sure that there’s nothing in those two or three pages that makes him seem too smart. So he goes over it a fourth time.

At last he shuts the laptop down. He doesn’t think there’s anything in the prose that a C student in English couldn’t have written, assuming most of it really happened. The spelling is mostly good, and the punctuation, but Nick would chalk that up to autocorrect. Although the Word program isn’t able to detect the difference between can’t and cant, the computer always turns dont into don’t, it underlines misspellings in red, it even notes the most egregious grammatical lapses. The verb tenses in what he’s written come and go, which is fine because that’s above the computer’s pay grade … although the day will probably come when it flags those, too.

But he’s uneasy.

He’s never had reason to distrust Nick, who is undoubtedly a bad person but who has always played straight with Billy. He is not playing straight now, or he wouldn’t have denied cloning the Pro. Would not have cloned it in the first place. Billy feels he can still assume the job is straight, the first quarter of the payout is in his bank account, five hundred thousand dollars, tall tickets, but this whole thing still feels wrong. Not big wrong, just a little wonky. It’s like one of those shots you sometimes see in a movie where the camera has been slightly tilted to give you a sense of disorientation. Dutching is what movie people call that kind of tilt, and that’s how this job feels: dutched. Not enough to call it off, which he might not be able to do anyway now that he’s said yes, but enough to be concerning.

And there’s the getaway plan Nick sprang on him. If you’ve already got something worked out, go with God, he’d said. But if you don’t, me and Giorgio had an idea that might work fine.

Nick’s idea isn’t a problem because it’s bad; it’s not. It’s good. But disappearing after the job is done has always been Billy’s responsibility, and for Nick to get in his business like that is … well …

‘Dutched,’ Billy murmurs to his empty kitchen.

Nick said that six weeks ago, when this job looked like becoming a reality, he sent Paul Logan up to Macon and told him to buy a Ford Transit van, not new but not more than three years old. Transits were the workhorses of Red Bluff’s Department of Public Works fleet. Billy has already seen several, painted yellow and blue with the motto WE ARE HERE TO SERVE painted on the sides. The brown Transit Frank bought in Georgia was now in a garage on the outskirts of town, painted in DPW colors and with the DPW motto.

‘I’ll have a good idea of when Allen’s extradition is getting close,’ Nick said. He was sipping a little more brandy. ‘Those guys I told you about – the ones coming in – will start being out and about in that van, always looking busy but not really doing anything. Never staying too long in one place but always near the courthouse and the Gerard Tower. An hour here, two hours there. Becoming part of the scenery, in other words. Like you, Billy.’

On the day of Allen’s arrival, Nick said this bogus DPW van would be parked around the corner from the Gerard Tower. The bogus city workers would maybe open a manhole cover and pretend to be doing something inside. When the shot came, and the flashpot explosions, people would run everywhere. Including from the Gerard Tower and including Billy Summers, who would race around the corner and into the back of the van. There he would jump into a pair of DPW coveralls.

‘The van pulls around to the courthouse,’ Nick said. ‘Cops are already on the scene. My guys – and you – pile out and ask if there’s anything they can do to help. Put up sawhorses to block the street, or something. In all the confusion, it will look a hundred per cent natural. You see that?’

Billy saw. It was bold and it was good.

‘The cops—’

‘They probably tell us to get lost,’ Billy said. ‘We’re city workers but we’re civilians. Is that right?’

Nick laughed and clapped his hands. ‘See? Anyone who thinks you’re stupid is full of shit. My guys say yes sir, officers, and off you drive. And you keep driving. After switching vehicles, of course.’

‘Driving to where?’

‘De Pere, Wisconsin, a thousand miles from here. There’s a safe house. You stay there a couple of days, relax, check your bank account for the rest of your payday, think about how you’re going to spend your money. After that you’re on your own. How does it sound?’

It sounded good. Too good? A possible set-up? Unlikely. If anyone in this deal is being set up, it’s Ken Hoff. Billy’s problem with Nick’s unexpected offer is that he’s never had to depend on other people to disappear before. He doesn’t like it but that wasn’t the time to say so.

‘Let me think about it, okay?’

‘You bet,’ Nick said. ‘Plenty of time.’

3

Billy hauls his suitcase out of the master bedroom closet. He puts it on the bed and unzips it. It looks empty, but it’s not. The lining has a Velcro strip running along the underside. He pulls the lining up and takes out a small flat case. It’s the kind smart people – those who read more challenging stuff than Archie digests and supermarket checkout lane scandal papers – might call an etui. There’s a wallet inside with credit cards and a driver’s license issued to Dalton Curtis Smith, of Stowe, Vermont.

There have been many other wallets and IDs during Billy’s career, not one for each of his assassinations (he calls them what they are) but at least a dozen, leading up to the current one belonging to a make-believe individual named David Lockridge. Some of his previous selves had good ID, some not so good. The credit cards and DL in the David Lockridge wallet are very good indeed, but the stuff in the flat gray case is better. The stuff in there is gold. Putting it together has been the work of five years, a labor of love going back to when he decided he must eventually get out of a business that makes him – admit it – just another bad person.

