1

Two bad things happen on Labor Day weekend. One is stupid and alarming, the other casts a light on the rather unpleasant person Billy never meant to become. Taken together, they make him realize that the sooner he gets out of Red Bluff, the better. I never should have taken a job with such a long lead time, he thinks when the weekend is over, but there was no way to know.

To know what? That the Ackermans and the others on Evergreen Street would take such a liking to him, for one thing. That he would take a liking to them, for another.

There’s a parade downtown on the Saturday of the holiday weekend. Billy and the Ackermans go in a van Jamal borrowed from Excellent Tire. Shanice holds her mother’s hand on one side and Billy’s on the other as they work through the crowd and find a place on the corner of Holland and Main. When the parade actually comes, Jamal perches his daughter on his shoulders and Billy hoists Derek onto his. The kid feels good up there.

The parade is okay, even letting a kid who is later going to find out he was sitting on the shoulders of an assassin is okay … sort of. The stupid and alarming thing, the lapse, comes on Sunday. Next to the Midwood suburb of Red Bluff is the semi-rural town of Cody, and there a ratty little carnival set up shop during the last two weeks of summer, wanting a final shot of income before the kids go back to school.

Because Jamal still has the van and Sunday is nice, nothing will do but a trip to the carnival with the kids. Paul and Denise Ragland from down the street come along. The seven of them stroll the midway, eating sweet sausages and drinking sodas. Derek and Shanice ride the carousel, the Tooterville Trolley, and the Wild Cups. Mr and Mrs Ragland go off to play Bingo. Corrie Ackerman throws darts at water balloons and wins a spangly headband that says WORLD’S GREATEST MOM. Shanice tells her she looks cute, like a princess.

Jamal tries his hand at knocking over wooden milk bottles and wins nothing, but he bangs the Test Your Strength weight all the way to the top, ringing the bell. Corrie applauds and says, ‘My hero.’ For this feat of strength he gets a cardboard top hat with a paper flower stuck in the band. When he puts it on, Derek laughs so hard he has to cross his legs and then run for the nearest Porta-John so he won’t wet his pants.

The kids ride a few more of the rides, but Derek won’t go on the Wonky Caterpillar because he says it’s for babies. Billy goes with Shan, and the fit is so tight that Jamal has to yank him out like a cork from a bottle when the ride is over. That makes them all laugh.

They are walking back to find the Raglands when they come to Dead-Eye Dick’s Shooting Gallery. Half a dozen men are having a go with BB guns, shooting at five rows of targets moving in opposite directions, plus tin rabbits that pop up and down. Shanice points to a giant pink flamingo atop the wall of prizes and says, ‘I’d love to have that for my bedroom. Could I buy it out of my allowance?’

Her father explains that it’s not for sale, you have to win it.

‘Then you win it, Dad!’ she says.

The man running the shooting shy is wearing a striped shirt, a rakishly tilted straw boater, and a fake curly mustache. He looks like he belongs in a barber shop quartet. He hears Shanice and waves Jamal over. ‘Make your little girl happy, mister, knock over three rabbits or four of the birds in the top row and she’s going home with Freddy Flamingo.’

Jamal laughs and hands over five bucks for twenty shots. ‘Prepare for disappointment, sweetie,’ he says, ‘but I might win you one of the smaller prizes.’

‘You can do it, Dad,’ Derek says stoutly.

Billy watches Jamal shoulder the rifle and knows he’ll be lucky to wind up with one of the stuffed turtles that are the consolation prizes for two hits.

‘Go for the birds,’ Billy says. ‘I know the rabbits are bigger, but you can only take snap shots when they pop up.’

‘If you say so, Dave.’

Jamal pops off ten shots at the birds in the top row and hits exactly none. He lowers his sights, pops a couple of the lumbering tin moose in the bottom row, and accepts one of the turtles. Shanice eyes it without much enthusiasm but says thank you.

‘What about you, hoss?’ the barber shop quartet guy asks Billy. Most of his other customers have drifted away. ‘Want to give it a try? Five bucks buys you twenty shots and you only need to hit four of the birdies to make your pretty little pal the happy owner of Frankie Flamingo.’

‘I thought it was Freddy,’ Billy says.

The concession guy smiles and tips his straw boater the other way. ‘Frankie, Freddy, or Felicia, make a little girl happy.’

Shanice looks at him hopefully but says nothing. It’s Derek who convinces him to do the stupid thing when he says, ‘Mr Ragland says all these games are a cheat and nobody wins the big prizes.’

‘Well, let’s test that out,’ Billy says, and lays down a five-spot. Mr Barber Shop Quartet loads a paper spill of BBs and hands Billy a rifle. A few other men and two women are currently at the shy’s counter. Billy moves down partly to give them room, but also because he’s noticed that the tin birds – plus the targets on the other four levels – slow down a bit before they turn out of sight. Probably the chain drives need to be oiled. Which is lazy. The shy’s proprietor should pay for that.

