Billy Summers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hank lowers his head.

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

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

‘I’ll fuck you up,’ Donovan sobs.

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

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

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

‘Please don’t,’ Donovan sobs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER 17

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