Dalton Smith isn’t just a Lord Buxton wallet with a legit-looking driver’s license inside; Dalton Smith is practically a real person. The Mastercard, the Amex card, and the Visa all get used regularly. Ditto the Bank of America debit card. Not every day, but often enough so the accounts don’t gather dust. His credit rating isn’t excellent, which might draw attention, but it’s very good.

There’s a Red Cross blood donor card, his Social Security card, and Dalton’s membership in an Apple User Group. No dumb self here; Dalton Curtis Smith is a freelance computer tech with a fairly lucrative sideline that allows him to go wherever the wind blows him. Also in the wallet are pictures of Dalton with his wife (they were divorced six years ago), Dalton with his parents (killed in the ever-popular car crash when Dalton was a teenager), Dalton with his estranged brother (they don’t talk since Dalton found out his brother voted for Nader in the 2000 election).

Dalton’s birth certificate is in the etui, and references. Some are from individuals and small businesses whose computers Dalton has fixed, others from people who have rented to him in Portsmouth, Chicago, and Irvine. His go-to guy in New York, Bucky Hanson, has created some of these references; Bucky is the only person Billy trusts completely. Others Billy created himself. Dalton Smith never stays long in one place, a tumbling tumbleweed is he, but when he’s in situ, he’s a very good tenant: neat and quiet, always pays the rent on time.

To Billy, Dalton Smith with his low-key but impeccable bona fides is as beautiful as a snowfield without a single track on it. He hates the idea of defacing that beauty by putting Dalton to work, but isn’t this exactly what Dalton Curtis Smith was created for? It is. One last job, the ever-popular last job, and Billy can disappear into a new identity. Probably not live the rest of his life in it, but even that’s possible, assuming he can get out of this town without being burned; the five hundred thousand down payment has already made the rounds and finished up at Dalton’s bank account in Nevis, and half a mil’s the biggest sign that Nick isn’t playing this funny. When the work is done, the rest will follow.

Dalton’s DL headshot shows a man of about Billy’s age, maybe a year or two younger, but he’s blond instead of dark. And he has a mustache.

4

The next morning, Billy parks on the fourth level of the garage near the Gerard Tower. After making certain adjustments to his appearance, he walks in the opposite direction. This is Dalton Smith’s maiden voyage.

When the city is small, small distances can make a big difference. Pearson Street is only nine blocks from the Main Street parking garage, a brisk fifteen-minute walk (Gerard Tower still looms close enough to be clearly seen), but this is a different world from the one where guys in ties and gals in click-clack shoes man and woman their posts and lunch in the kind of restaurants where the waiter hands you a wine list along with the menu.

There’s a corner grocery, but it’s closed up. Like many declining neighborhoods, this one is a food desert. There are two barrooms, one closed and the other looking like it’s just hanging on. A pawn-shop that doubles as a check-cashing and small-loans business. A sad little strip mall a bit further on. And a line of homes that are trying to look middle class and not getting there.

Billy guesses the reason for the area’s decline is the vacant lot right across the street from his target house. It’s a big expanse of rubbly, trash-strewn ground. Cutting through it are rusting railroad tracks barely visible in high weeds and summer goldenrod. Signs posted at fifty-foot intervals read CITY PROPERTY and NO TRESPASSING and DANGER KEEP OUT. He notes the jagged remains of a brick building that once must have been a train station. Maybe it served bus lines as well – Greyhound, Trailways, Southern. Now the city’s land-based transportation has moved elsewhere, and this neighborhood, which might have been busy in the closing decades of the last century, is suffering from a kind of municipal COPD. A rusty shopping cart lies overturned on the sidewalk across the way. A tattered pair of men’s undershorts flap from one of its wheels in a hot wind that tousles the hair of Billy’s blond Dalton Smith wig and flutters his shirt collar against his neck.

Most of the houses need paint. Some have FOR SALE signs in front of them. 658 also needs paint, but the sign in front reads FURNISHED APARTMENTS FOR RENT. There’s a real estate agent’s number to call. Billy notes it down, then goes up the cracked cement walk and looks at the line of doorbells. Although it’s just a three-story, there are four bells. Only one of them, second from the top, has a name: JENSEN. He rings it. At this time of day there’s probably nobody home, but his luck is in.

Footsteps descend the stairs. A youngish woman peers through the dirty glass of the door. What she sees is a white man in a nice open-collared shirt and dress pants. His blond hair is short. His mustache is neatly trimmed. He wears glasses. He’s quite fat, not to the point of obesity but getting there. He doesn’t look like a bad person, he looks like a good person who could stand to drop twenty or thirty pounds, so she opens the door, but not all the way.

As if I couldn’t push my way in and strangle you right there in the foyer, Billy thinks. There’s no car in the driveway or parked at the curb, which means your husband’s at work, and those three unmarked bells strongly suggest that you are the only person in this old faux Victorian.