‘Are you going for the birds, Dave?’ Derek asks. It’s been quite awhile since they stopped calling him Mr Lockridge. ‘Like you told Dad?’

‘Absolutely,’ Billy says. He takes a breath, lets it out, takes another and lets it out, takes a third and holds it. He makes no effort to use the little rifle’s sight, which will be wildly out of true. He just snugs his head against the rifle’s stock and fires quickly – pop-pop-pop-pop-pop. The first one misses; his next four knock over four tin birds. He knows he’s doing a stupid thing and should quit, but he can’t resist knocking over one of the rabbits when it rises from its hole.

The Ackermans applaud. So do the other shooters. And, to his credit, so does Mr Barber Shop Quartet before grabbing the pink flamingo and handing it over to Shanice, who hugs it and laughs.

‘Wow, Dave!’ Derek says. His eyes are shining. ‘You rock!’

Now Jamal will ask me where I learned to shoot like that, Billy thinks. And then he thinks, How do you know you’re an idiot? Because if everyone is looking at you, like they are now, you’re an idiot.

It’s actually Corrie who asks him, as they resume their stroll to the Bingo tent. Billy tells her it was in ROTC. That he was just naturally good at it. Telling her he killed at least twenty-five mujin in Fallujah, shooting from rooftops during the nine days of Operation Phantom Fury, would be a bad idea.

Oh, you think? he asks himself with a sarcasm that’s very unlike him – in his thoughts or aloud.

The other thing – the character-check – happens on Monday, the actual holiday. Because he’s a freelance writer working his own hours, he can take off when he wants and also work when others are enjoying a federally mandated day of rest. Gerard Tower is all but deserted. The lobby door is unlocked (such trusting souls in the border south), and no one is at the security stand. When the elevator passes the second floor, he hears no shouts as the denizens of Business Solutions psych each other up and no ringing phones. Apparently debtors are also getting the day off, and good for them.

Billy writes for two hours. He’s almost up to Fallujah now, and wondering what he should say about it – a little, a lot, or maybe nothing at all. He shuts down and decides to put in an appearance at Pearson Street, re-establishing his existence with Beverly Jensen and her husband, who will no doubt be taking the day off. He drives over in his leased car, wig, mustache, and fake pregnancy belly in place. Don is mowing the lawn. Beverly is sitting on the stoop in unfortunate lime green shorts. The three of them bat the breeze a little, talking about how hot the summer has been, how glad they are it’s over, and Dalton Smith’s impending trip to Huntsville, Alabama, where he’ll install a state-of-the-art computer system at the new Equity Insurance HQ. Shouldn’t take too long. After that, he says, he hopes to be back for awhile.

‘They sure do keep you on the hop,’ Don says.

Billy agrees and then asks Beverly about her mother, who lives in Missouri and has been poorly. Beverly sighs and says she’s about the same. Billy says he hopes she’ll be better soon and Beverly says she sure hopes so. As she’s telling him this, Billy looks over her shoulder and sees Don slowly shaking his head. That he doesn’t want his wife to know what he thinks about his mother-in-law’s chances makes Billy like him. He thinks that Don Jensen would never tell his wife that her lime green shorts make her look fat.

He goes down to his pleasingly cool basement apartment. David Lockridge has his book and Dalton Smith has his laptops. Smith’s work might not matter, but because it might matter a great deal somewhere down the line, he does it carefully (even though after working on Benjy Compson’s story, it seems boring and mechanical). He finishes up with a quick review of the three screens. 10 FAMOUS CELEBS WHO ALMOST DIED; THESE 7 FOODS CAN SAVE YOUR LIFE; THE 10 MOST INTELLIGENT DOGS. Good clickbait. He posts them on facebook.com/ads. He really could do this for a living, but who would want to?

He shuts down, reads a little (he’s currently on an Ian McEwan binge), then checks the fridge. The half-and-half is holding out, but the milk has gone spunky. He decides on a trip to the Zoney’s Go-Mart to replace it. When he finds Don and Beverly still on the porch, now sharing a can of beer, he asks if they want anything.

Beverly asks if he’ll see if they have any Pop Secret. ‘We’re going to watch something on Netflix tonight. You’re welcome to join, if you want.’

He almost says yes, which is close to appalling. He tells them instead that he’s going to make it an early night because he’s driving to Alabama first thing in the morning.

