Billy Summers

‘You can also use your card for the parking garage on Main. It’s good for four months. Your, uh, agent paid for that. It’ll open the barrier as soon as I put you in the computer. Parking on the street when court’s in session, forget it.’ Which explains the Uber. ‘There’s no assigned space in the garage, but most days you’ll find a spot on the first or second level. We’re not overcrowded just now.’ He gives Ken Hoff an apologetic look, then returns his attention to the new tenant. ‘Anything I can do for you, just tap one-one on your office phone. Landline’s installed. Your agent there took care of that, too.’

‘Mr Dean has been very helpful,’ Giorgio says.

‘It’s his job!’ Hoff exclaims cheerfully. ‘Isn’t it, Irv?’

‘Absolutely right.’

‘You say hi to your wife, tell her I hope she feels better. Those copper bracelets are supposed to help. The ones they advertise on TV?’

‘Might give them a try,’ Dean says, but he looks dubious, and good for him.

When they pass the security stand, Billy sees that Mr Polk Security has a copy of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue in his lap. There’s a bodacious babe on the cover, and Billy makes a mental note to pick one up. The dumb self likes sports, and he likes babes.

They take the elevator up to five and step out in a deserted corridor. ‘There’s an accounting office down there,’ Hoff says, pointing. ‘Two connecting suites. Also some lawyers. There’s a dentist on this side. I think. Unless he moved out. I guess he did, because the plaque on the door is gone. I’ll have to ask the rental agent. Rest of the floor is unoccupied.’

Oh, this guy is in real trouble, Billy thinks again. He risks a glance at Giorgio, but Giorgio – George – is gazing at the door behind which there is now no dentist. As if there was something there to see.

Near the end of the hall, Hoff reaches into his suitcoat pocket and produces a little cloth keycard wallet with GT stamped on the front in gold. ‘This is yours. Also two spares.’

Billy touches one of the keycards to the reader and steps into what would be a small reception area if this were a going business. It’s stuffy. Stale.

‘Jesus, someone forgot to turn on the air conditioning! Just a second, wait one.’ Hoff punches a couple of buttons on the wall controller and has an anxious moment when nothing happens. Then cool air begins to whoosh from an overhead vent. Billy reads Hoff’s relief in the slump of his shoulders.

The next room is a big office that could double as a small conference room. There’s no desk, just a table long enough for maybe six people, if they crammed in shoulder to shoulder. On it is a stack of Staples notebooks, a box of pens, a landline telephone. This room – his writing studio, Billy supposes – is even hotter than the antechamber because of the morning sun flooding in. No one has bothered to lower the blinds, either. Giorgio flaps the collar of his shirt against his neck. ‘Whew!’

‘It’ll cool quick, real quick,’ Hoff says. He sounds a bit frantic. ‘This is a great HVAC system, state of the art. It’s starting already, feel it?’

Billy doesn’t care about room temperature, at least for the time being. He steps to the right side of the big window facing the street and looks down that diagonal to the courthouse steps. Then he traces another diagonal to the small door further on. The one courthouse employees use. He imagines the scene: a police car pulling up, or maybe a van with SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT or CITY POLICE on the side. Law enforcement gets out. Two at least, maybe three. Four? Probably not. They will open the door on the curb side if it’s a car. The back doors if it’s a van. He’ll watch Joel Allen clear the vehicle. There will be no problem picking him out, he’ll be the one bracketed by cops and wearing handcuffs.

When the time comes – if it comes – there will be nothing to this shot.

‘Billy!’ Hoff’s voice makes him jerk, as if waking him from a dream.

The developer is standing in the doorway of a much smaller room. It’s the kitchenette. When Hoff sees he has Billy’s attention, he gestures around palm up, pointing out the mod cons like a model on The Price Is Right.

‘Dave,’ Billy says. ‘I’m Dave.’

‘Right. Sorry. My bad. You got your little two-burner stove, no oven but you got your microwave for popcorn, Hot Pockets, TV dinners, whatever. Plates and cookware in the cupboards. You got your little sink to wash up your dishes. Mini-fridge. No private bathroom, unfortunately, the men’s and women’s are at the end of the hall, but at least they’re at your end. Short walk. And then there’s this.’

He takes a key from his pocket and reaches up to the rectangular wooden panel above the door between the office/conference room and the kitchenette. He turns the key, pushes the panel, and it swings up. The space inside looks to be eighteen inches high, four feet long, two feet deep. It’s empty.