‘I don’t buy from door-to-door salesmen,’ Mrs Jensen says.

‘No, ma’am, I’m not a salesman. I’m new in the city and looking for an apartment. This looks like it might be in my price range. I just wanted to know if this is a nice place. My name’s Dalton Smith.’

He holds out his hand. She gives it a token touch, then draws her own hand back. But she’s willing to talk. ‘Well, it’s not the greatest area, as you can see, and the nearest supermarket’s a mile away, but me and my husband haven’t had any real problems. Kids get into that old trainyard across the way sometimes, probably drinking and smoking dope, and there’s a dog around the corner that barks half the night, but that’s about the worst of it.’ She pauses and he sees her look down, checking for a wedding ring that’s not there. ‘You don’t bark at night, do you, Mr Smith? By which I mean parties and loud music.’

‘No, ma’am.’ He smiles and touches his stomach. The fake pregnancy belly has been inflated to about six months. ‘I like to eat, though.’

‘Because there’s a clause about excessive noise in the rental agreement.’

‘May I ask how much you pay per month?’

‘That’s between me and my husband. If you want to live here, you’d have to take it up with Mr Richter. He’s the man that handles this place. Couple of others down the block, too … although this one’s nicer. I think.’

‘Completely understood. I apologize for asking.’

Mrs Jensen thaws a little. ‘I will tell you that you don’t want the third floor. That place is a hotbox, even when the wind blows from across the old trainyard, which it does most of the time.’

‘No air conditioning, I take it.’

‘You take it right. But when it comes on cold weather, the heat’s okay. Course you have to pay for it. Electricity, too. It’s all in the agreement. If you’ve rented before, I guess you know the drill.’

‘Boy, do I ever.’ He rolls his eyes and finally gets a smile out of her. Now he can ask what he really wants to ask. ‘What about the downstairs? Is that a basement apartment? Because it looks like there’s a bell—’

Her smile widens. ‘Oh yes, and it’s quite nice. Furnished, like the sign says. Although, you know, just the basics. I wanted that one, but my husband thought it would be too small if our application gets approved. We’re trying to adopt.’

Billy marvels at this. She has just revealed a crucial piece of her heart – of her marriage’s heart – after she balked at revealing how much rent she and her husband pay. Which he asked not because he really wanted to know but because it would make him seem plausible.

‘Well, good luck to you. And thanks. If this Mr Richter and I see eye to eye, maybe you’ll see more of me. You have a good day, now.’

‘You too. Nice to meet you.’ This time she holds out her hand for a real shake, and Billy thinks again about what Nick said – You get along with people without buddying up to them. Nice to know that works even if you look fat.

As he walks down the sidewalk, she calls after him, ‘I bet that basement apartment stays nice and cool even in the hottest weather! I wish we’d taken it!’

He gives her a thumbs-up and heads back toward downtown. He has seen all he needs to see and has come to a decision. This is the place he wants, and Nick Majarian doesn’t need to know a thing about it.

Halfway back he comes to a hole-in-the-wall store that sells candy, cigarettes, magazines, cold drinks, and burner phones in blister packs. He buys one, paying cash, and sits on a bus bench to get it up and running. He will use it as long as he has to, then dispose of it. The others as well. Always supposing the deal goes down, the cops are going to know right away that it was David Lockridge who assassinated Joel Allen. They will then discover that David Lockridge is an alias of one William Summers, a Marine vet with sniper skills and sniper kills. They will also discover Summers’s association with Kenneth Hoff, the designated fall guy. What they must not discover is that Billy Summers, aka David Lockridge, has disappeared into the identity of Dalton Smith. Nick can never know that, either.

He calls Bucky Hanson in New York and tells Bucky to send the box marked Safeties to his Evergreen Street address.

‘So this is it, huh? You’re really pulling the pin?’

‘Looks like it,’ Billy says, ‘but we’ll talk some more.’

‘Sure we will. Just make sure it isn’t collect from some tooliebop city jail. You’re my man, hoss.’

Billy ends the call and makes another. To Richter, the real estate guy who is serving as rental agent for 658 Pearson.

‘I understand it’s furnished. Would that include WiFi?’

‘Just a second,’ Mr Richter says, but it’s more like a minute. Billy hears paper rustling. At last Richter says, ‘Yes. Put in two years ago. But no television, you’d have to supply that.’

‘All right,’ Billy says. ‘I want it. How about I drop by your office?’

‘I could meet you there, show you the place.’

‘That won’t be necessary. I just want it as a base of operations while I’m in this part of the country. Could be a year, could be two. I travel quite a bit. The important thing is the neighborhood looks quiet.’

Richter laughs. ‘Since they demolished the train station, you bet it is. But the people out there might trade a little more noise for a little more commerce.’