He walks down to the sad little strip mall. Merton Richter’s blue SUV with the scratched side is nowhere to be seen and the office is closed. So is the Nu You Tanning Salon, Hot Nails, and the Jolly Roger Tattoo Parlor. Beyond Hot Nails is an abandoned launderette and a Dollar Store with a sign in the window reading VISIT OUR NEW LOCATION IN PINE PLAZA. The Zoney’s is at the very end. Billy gets his milk out of the cooler. There’s no Pop Secret, but there’s Act II, so he grabs a box of that. The clerk is a middle-aged woman with hennaed hair who looks like she’s been down on her luck for awhile, maybe twenty years or so. She offers him a carry sack and Billy says no thank you. Zoney’s uses plastic bags, which are bad for the environment.

On the way back, he passes two young men standing outside the abandoned launderette. One is white. The other is black. They are both wearing hoodies, the kind with kangaroo pockets in front. The pockets sag with the weight of what’s inside them. Their heads are together as they murmur to each other. They give Billy identical glances of narrow assessment as he passes. He doesn’t look at them directly but sees them perfectly well from the corner of his eye. When he doesn’t slow, they go back to whispering together. They might as well be wearing placards around their necks that say WE PLAN TO CELEBRATE LABOR DAY BY ROBBING THE LOCAL ZONEY’S.

Billy walks out of the sad little strip mall and back to the street. He can feel them looking at him. There’s no telepathy involved in that, unless it’s the ordinary telepathy of someone who has survived a war zone with only a half-gone great toe and two Purple Hearts (long since discarded) to show for it.

He thinks of the woman who sold him his goods, a hard-luck mama from the look of her. Her luck isn’t going to change on this holiday, either. Billy never considers going back to brace them, judging from their cranked-up expressions that would be a fine way to get killed, but he does consider calling 911. Only there are no pay phones in the vicinity, not anymore, and the phone he’s carrying is Dalton Smith’s. If he calls the cops, he’ll burn it. Then the rest of his identity will catch fire, because what is it made of? Just paper.

He goes back to the apartment building instead and tells Beverly they didn’t have any Pop Secret. She says Act II is fine. There’s scant traffic on Pearson Street at the best of times, and it’s even scanter on this holiday. He keeps his ear cocked for gunshots. He doesn’t hear any. Which means nothing.

2

Billy downloaded an app for the local newspaper shortly after arriving in this city he can’t wait to put behind him, and the following day he looks for a Zoney’s robbery. He finds the story on the Close to Home page, just a snippet in a roundup of minor news items. It says two thieves armed with handguns made off with just under a hundred dollars (which would include my dollars and Beverly’s, Billy thinks). The clerk, Wanda Stubbs, was alone in the store at the time. She was taken to Rockland Memorial, where she was treated for a head wound and released. So one of those scumbuckets hit her, probably with the butt of his gun, and probably because she wasn’t emptying the register fast enough to suit him.

Billy can tell himself it could have been a lot worse (and does). He can tell himself the robbery would have gone down much as it did even if he had called 911 (and does). It doesn’t change the fact that he feels like the priest and Levite who passed by on the other side of the road before a good Samaritan came along and saved the day.

Billy read the Bible from cover to cover while he was in the suck, every Marine got one on request. He has often regretted it and this is one of those times. The Bible has a story to puncture every equivocation and denial. The Bible – New Testament as well as Old – does not forgive.

3

Me and Mr Speck went to Chattanooga, which was where I joined the Marines. I thought I would have to go to a Marine base to sign up, but it was just an office in a shopping mall with a vacuum cleaner store on one side and a place to get your taxes written up on the other. There was a flag over the door with NOOGA STRONG printed on one of the stripes. In the window was a photo of a Marine that said THE FEW THE PROUD and DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES.

Mr Speck said are you sure you want to do this Benjy? and I said yes, but I wasn’t. I don’t think your sure of anything when you are seventeen and a half although you might pretend so as not to look like a total dub.

Anyway we went in and I talked to Staff Sergeant Walton Fleck. He asked me why I wanted to be a Marine and I said to serve my country, although the real reason was to get out of Speck House and out of Tennessee and start a life that didn’t seem so sad. Glen and Ronnie were gone and Donnie was right when he said only the paint remains.

Next Staff Sergeant Fleck asked me if I thought I was tough enough to be a Marine and I said yes even though I wasn’t sure of that either. Then he asked me if I thought I could kill a man in a combat situation and I said yes.

Mr Speck said can I talk to you for a minute, Sergeant, and Sergeant Fleck said he could. They sent me outside and Mr Speck sat down across the desk and started talking. I could have told the sergeant what happened with my mother’s bad boyfriend, but I guess it was better to hear it from a ‘responsible adult.’ With all I have been through, back then and since, I have to wonder if there is such a thing.

