Billy Summers

Billy marvels at this. She has just revealed a crucial piece of her heart – of her marriage’s heart – after she balked at revealing how much rent she and her husband pay. Which he asked not because he really wanted to know but because it would make him seem plausible.

‘Well, good luck to you. And thanks. If this Mr Richter and I see eye to eye, maybe you’ll see more of me. You have a good day, now.’

‘You too. Nice to meet you.’ This time she holds out her hand for a real shake, and Billy thinks again about what Nick said – You get along with people without buddying up to them. Nice to know that works even if you look fat.

As he walks down the sidewalk, she calls after him, ‘I bet that basement apartment stays nice and cool even in the hottest weather! I wish we’d taken it!’

He gives her a thumbs-up and heads back toward downtown. He has seen all he needs to see and has come to a decision. This is the place he wants, and Nick Majarian doesn’t need to know a thing about it.

Halfway back he comes to a hole-in-the-wall store that sells candy, cigarettes, magazines, cold drinks, and burner phones in blister packs. He buys one, paying cash, and sits on a bus bench to get it up and running. He will use it as long as he has to, then dispose of it. The others as well. Always supposing the deal goes down, the cops are going to know right away that it was David Lockridge who assassinated Joel Allen. They will then discover that David Lockridge is an alias of one William Summers, a Marine vet with sniper skills and sniper kills. They will also discover Summers’s association with Kenneth Hoff, the designated fall guy. What they must not discover is that Billy Summers, aka David Lockridge, has disappeared into the identity of Dalton Smith. Nick can never know that, either.

He calls Bucky Hanson in New York and tells Bucky to send the box marked Safeties to his Evergreen Street address.

‘So this is it, huh? You’re really pulling the pin?’

‘Looks like it,’ Billy says, ‘but we’ll talk some more.’

‘Sure we will. Just make sure it isn’t collect from some tooliebop city jail. You’re my man, hoss.’

Billy ends the call and makes another. To Richter, the real estate guy who is serving as rental agent for 658 Pearson.

‘I understand it’s furnished. Would that include WiFi?’

‘Just a second,’ Mr Richter says, but it’s more like a minute. Billy hears paper rustling. At last Richter says, ‘Yes. Put in two years ago. But no television, you’d have to supply that.’

‘All right,’ Billy says. ‘I want it. How about I drop by your office?’

‘I could meet you there, show you the place.’

‘That won’t be necessary. I just want it as a base of operations while I’m in this part of the country. Could be a year, could be two. I travel quite a bit. The important thing is the neighborhood looks quiet.’

Richter laughs. ‘Since they demolished the train station, you bet it is. But the people out there might trade a little more noise for a little more commerce.’

They set a time to meet the following Monday and Billy returns to Level 4 of the parking garage, where his Toyota is parked in a dead spot neither of the security cameras can see. If they can see at all; they look mighty tired to Billy. He removes the wig, the mustache, the glasses, and the fake pregnancy belly. After stowing them in the trunk, he takes the short walk back to Gerard Tower.

He’s there in time to get a burrito from the Mexican wagon. He eats it with Jim Albright and John Colton, the lawyers from five. He sees Colin White, the dandy who works for Business Solutions. Today he’s looking mighty cute in a sailor suit.

‘That guy,’ Jim says, laughing. ‘He’s quite the bandbox, isn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ Billy agrees, and thinks, A bandbox who’s just about my height.

5

It rains all weekend. On Saturday morning Billy goes to Walmart where he buys a couple of cheap suitcases and a lot of cheap clothes that will fit his overweight Dalton Smith persona. He pays cash. Cash has amnesia.

That afternoon he sits out on the porch of the yellow house, watching the grass in his front yard. Watching it rather than merely looking at it, because he can almost see it perking up. This is not his house, not his town or state, he’ll leave without a look back or single regret, but he still feels a certain proprietorial pride in his handiwork. It won’t be worth mowing for a couple of weeks, maybe not even until August, but he can wait. And when he’s out there, zinc ointment on his nose, mowing in gym shorts and a sleeveless tee (maybe even a wifebeater), he’ll be one step closer to belonging. To blending in with the scenery.

‘Mr Lockridge?’

He looks next door. The two kids, Derek and Shanice Ackerman, are standing on their porch, looking at him through the rain. It’s the boy who’s spoken. ‘My ma just made sugar cookies. She ast me to ast you if you want half a dozen.’