They set a time to meet the following Monday and Billy returns to Level 4 of the parking garage, where his Toyota is parked in a dead spot neither of the security cameras can see. If they can see at all; they look mighty tired to Billy. He removes the wig, the mustache, the glasses, and the fake pregnancy belly. After stowing them in the trunk, he takes the short walk back to Gerard Tower.

He’s there in time to get a burrito from the Mexican wagon. He eats it with Jim Albright and John Colton, the lawyers from five. He sees Colin White, the dandy who works for Business Solutions. Today he’s looking mighty cute in a sailor suit.

‘That guy,’ Jim says, laughing. ‘He’s quite the bandbox, isn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ Billy agrees, and thinks, A bandbox who’s just about my height.

5

It rains all weekend. On Saturday morning Billy goes to Walmart where he buys a couple of cheap suitcases and a lot of cheap clothes that will fit his overweight Dalton Smith persona. He pays cash. Cash has amnesia.

That afternoon he sits out on the porch of the yellow house, watching the grass in his front yard. Watching it rather than merely looking at it, because he can almost see it perking up. This is not his house, not his town or state, he’ll leave without a look back or single regret, but he still feels a certain proprietorial pride in his handiwork. It won’t be worth mowing for a couple of weeks, maybe not even until August, but he can wait. And when he’s out there, zinc ointment on his nose, mowing in gym shorts and a sleeveless tee (maybe even a wifebeater), he’ll be one step closer to belonging. To blending in with the scenery.

‘Mr Lockridge?’

He looks next door. The two kids, Derek and Shanice Ackerman, are standing on their porch, looking at him through the rain. It’s the boy who’s spoken. ‘My ma just made sugar cookies. She ast me to ast you if you want half a dozen.’

‘That sounds good,’ Billy says. He gets up and runs through the rain. Shanice, the eight-year-old, takes his hand with a complete lack of self-consciousness and leads him inside, where the smell of fresh-baked cookies makes Billy’s stomach rumble.

It’s a neat little house, tight and shipshape. There are about a hundred framed photos in the living room, including a dozen on the piano that holds pride of place. In the kitchen, Corinne Ackerman is just removing a baking sheet from the oven. ‘Hi, neighbor. Do you want a towel for your hair?’

‘I’m fine, thanks. Ran between the raindrops.’

She laughs. ‘Then have a cookie. The kids are having milk with theirs. Would you like a glass? There’s also coffee, if you’d prefer that.’

‘Milk would be fine. Just a little.’

‘Double shot?’ She’s smiling.

‘Sounds about right.’ Smiling back.

‘Then sit down.’

He sits with the kids. Corinne puts a plate of cookies on the table. ‘Be careful, they’re still hot. Your take-homes will be in the next batch, David.’

The kids grab. Billy takes one. It’s sweet and delicious. ‘Terrific, Corinne. Thank you. Just the thing on a rainy day.’

She gives her kids big glasses of milk, Billy a small one. She pours her own small glass and joins them. The rain drums on the roof. A car goes hissing by.

‘I know your book is top secret,’ Derek says, ‘but—’

‘Don’t talk with your mouth full,’ Corinne admonishes. ‘You’re spraying crumbs everywhere.’

‘I’m not,’ Shanice says.

‘No, you’re doing good,’ Corinne says. Then, with a sideways glance at Billy: ‘Doing well.’

Derek has no interest in grammar. ‘But tell me one thing. Is there blood in it?’

Billy thinks of Bob Raines, flying backward. He thinks of his sister with all her ribs broken – yes, every fucking one – and her chest stomped in. ‘Nope, no blood.’ He takes a bite of his cookie.

Shanice reaches for another. ‘You can have that one,’ her mother says, ‘and one more. You too, D. The rest are for Mr Lockridge and for later. You know your dad likes these.’ To Billy she says, ‘Jamal works six days a week and overtime when he can get it. The Fazios are good about keeping track of these two while we’re both at work. This is not a bad neighborhood, but we’ve got our eye on something better.’

‘Movin on up,’ Billy says.

Corinne laughs and nods.

‘I don’t ever want to move,’ Shanice says, then adds with a child’s charming dignity: ‘I have friends.’

‘So do I,’ Derek says. ‘Hey, Mr Lockridge, do you know how to play Monopoly? Me’n Shan are going to play, but it’s stupid with just two and Mom won’t.’

‘Mom won’t is right,’ Corinne says. ‘Most boring game in the world. Get your father to play with you tonight. He will, if he’s not too tired.’

‘That’s hours away,’ Derek says. ‘I’m bored right now.’

‘Me too,’ Shanice says. ‘If I had a phone, I could play Crossy Road.’

‘Next year,’ Corinne says, and rolls her eyes in a way that makes Billy think the girl has been phone-campaigning for quite a while. Maybe since the age of five.

‘Do you play?’ Derek asks, although without much hope.

‘I do,’ Billy says, then leans across the table, pinning Derek Ackerman with his eyes. ‘But I have to warn you that I’m good. And I play to win.’

‘So do I!’ Derek is smiling below a milk mustache.

‘So do I!’ Shanice says.