After awhile they called me back inside and I wrote out what happened in the space marked Personal Information. Then I signed in four places, bearing down hard like the sarge told me to. When I was done he told me to be all present and accounted for on Monday. He said sometimes young men had to wait months for processing but I came at the right time. He said on Monday I would take my ASVAB test and my physical with the other ‘new fish.’ ASVAB is an aptitude test that helps them (the Marines) figure out how much you can do and how smart you are.

He asked if I had any tattoos and I said no. He asked if I wore eye-glasses some of the time and I said no. There were other things he said, like bring your Social Security card and if you wear an earring take it out. Then he said (I thought this was funny but kept a straight face) to be sure and wear undershorts. I said okay. He said if there’s anything wrong with you that you didn’t write down, you better tell me now and save yourself a trip. I said there wasn’t.

Sergeant Fleck shook my hand and said if you’ve got a mind to hooraw you better hooraw this weekend because come Monday when you take that test you are going to be Mr Taking Care of Business. I said okay. He said never mind that, let me hear you say yes Staff Sergeant Fleck. So I said that and he shook my hand and said it was good to meet me. ‘And you too sir,’ he said to Mr Speck.

Going back, Mr Speck said he talked tough but I don’t believe he ever killed anyone like you did, Benjy. He just didn’t have that look about him.

By then Ronnie had been gone (in her 7-league boots) for 4 or 5 months, but before she went she let me make out with her in the Demo Derby. That was great, but when I wanted to go farther she laughed and push me away and said your too young but I wanted to give you something to remember me by. I said I would remember, and I do. I don’t think you ever forget the first girl who gives you real kisses. She told me

4

Billy stops there, looking over the laptop and out the window. Robin told him that when she finally lit somewhere, she would write the Stepeneks so her friends from the House of Everlasting Paint could write back to her. She told Billy to do the same thing when he left.

‘I’m guessing it won’t be long before you’re on your way,’ she said that day as they sat in the smashed Mercedes. She had let him unbutton her shirt – that much she had allowed – and she was buttoning it up again as she spoke, hiding all that glory inside. ‘But your idea about feeding yourself to the war machine … you need to re-think that, Billy. You’re too young to die.’ She kissed the tip of his nose. ‘And too pretty.’

Billy starts to write this, only omitting that he had had the hardest, most painful, and most wonderful erection of his life during that all-too-short necking session, when his David Lockridge phone bings with a text. It’s from Ken Hoff.

I have something for you. Probably it’s time for you to take it.

And because he’s probably right about that, Billy texts back Okay.

Hoff returns, I’ll come by your house.

No, no, and no. Hoff at his house? Next door to the Ackermans, with whose kids Billy plays Monopoly on the weekends? Hoff will bring the rifle wrapped in a blanket, of course he will, as if anyone with half a brain and a single eye wouldn’t know what was inside.

No, he texts. Walmart. The Garden Center parking lot. 7:30 2nite.

He waits, watching the dots as Hoff composes his reply. If he thinks the meeting place is negotiable, he’s in for a surprise. But when the response comes back, it’s brief: OK.

Billy shuts down his laptop without even finishing the last sentence. He’s done for the day. Hoff poisoned the well, he thinks. Only he knows better. Hoff is just Hoff and can’t help himself. The real poison is the gun. This thing is getting close.

5

At 7:25 Billy parks his David Lockridge Toyota in the Garden Center section of Walmart’s giant parking lot. Five minutes later, at 7:30 on the dot, he gets a text.

Can’t see you, too many cars, get out and give me a wave.

Billy gets out and waves, as if spotting a friend. A vintage cherry-red Mustang convertible – a Ken Hoff car if ever there was one – drives down one of the lanes and pulls in next to Billy’s humbler vehicle. Hoff gets out. He looks better than the last time Billy saw him, and there’s no alcohol on his breath. Which is a good thing, considering his cargo. He’s wearing a polo shirt (with a logo on it, naturally), pressed chinos, and loafers. He’s got a fresh haircut. Yet the essential Ken Hoff is still there, Billy thinks. The man’s expensive cologne doesn’t mask the smell of anxiety. He’s not cut out for the heavy stuff, and bringing a gun to a hired killer is pretty damn heavy.

The rifle isn’t wrapped in a blanket after all and Billy is willing to give him points for that. What Hoff hauls out of the Mustang’s trunk is a tartan golf bag with four club heads sticking out. They gleam in the day’s fading light.

Billy takes the bag and puts it in his own trunk. ‘Anything else?’

Hoff shuffles his tasseled loafers. Then he says, ‘Maybe, yeah. Can we talk for a minute?’

Because it might be prudent to know what’s on Hoff’s mind, Billy opens the passenger door of the Toyota and gestures for Hoff to get in. Hoff does. Billy goes around and sits behind the wheel.

‘I just want to ask you to tell Nick that I’m okay. Can you do that?’

