Billy Summers

Billy S: OK. Don’t bring Hoff.

Dots roll as Giorgio composes his reply. It doesn’t take long.

GRusso: Have to. Sorry.

The dots disappear. Discussion over.

Billy empties his pockets and puts his pants in the washing machine along with everything else. He does this slowly, brow furrowed. He doesn’t like Ken Hoff. Did not like him, in fact, even before he opened his mouth. Gut reaction. What Giorgio’s parents and grandparents would have called reazione istintiva. But Hoff is in it. Giorgio’s text made that clear: Have to. It’s not like Nick and Giorgio to bring a local into their business, especially not life-and-death business like this. Is Hoff in it because of the building? Location, location, location, as the real estate guys like to say? Or because Nick isn’t local himself?

Neither of those things quite excuse Ken Hoff in Billy’s mind. I’m a little bit tight this year he’d said, but Billy guesses you had to be more than a little bit short in the shekels department to get involved in an assassination plot. And from the very first – the macho beard scruff, the Izod shirt, the Dockers with the slightly frayed pockets, the Gucci loafers worn at the heel – Hoff smelled to Billy like the guy who would be first to flip in an interrogation room if offered a deal. Deals, after all, were what the Ken Hoffs of the world made.

He turns in and lies in the dark, hands under the pillow, looking up at nothing. Some traffic on the street, but not much. He’s wondering when two million dollars starts to look like not enough, when it starts to look like dumb money. The answer seems obvious: after it’s too late to back out.

5

Billy Ubers to the Gerard Tower, as instructed. Hoff and Giorgio are waiting in front. The face-bristles still make Hoff look (to Billy, at least) like a hobo instead of a cool dude, but otherwise he’s squared away in a summerweight suit and subdued gray tie. ‘George Russo,’ on the other hand, looks larger than ever in an unfortunate green shirt, untucked, and blue jeans with enough ass in them to make a puptent. Billy supposes it’s that fat man’s idea of how a big-time literary agent dresses for a visit to sticksville. Propped between his feet is a laptop case.

Hoff seems to have pulled back on the salesman bonhomie, at least a little. Possibly at Giorgio’s request, but he still can’t resist a jaunty little salute: mon capitaine. ‘Good to see you. The security guy on duty this morning – and most weekdays – is Irv Dean. He’ll want your driver’s license and a quick snap. That okay?’

Because it has to be if they’re going to proceed, Billy nods.

A few workbound people are still crossing the lobby to the elevators. Some wear suits, some of the women are in those high heels Billy thinks of as click-clack shoes, but a surprising number are dressed informally, some even in branded tees. He doesn’t know where they work, but it’s probably not meeting the public.

The guy sitting at the concierge-type stand at the lobby’s center is portly and elderly. The lines around his mouth are so deep they make him look like a life-sized ventriloquist’s dummy. Billy guesses retired cop, now only two or three years from total retirement. His uniform consists of a blue vest with POLK SECURITY on it in gold thread. A cheap hire. More evidence that Hoff is in trouble. Big trouble, if he’s solely on the hook for this building.

Hoff turns on his charm turbocharger, approaching the old guy with a smile and outstretched hand. ‘How’s it going, Irv? All okay?’

‘Fine, Mr Hoff.’

‘Wife tip-top?’

‘The arthritis bothers her some, but otherwise she’s fine.’

‘This is George Russo, you met him last week, and this is David Lockridge. He’s going to be our resident author.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Lockridge,’ Dean says. A smile lights up his face and makes him look younger. Not much, but a little. ‘Hope you’ll find some good words here.’

Billy thinks that’s a nice thing to say, maybe even the best thing. ‘I hope so, too.’

‘Mind me asking what your book is about?’

Billy puts a finger to his lips. ‘Top secret.’

‘Okay, I hear you. That’s a nice little suite on five. I think you’ll like it. I have to take your picture for your building ID, if that’s okay?’

‘Sure.’

‘Got a DL?’

Billy hands over the David Lockridge driver’s license. Dean uses a cell phone with GERARD TOWER Dymo’d on the back to photograph first his license and then Billy himself. Now there’s a picture of him on this building’s computer servers, retrievable by anyone with authorization or hacking skills. He tells himself it doesn’t matter, this is his last job, but he still doesn’t like it. It feels all wrong.

‘I’ll have the card for you when you leave. You need to use it if there’s nobody here at the stand. Just put it on this reader gadget. We like to know who’s in the building. I’ll be here most of the time, or Logan when I’m off, and when we are, we’ll sign you in.’

‘Got it.’