‘I wouldn’t hold back just because you’re kids and I’m a grownup,’ Billy says. ‘I’d wound you with my rental properties, then kill you with my hotels. If we’re going to play, you have to know that up front.’

‘Okay!’ Derek says, jumping up and almost spilling the rest of his milk.

‘Okay!’ Shanice cries, also jumping up.

‘Are you kids going to cry when I win?’

‘No!’

‘No!’

‘Okay. As long as we have that straight.’

‘Are you sure?’ Corinne asks him. ‘That game, I swear it can go on all day.’

‘Not with me rolling the dice,’ Billy says.

‘We play downstairs,’ Shanice says, and once more takes his hand.

The room down there is the same size as the one in Billy’s house, but it’s only half a man-cave. In that part, Jamal has set up a work space with tools pegged to the wall. There’s also a bandsaw, and Billy notes with approval that there’s a padlocked cover over the on/off switch. The kids’ half of the room is littered with toys and coloring books. There’s a small TV hooked up to a cheap game console that uses cassettes. To Billy it looks like a yardsale purchase. Board games are stacked against one wall. Derek takes the Monopoly box and puts the board on a child-sized table.

‘Mr Lockridge is too big for our chairs,’ Shanice says, sounding dismayed.

‘I’ll sit on the floor.’ Billy removes one of the chairs and does so. There’s just room for his crossed legs under the table.

‘Which piece you want?’ Derek asks. ‘I usually take the racing car when it’s just me ’n Shan, but you can have it if you want.’

‘That’s okay. Which one do you like, Shan?’

‘The thimble,’ she says. Then adds, rather grudgingly, ‘Unless you want it.’

Billy takes the top hat. The game begins. Forty minutes later, when Derek’s turn comes around again, he calls for his mother. ‘Ma! I need advice!’

Corinne comes down the stairs and stands with her hands on her hips, surveying the board and the distribution of Monopoly money. ‘I don’t want to say you kids are in trouble, but you kids are in trouble.’

‘I warned them,’ Billy says.

‘What do you want to ask me, D? Keep in mind your mother barely passed Home Economics back in the day.’

‘Well, here’s my problem,’ Derek says. ‘He’s got two of the green ones, Pacific and Pennsylvania, but I got North Carolina. Mr Lockridge says he’ll give me nine hundred dollars for it. That’s three times what I paid, but …’

‘But?’ Corinne says.

‘But?’ Billy says.

‘But then he can put houses on the green ones. And he already has hotels on Park Place and Boardwalk!’

‘So?’ Corinne says.

‘So?’ Billy says. He’s grinning.

‘I gotta go to the bathroom and I’m almost broke anyway,’ Shanice says, and gets up.

‘Honey, you don’t need to announce your bathroom calls. You just need to say excuse me.’

Shanice says, with that same winning dignity, ‘I’m going to powder my nose, okay?’

Billy bursts out laughing. Corinne joins him. Derek pays no attention. He studies the board, then looks up at his mother. ‘Sell or not? I’m almost out of money!’

‘It’s a Hobson’s choice,’ Billy says. ‘That means you have to decide between taking a chance or standing pat. Between you and me, D, I think you’re kinda sunk either way.’

‘Think he’s right, hon,’ Corinne says.

‘He’s really lucky,’ Derek says to his mother. ‘He landed on Free Parking and got all the money in there and it was a bundle.’

‘Also I’m really good,’ Billy says. ‘Admit it.’

Derek tries to scowl, but can’t manage it for a long time. He holds up the deed with the green stripe. ‘Twelve hundred.’

‘Done!’ Billy cries, and hands over the cash.

Twenty minutes later the children are bankrupt and the game is over. When Billy stands up, his knees crack and the kids laugh. ‘You guys lost, so you have to put the game away, right?’

‘That’s the way Daddy plays, too,’ Shanice says. ‘But sometimes he lets us win.’

Billy leans down, smiling. ‘I don’t do that.’

‘Big bully,’ she says, and giggles with her hands over her mouth.

Danny Fazio comes jingling down the stairs in a yellow rain slicker and unbuckled galoshes that gape like funnels. ‘Can I play?’

‘Next time,’ Billy says. ‘I make it a policy to only beat up on kids once a weekend.’

It’s just more joking around, what these kids might call throwing shade, but suddenly he sees burned cookies littering the floor in front of the stove in their trailer and the cast on Bob Raines’s arm thudding against the side of Cathy’s face and it isn’t funny anymore. The three kids laugh because to them it is. None of them have watched their sister being stepped on by a drunken ogre with a fading mermaid on his arm.

Upstairs, Corinne gives him a bag of cookies and says, ‘Thank you for making a rainy day so much fun for them.’

‘I had fun, too.’

He did. Right up until the end. When he gets home he throws the cookies into the trash. Corinne Ackerman is a good little baker, but he can’t think of eating cookies now. He can’t even bear to look at them.