‘Okay about what?’

‘About everything. That.’ He hoists a thumb behind him, meaning the golf bag in the trunk. ‘Just make sure he knows I’m a stand-up guy.’

You’ve seen too many movies, Billy thinks.

‘Tell him it’s all good. Some of the people I owe money to are happy. Once you do your job, they’ll all be happy. Tell him we all part friends and everybody goes their way. If I’m ever asked, I know nothing about nothing. You’re just some writer I rented space to in one of my buildings.’

No, Billy thinks, you didn’t rent space to me, you rented it to my agent, and George Russo is actually Giorgio Piglielli, aka Georgie Pigs, a known associate of Nikolai Majarian. You’re the link and you know it, which is why we’re having this conversation. You still think you can probably skate after the deal goes down. You have a right to think that, I guess, because skating is what you do. Trouble is, I don’t think you could skate far after ten hours in an interrogation room with cops tag-teaming you. Maybe not even five, if they dangled a deal in front of you. I think you’d crack like an egg.

‘Listen a minute.’ Billy tries to sound kind, but hopefully in a straight-from-the-shoulder way: just two guys in a Toyota having a no-bullshit talk. Is it really the job of Billy Summers to keep this man-shaped annoyance in line? Wasn’t he just supposed to be the mechanic, the one who can disappear like Houdini after the deal is done? That was always the deal before, but for two million …

Meanwhile, Hoff is looking at him eagerly. Needing that reassurance, that soothing syrup. It should have been George giving it, George is good at this stuff, but Georgie Pigs isn’t here.

‘I know this isn’t your usual thing—’

‘No! It’s not!’

‘—and I know you’re nervous, but this isn’t a movie star or a politician or the Pope of Rome we’re talking about. This is a bad guy.’

Like you, Hoff’s face says, and why not? That Billy won a pink flamingo for a cute little girl with ribbons in her hair doesn’t matter. It’s not what they call an extenuating circumstance.

Billy turns to face the other man squarely. ‘Ken, I need to ask you something. Don’t take it personally.’

‘Okay, sure.’

‘You’re not wearing a wire or anything, are you?’

Hoff’s shocked expression is all the answer Billy needs, and he cuts the man’s confused gabble of protests short.

‘Okay, fine, I believe you. I just had to ask. Now listen up. Nobody is going to set up a task force on this one. There’s not going to be a big investigation. They’ll ask you a few questions, they’ll look for my agent and find out he’s a ghost who fooled you with some good papers, and that will be it.’ Balls it will. ‘Do you know what they’ll say? Not for the newspapers or TV, but among themselves?’

Ken Hoff shakes his head. His eyes never leave Billy’s.

‘They’ll say it was a gang killing or a revenge thing and whoever did it saved the city the cost of a trial. They’ll look for me, they won’t find me, and the case will go in the open-unsolved file. They’ll say good riddance to bad rubbish. Got it?’

‘Well, when you put it that way …’

‘I do. I do put it that way. Now go home. Let me take care of the rest.’

Ken Hoff suddenly moves toward him, and for a moment Billy thinks the man is going to slug him. Instead, Hoff gives him a hug. He looks better tonight, but his breath tells a different story. It doesn’t stink of booze, but it stinks.

Billy suffers the hug, bad breath and all. He even hugs back a little. Then he tells Hoff to go on, for God’s sake. Hoff gets out of the car, which is a relief (a huge relief), but then leans back in. He’s smiling, and this smile looks real, as if it comes from the man inside. Apparently there is one.

‘I know something about you.’

‘What’s that, Ken?’

‘That text you sent me. You didn’t write garden center, small g and small c. You wrote capital G, capital C. And just now you didn’t say between themselves, you said among. You’re not as dumb as you like to make out, are you?’

‘I’m smart enough to know that you’ll be fine if you keep it simple. You have no idea where I got the rifle and no clue what I was planning to do with it. End of story.’

‘Okay. One other thing. A heads-up, like. You know Cody?’

Sure he does. The town where they went to the little shitpot of a carnival. At first Billy thinks Hoff’s going to tell him that he was noticed there, because of his shooting. It’s a paranoid thought, but before a job paranoia is just the way to be.

‘Yes. It’s not far from where I’m living.’

‘Right. On the day this thing goes down, there’s going to be a diversion in Cody.’

The only diversion Billy knows about are the flashpots, one in the alley behind the Sunspot Café, the other someplace close to the courthouse. Cody is miles from the courthouse, and Nick never would have told this moke about the flashpots, anyway.

‘What kind of diversion?’

‘A fire. Maybe a warehouse, there are a lot of them out that way. It’ll happen before your guy … your target … gets to the courthouse. I don’t know how long before. I just thought you’d like to know, in case you get a bulletin on your phone or computer or whatever.’

