Billy Summers

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 As if they don’t understand that Vegas is obsolete, Billy thinks.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?’