6

On Monday he goes to see the rental agent, who does business in the sad little strip mall three blocks from 658. Merton Richter’s office is a hole-in-the-wall two-roomer between a tanning salon and the Jolly Roger Tattoo Parlor. Parked in front is a blue SUV, pretty old, with a stick-on sign on one side (RICHTER REAL ESTATE) and a long scratch on the other. The guy gives Dalton Smith’s painstakingly crafted references a cursory glance, then hands them back along with a rental agreement. The places where Billy is supposed to sign have been highlighted in yellow.

‘You could tell me it’s a little over-market,’ Richter says, as if Billy had protested, ‘and you might be right, but only a little, considering the furnishings and the WiFi. And with no street parking until six P.M., the driveway is a real convenience. You’ll be sharing it with the Jensens, of course—’

‘I’m planning to keep my car in a municipal garage for the most part. I can use the exercise.’ He pats his fake belly. ‘The rent does seem a little high, but I want the place.’

‘Sight unseen,’ Richter marvels.

‘Mrs Jensen spoke well of it.’

‘Ah, I see. In any case, if we’re in agreement …?’

Billy signs the form and writes his debut check as Dalton Smith: first month, last month, and a damage deposit that’s fucking outrageous unless the cookware is All-Clad, the china Limoges, and the lamps come with Tiffany shades.

‘IT guy, huh?’ Richter says, stashing the check away in his desk drawer. He pushes an envelope marked KEYS across the desk, then whacks his old PC like you’d whack a dog you don’t have much use for but keeps hanging around. ‘I could sure use some help with this balky bitch.’

‘I’m off the clock,’ Billy says, ‘but I can give you some advice.’

‘Which is?’

‘Replace it before you lose everything. Do you hook me up with heat, electric, water, and cable?’

Richter smiles as if giving Billy a prize. ‘Nope, that’s all you, brother.’ And offers his hand.

Billy could ask Richter what he actually does for his commission, the agreement is pretty obviously a form printed off the Internet with the local details dropped in, but does he care? Not at all.

7

Billy would like to get back to his story (it seems premature to call it a book, and maybe unlucky as well), but there’s more to do. When the banks open on Tuesday, he goes to SouthernTrust and withdraws some of the walking-around money that has been deposited in a David Lockridge account. He goes to three different chain stores and buys three more laptop computers, all for cash, all cheap off-brands like the AllTech. He also buys a cheap table model TV. That he pays for with a Dalton Smith credit card.

Next on his list is leasing a car. He stashes his Toyota in a garage on the other side of town from the one he uses as David Lockridge, not wanting to chance anyone from his building seeing him in his Dalton Smith rig. That would be a small chance, at this time of day all the worker bees should be in the hive, but taking even small chances is stupid. It’s how people get nailed.

When he’s put on the wig, glasses, mustache, and big belly, he calls an Uber and asks to be driven to McCoy Ford, on the western edge of the city. There he leases a Ford Fusion for thirty-six months. The dealer reminds him that if Billy drives it over 10,500 miles per year, he’ll pay a pretty hefty overcharge. Billy doubts if he’ll even put three hundred miles on the Fusion. The important thing is that Billy has wheels Nick knows about, and Dalton Smith now has wheels Nick doesn’t know about. It’s a precaution in case Nick should be planning something hinky, but it’s more. It’s keeping Dalton Curtis Smith separate from what’s going to happen on those courthouse steps. Keeping him clean.

Billy parks his new ride next to his old ride (different garage, same upper-level blind spot) long enough to transfer the TV and new laptops to the Fusion. Also the cheap suitcases he stashed in the Toyota’s trunk late last night. They are filled with the cheap Walmart clothes. He drives the Fusion to 658 Pearson Street and parks in the driveway, which is your basic asphalt stub with grass growing up the middle. He hopes Mrs Jensen will see him moving in, and he’s not disappointed.

Does Dalton Smith see her looking down from her second-story window? Billy decides he doesn’t. Dalton is a computer nerd, lost in his own world. He struggles and puffs two of the suitcases up to the door and uses his new key to unlock it. Nine steps down take him to the door of Dalton Smith’s new apartment, where he uses another key. The door opens directly onto the living room. He drops the bags on the industrial carpet and walks around, checking out the four rooms – five, if you count the bathroom.

The furnishings are quite nice, Richter said. That’s not true, but they’re not terrible, either. The word generic comes to mind. The bed’s a double, and when Billy lies down on it there are creaks but no springs poking at him, so that’s a win. There’s an easy chair in front of a table obviously meant to hold a small TV like the one he bought at Discount Electronics. The chair is comfortable enough, but the zebra-striping is almost the stuff of nightmares. He’ll want to cover it with something.