‘Okay, thanks. And now it’s time for you to beat it.’

Hoff gives him a thumbs-up and returns to his rich-boy car. Billy waits until he’s gone and then heads back to Evergreen Street, driving carefully, aware that he’s carrying a high-powered rifle in the trunk.

A warehouse fire in Cody? Really? Does Nick know? Billy doesn’t think so, Nick would have told him about anything that might knock him off his rhythm. But Hoff knows. The question is whether or not he, Billy, tells Nick or Giorgio about this unexpected wrinkle. He thinks he’ll keep it to himself. Ponder it in his heart, like Mary pondering the birth of baby Jesus.

He told Hoff to keep it simple. Except how simple can you keep it when, after three or four hours in that little interrogation room, the cops start asking you how you paid off all the creditors who were baying at your heels? By then they’d be calling him Ken instead of Mr Hoff, because that’s what they do when they smell blood. Where did the money come from, Ken? Did a rich uncle die, Ken? There’s still time to get out from under this. Is there something you’d like to tell us, Ken? Ken?

Billy finds himself wondering about the golf bag and the clubs that are inside it along with the gun. Is it Hoff’s bag? If it is, has he thought to wipe the club heads, in case his fingerprints are on them? Better not to think about it. Hoff has made his bed.

But isn’t that also true of Billy? He keeps thinking about Nick’s escape plan. It’s too good to be true, which is why Billy decided not to use it, and without letting Nick know. Because, hey – if you’re going to get rid of the guy who brokered the deal and supplied the gun, why not get rid of the man who used the gun? Billy doesn’t want to believe that Nick would do that, but he recognizes one incontrovertible fact: not wanting to believe stuff is how Ken Hoff got into a situation he’s almost certainly never going to get out of.

And whose idea was a warehouse fire in Cody on the day of the assassination? Not Nick’s, not Hoff’s. So who?

It’s all worrisome, but as he pulls into his driveway, he sees one thing that’s good: his lawn looks terrific.

6

Through most of August Billy slept well. He drifted off to sleep thinking of nothing except what he would write the following day. There were only a few dreams of Fallujah and the houses with the green garbage bags fluttering from the palm trees in their courtyards. (How had they gotten up there? Why were they up there?) It was no longer his story, it was Benjy’s story now. Those two things had begun to drift apart, and that was all right. He had once watched an interview with Tim O’Brien on YouTube, O’Brien talking about The Things They Carried. He said fiction wasn’t the truth, it was the way to the truth, and Billy can now understand that. Especially when it came to writing about war, and wasn’t that what his story was mostly about? Kissing in that ruined Mercedes with Robin Maguire, aka Ronnie Givens, had only been a truce. Most of the rest was fighting.

Tonight, with summer past and autumn on the come, he lies awake, troubled. Not by the gun in the golf bag. He’s thinking about the job he’s agreed to do with the gun. As a rule he never goes further than the two basics: taking the shot and getting out of Dodge. This time it’s different, and not just because it’s the last time he plans to take a life for pay. It’s different because it has a smell, the way Hoff’s breath had a smell when he snared Billy in that clumsy and unexpected embrace.

Somebody got in touch with Hoff, he thinks, then realizes that’s not so. Nobody got in touch with Hoff, because Hoff is a nobody. He may think he’s a somebody, with his real estate developments and his movie theaters and his red Mustang convertible, but he’s just a big fish in a small pond, and not really that big, either. And this is a big deal. Lots of people are getting paid. Hoff himself, for one. Some of his debts are paid already, and he seems to think all of them will be cleared after Joel Allen goes down. Then there’s Nick, and the troops Nick has fielded for this op. They are not squad strength, but almost. And maybe it is a squad. There could be more Nick hasn’t told him about.

Nobody got in touch with Hoff. Somebody got in touch with Nick, and told him to bring Hoff on board. Billy remembers thinking, the first time he met with Hoff at the Sunspot Café, that Nick and Hoff must be affiliated. Now he’s one step from being positive that’s not true. Hoff wanted a casino license but didn’t get one. Would that have happened if he were tight with Nick, who knows how to finagle such things? A casino was a license to print money, after all, and Hoff needs money.

Is the somebody behind this the same somebody who gave Hoff a heads-up about that putative warehouse fire in Cody? Maybe. Probably.

And consider Joel Allen, now incarcerated in Los Angeles. He’s in protective custody, presumably as snug as a bug in a rug. He has a lawyer fighting extradition. Why, when Allen must know he’ll be shipped back here eventually? It’s not because the food is better in LA County. Is he buying time? Trying to make a deal with the somebody who set all this mishegas in motion, maybe using his lawyer as the go-between?