On the whole, he likes the place. He goes to the one narrow window, which is set at lawn-level. It’s almost like looking out through a periscope, Billy thinks. He digs the perspective. It feels cozy, somehow. He likes his Midwood neighbors, especially the Ackermans next door, but he thinks he likes this place better. It has a sense of safety. There’s an old couch that also looks comfortable, and he decides he’ll move it to where the zebra-striped chair is now, so he can sit on it and look out at the street. People passing on the sidewalk might look at the house, but most won’t glance down at these basement windows and see him looking back. It’s a den, he thinks. If I have to go to ground, this is where I should do it, not some safe house in Wisconsin. Because this place is actually in the gr—

There’s a light knock from behind him, actually more of a rattle. He turns and sees Mrs Jensen standing in the door he left open, twiddling her fingernails on the jamb.

‘Hello, Mr Smith.’

‘Oh, hi.’ His Dalton Smith voice is slightly higher than the one he uses as Billy Summers and David Lockridge. A little breathy, maybe a touch of asthma. ‘You caught me moving in, Mrs Jensen.’ He gestures to the suitcases.

‘Since we’re going to be neighbors, why don’t you call me Beverly?’

‘Okay, thanks. And I’m Dalton. Sorry I can’t offer you coffee or anything, no supplies yet—’

‘I totally understand. Moving in’s crazy, isn’t it?’

‘It sure is. The good part is that I travel a lot, so I don’t have a lot. Seen more motels than I ever wanted to. Spending the rest of this week in Lincoln, Nebraska, then Omaha.’ Billy has found that if you lie about business travel to cities of secondary size and importance in the economic scheme of things, people believe you. ‘I’ve got a few more things to bring in, so if you’ll excuse me …’

‘Do you need help?’

‘No, I’m fine.’ Then, as if reconsidering: ‘Well …’

They go out to the Fusion. Billy gives her the three off-brand computers. With the boxes in her arms, she looks like a woman who delivers for Domino’s. ‘Gosh, I better not drop these, they’re brand new. And probably worth a fortune.’

They’re only worth about nine hundred dollars, but Billy doesn’t contradict her. He asks if they’re too heavy.

‘Pooh. Less than a laundry basket of wetwash. Are you going to set all of these up?’

‘As soon as I get the power on, yes,’ Billy says. ‘It’s how I do my business. Some of it, anyway. Most I outsource.’ Outsource is one of those impressive-sounding words that might mean anything. He hefts out the carton containing the TV. They go up the walk, through the open front door, down the stairs.

‘Come on up once you’re a little bit settled,’ Beverly Jensen says. ‘I’ll put on the coffee pot. And I can give you a doughnut, if you don’t mind day-old.’

‘I never say no to a doughnut. Thank you, Mrs Jensen.’

‘Beverly.’

He smiles. ‘Beverly, right. One more suitcase to bring in and then I’ll be with you.’

Bucky has sent Billy’s box, the one marked Safeties. Dalton Smith’s iPhone is in it, and once he’s unloaded the Fusion, Billy uses it to make some Dalton Smith calls. By the time he’s drunk a cup of coffee and eaten a doughnut in the Jensens’ second-floor apartment, listening with apparent fascination as Beverly tells him all about her husband’s problems with the boss at the company where he works, the power is on in his new place.

His below-ground den.

8

He’s at 658 until mid-afternoon, unpacking the cheap clothes, booting up the cheap computers, and shopping at the Brookshire’s a mile away. Except for a dozen eggs and some butter, he steers clear of perishables. Most of what he buys is stuff that will keep when he’s not here: canned goods and frozen dinners. At three o’clock he drives the leased Fusion back to the fourth level of Parking Garage, and after making sure he’s unobserved, removes the glasses and fake facial hair. Getting rid of the fake belly is an incredible relief, and he sees he’ll need to get some baby powder if he wants to avoid a rash.

He drives the Toyota back to Parking Garage #1, then returns to the fifth floor of the Gerard Tower. He doesn’t work on his story, and he doesn’t play games on the computer, either. He just sits and thinks. No rifle in the office, nothing more lethal than a paring knife in one of the kitchenette’s drawers, and that’s okay. It may be weeks or even months before Billy needs a gun. The assassination might not even happen at all, and would that be so bad? In monetary terms, yes. He’d lose one-point-five mill. As for the five hundred thousand he’s already been paid, would the person who ordered the assassination – the one Nick is go-betweening for – want the money back?

‘Good luck with that,’ Billy says. And laughs.

9

As he walks, plods, back to the parking garage, Billy is thinking about bigamy.

He’s never been married once, let alone to two different women at the same time, but now he knows how that must feel. In a word, exhausting. He’s getting his feet set in not just two different lives but three. To Nick and Giorgio (also to Ken Hoff, which he hates), he’s a gun for hire named Billy Summers. To the inhabitants of the Gerard Tower, he’s a wannabe writer named David Lockridge. Ditto the residents of Evergreen Street in Midwood. And now, on Pearson Street – nine blocks from Gerard Tower and four safe miles from Midwood – he is an overweight computer geek named Dalton Smith.

Come to think of it, there’s even a fourth life: that of Benjy Compson, who is just enough not-Billy so Billy can look at painful memories he usually avoids.