The somebody must know Allen will be sent back here eventually, and when he gets here, Billy Summers will put him down before he can trade what he knows. The somebody must know there’s a risk Allen has an insurance policy – pictures, recordings, maybe a written confession to something (Billy can’t imagine what). Only the somebody must feel the risk has to be taken, and that it’s an acceptable one. The somebody could be right. Probably is. Guys like Allen don’t take out insurance policies; guys like Allen feel invulnerable. He may be good at the paid hits, but the crimes that have gotten him in his current barrel of shit were crimes of impulse.

Besides, Mr Somebody may feel he has no choice. Whatever the secret is, it’s bad. Allen can’t be allowed to find himself standing trial in a death penalty state. Not with something hot he can trade.

Billy starts to drift into sleep. Before he goes under his last thought is of Monopoly, about how you try to stop the slide into bankruptcy by selling your properties one by one. It rarely works.

7

As he’s getting into his car the next morning, Corrie Ackerman cuts across her lawn and his. She’s got a brown bag, and something inside it smells delicious.

‘I made cranberry muffins. Shan and Derek both get hot lunch at school, but they like a little something extra. I had these two left over. They’re for you.’

‘That’s really nice,’ he says, taking the bag. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to save at least one of them for Jamal when he comes home?’

‘I did put one by for him, but I want you to eat both of these, you hear?’

‘I think I can carry out that mission,’ Billy says, smiling.

‘You’ve lost weight.’ She pauses. ‘You’re okay, right?’

Billy looks down at himself, surprised. Has he lost weight? It seems he has. A hole in his belt that used to go unused is now in service. Then he looks back at her. ‘I’m fine, Corrie.’

‘You look healthy enough, but that isn’t what I meant. Or not all I meant. Is your book going okay?’

‘Gangbusters.’

‘Then maybe you just need to eat more. Healthy stuff. Greens and yellow vegetables, not just take-out pizza and Taco Bell. In the long run, bachelor food is worse than booze. You come to dinner tonight. Six o’clock. I’m making shepherd’s pie. I load in the carrots and peas.’

‘That sounds good,’ Billy says. ‘As long as I’m not putting you out.’

‘You’re not, and I need to say thank you. You have been very good to my kids. Shanice’s crush on you got even bigger when you won her that flamingo.’ She lowers her voice, as if imparting a secret. ‘She changed its name from Frankie to Dave.’

As he drives toward downtown, Billy thinks of Shan changing her flamingo’s name and feels happy because she did that and shame because the name is, after all, a lie.

8

That afternoon he leaves Gerard Tower and strolls a couple of blocks toward Pearson Street. He stops briefly to look into a narrow alley where there are a couple of dumpsters. He thinks it will do. He U-turns to the parking garage.

Later, on his way back to Midwood, he stops at the Walmart. Since coming to Midwood, he’s always stopping here, it seems. As he stands in line at the checkout with his shopping basket, he thinks again about packing this job in. Just disappearing. Only Nick would come after him, and not just looking for a refund of the considerable sum that’s already been paid on account. Billy is good at disappearing, but Nick wouldn’t stop hunting. He’d start by sending a hardball to question Bucky Hanson, and that questioning would be rough, because Nick would figure if anyone had a line on Billy Summers’s whereabouts, it would be his broker in New York. Bucky might end up without fingernails. He might end up dead. He deserves neither.

Nick would also send guys, probably Frankie Elvis and Paul Logan, to the neighborhood. The Fazios and the Raglands would be questioned. So would Jamal and Corrie. Maybe the kids? That was unlikely, grown men talking to kids attracted unwanted attention, but just the thought of those two questioning Shan and Derek makes him queasy.

There are two other things. He has never run out on a job, that’s number one. Joel Allen has it coming, that’s number two. He’s a bad person.

‘Sir? You’re next.’

Billy comes back to the Walmart checkout lane. ‘Sorry, I was woolgathering.’

‘No worries, I do it all the time,’ the checkout girl says.

He empties his carry-basket. There are bright green golf head covers with things like POW! and WHAM! printed on them, a gun cleaning kit, a set of wooden kitchen spoons, a big red bow with HAPPY BIRTHDAY on it in glitter, a light jacket with the Rolling Stones logo on the back, and a child’s lunchbox. The checkout girl beeps the lunchbox last, then holds it up for a better look.

‘Sailor Moon! Some little girl is going to love this!’

Shan Ackerman would love it, Billy thinks, but it’s not for her. In a better world it would be.

9

That night, after dinner with the Ackermans (Corrie’s shepherd’s pie is delicious), he goes down to his basement rumpus room and slides the gun out of the golf bag. It’s an M24, as specified, and it looks okay. He breaks it down, laying the pieces out on the Ping-Pong table, and cleans each one, over five dozen in all. He finds the telescopic sight in one of the golf bag’s two zipper pockets. In the other pocket is a magazine, which holds five rounds of ammunition: Sierra MatchKing Hollow Point Boat Tails.