He started writing Benjy’s story on a laptop he’s pretty sure (no, positive) has been cloned because it was a challenge, and because it’s that fabled last job, but he now understands there was a deeper, truer reason: he wants to be read. By anyone, even a couple of Vegas hardballs like Nick Majarian and Giorgio Piglielli. Now he understands – he never did before, never even considered it – that any writer who goes public with his work is courting danger. It’s part of the allure. Look at me. I’m showing you what I am. My clothes are off. I’m exposing myself.

As he approaches the entrance to the parking garage, deep in these thoughts, there’s a tap on his shoulder that makes him jump. He turns and sees Phyllis Stanhope, the woman from the accounting firm.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, taking a step back. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

Has she seen something in that unguarded moment? A flash of who he really is? Is that what the backward step was about? Maybe. If so, he tries to dismiss it with an easy smile and the absolute truth. ‘It’s fine. I was just a million miles away.’

‘Thinking about your story?’

About bigamy. ‘That’s right.’

Phyllis falls in step beside him. Her handbag is slung over one shoulder. She’s also wearing a child’s backpack with SpongeBob on it and has exchanged her click-clack shoes for white socks and sneakers. ‘I didn’t see you at lunch today. Did you eat at your desk?’

‘I was out and about. Still trying to get settled in. Plus I had a long talk with my agent.’

He did in fact speak with Giorgio, although it wasn’t a long talk. Nick has returned to Vegas, but Giorgio is in residence at the McMansion, and he brought the two new guys – Reggie and Dana are their names – with him. Billy doesn’t think Nick and Georgie Pigs are tag-teaming him, exactly, but this is a very big deal for them and Billy would be surprised if they were careless. Shocked, really. The one they may actually be keeping an eye on is Ken Hoff. The patsy in waiting.

‘Besides, even when a writer’s not at his desk, he’s working.’ He taps his temple.

She returns his smile. It’s a good one. ‘I bet that’s what they all say.’

‘In truth, I seem to have hit a little bit of a roadblock.’

‘Maybe it’s the change of scene.’

‘Maybe.’

He doesn’t think there actually is a roadblock. He hasn’t written anything beyond that first episode, but the rest is right there. Waiting. He wants to get to it. It means something to him. It’s not like journaling, it’s not an effort to make peace with a life that has in many ways been unhappy and traumatic, it’s not confessional even though it may amount to a confession. It’s about power. He’s finally tapped into power that doesn’t come from the barrel of a gun. Like the view from his new apartment’s ground-level windows, he likes it.

‘In any case,’ he says as they reach the entrance to the parking garage, ‘I plan to buckle down. Starting tomorrow.’

She raises her eyebrows. ‘Jam yesterday, jam tomorrow—’

He chimes in and they finish together. ‘But never jam today!’

‘In any case, I can’t wait to read it.’ They start up the ramp. It’s deliciously cool after the hammerstroke sun on the street. She stops halfway to the first turn. ‘This is me.’ She beeps her keyfob. The taillights of a little blue Prius respond. Two bumper stickers flank her license plate: OUR BODIES, OUR CHOICES and BELIEVE THE WOMEN.

‘You’re apt to get keyed with those,’ Billy says. ‘This is a deep red state.’

She lifts her purse in front of her and gives a smile unlike the one she greeted him with. This is more of a Dirty Harry smile. ‘It’s also a concealed carry state, so if anyone tries to key off my bumper stickers, they better do it while I’m not around.’

Is that more show than go? The little accountant lady putting on a badass front for a man she might be interested in? Maybe, maybe not. Either way, he admires her for being out front about what she believes. For being brave. This is how a good person acts. At least it is when they’re being their best selves.

‘Well, I’ll see you around the campus,’ Billy says. ‘I’m up a few levels.’

‘Couldn’t find anything closer? Really?’

He could say it’s because he came in late today, but that might come back to bite him, because he always parks on Four. He hoists a thumb. ‘Less chance of a bump-and-run up there.’

‘Or getting your bumper stickers keyed off?’

‘I don’t have any,’ Billy says, and adds the absolute truth: ‘I like to fly under the radar.’ Then, on impulse (and he is rarely an impulsive man), he says what he’s promised himself he would not. ‘Come for a drink with me sometime. Want to?’

‘Yes.’ With no hesitation, as if she’s just been waiting for him to pop the question. ‘What about Friday? There’s a nice place two blocks over. We can go dutch. I always go dutch when I have a drink with a man.’ She pauses. ‘At least the first time.’

‘Probably a good policy. Drive safe, Phyllis.’

‘Phil. Call me Phil.’

He gives her taillights a wave before walking the rest of the way up to the fourth level. There’s an elevator, but he wants the walk. He wants to ask himself why the fuck he did what he just did. Or what about playing Monopoly with Derek and Shanice Ackerman, especially when he knows they’ll want a return engagement the coming weekend, and he’ll probably oblige? What happened to getting friendly, but not too close? Can you be part of the scenery when you’re in the foreground?

The short answer is no.