He will only need one.

10

When he enters the Gerard Tower lobby the next morning at quarter to ten, the strap of the golf bag is over his left shoulder. He has come in purposely late so that most of the business-gerbils will be running on their wheels. Irv Dean, the elderly security guy, looks up from his magazine – today it’s Motor Trend – and gives him a grin. ‘Goin on a golf adventure, Dave? Oh for the life of a writer!’

‘Not me,’ Billy says. ‘I think it’s the most boring game in the universe. These are for my agent.’ He shifts the bag so Irv can see the big bow on the side, with its glittery letters. It’s over the side pocket that now holds a loaded magazine instead of a couple of dozen tees.

‘Well that’s pretty damn nice of you. Expensive present!’

‘He’s done a lot for me.’

‘Uh-huh, I hear that. Only Mr Russo doesn’t exactly look cut out for the golf course.’ Irv holds his hands out in front of him, indicating Giorgio’s enormous front porch.

Billy is ready for this. ‘Yeah, he’d probably drop dead of a heart attack by the third hole if he was walking, but he’s got a custom golf cart. He told me he learned the game in college, when he was a lot slimmer. And you know what, the one time he talked me into going out on the course with him, he put a drive on that ball you wouldn’t believe.’

Irv gets up and for a cold moment Billy thinks the old guy’s cop reflexes have fired one last time and he means to inspect the clubs, which would save Joel Allen’s life and maybe end Billy’s. Instead he turns sideways and claps both hands to his own not inconsiderable hindquarters. ‘This is where the power comes from.’ Irv smacks himself again for emphasis. ‘Right here. You ask any NFL lineman or home run hitter. Ask José Altuve. Five-six, but he’s got an ass like a brick.’

‘That must be it. George sure does have one hell of a boot.’ Billy straightens one of the green club covers. ‘Irv, you have a good day.’

‘You do the same. Hey, when’s his birthday? I’ll get him a card or something.’

‘Next week, but he may not be here. He’s out on the west coast.’

‘Palm trees and pretty girls by the swimming pool,’ Irv says, sitting down. ‘Nice. You staying late tonight?’

‘Don’t know. Have to see how it goes.’

‘Oh for the life of a writer,’ Irv says again, and opens his magazine.

11

In his office, Billy pulls off one of the green club covers – it’s the one that says SLAM! Sticking out of the Remington’s barrel is a curtain rod he hacksawed to the right length. Taped to the end of the rod is the bowl of a wooden serving spoon. With the green club cover snugged down over it, it looks enough like the head of a golf club to be one. He takes out the stock, barrel, and bolt of the 700. Then he pushes two of the clubs aside so he can remove the lunchbox, which is wrapped in a sweater to muffle any clinks and clunks. Inside are the smaller components – bolt plug, firing pin, ejector pin, floor-plate latch, all the rest. He puts the disassembled gun, plus the five-shot magazine, the Leupold scope, and a glass cutter, in the overhead cabinet between the office and the little kitchenette. He locks it and puts the key in his pocket.

He doesn’t even try to write. Writing is done until this shit-show has been put to bed. He pushes aside the MacBook on which he’s writing his story and opens his own. He types in the password, just a jumble of numbers and letters he’s memorized (there’s no giveaway sticky note hidden somewhere with the password written on it), and opens a file titled THE GAY BLADE. Said gay blade being Colin White of Business Solutions, of course. Listed there are ten flamboyant outfits Billy has observed Colin wearing to work.

There’s no way of predicting which one Colin will be wearing on the day Joel Allen is delivered to the courthouse, and Billy has decided it doesn’t matter. Not just because people believe their eyes even when their eyes are telling lies, but because it has to be the parachute pants. Sometimes Colin tops them with a wide-shouldered flower power shirt, sometimes with a tee that says QUEERS FOR TRUMP, sometimes with one of his many band shirts. It doesn’t matter because the Colin people see will be wearing a jacket on top with the Rolling Stones lips logo on the back. He’s never seen Colin in a jacket of any kind, not during the hot summer just past, but such a garment is certainly in his wheelhouse. And if the day of the shooting is hot, as fall weather tends to be here, the jacket will still be all right. It’s a fashion statement.

When Nick’s men in the fake DPW truck see Billy running past without stopping to get in, they won’t think Billy Summers is taking off; they’ll get a glimpse of the parachute pants and the shoulder-length black hair and think There goes that fag in one of his flashy outfits, running for the hills.

He hopes.

Still using his own laptop, Billy goes shopping on Amazon, specifying next-day delivery.