Billy Summers

‘If you’re right about the situation,’ Bucky says, ‘you could be promising me something your employer doesn’t mean to deliver. Maybe never meant to deliver.’

Billy thinks again of Ken Hoff, who could almost have PATSY tattooed on his forehead. Did Nick think the same of Billy? The idea makes him mad, and he welcomes the feeling. It beats the hell out of feeling ashamed.

‘He’ll deliver. I’ll make sure of it. In the meantime, you need to get over the hills and far away. And travel under a different name.’

Bucky laughs. ‘Don’t teach your grampy how to suck eggs, kiddo. I’ve got a place.’

Billy says, ‘I guess I do want you to send a message through your email cutout. Write it down.’

A pause. Then: ‘Give it to me.’

‘“My client did the job and disappeared on his own, period. He’s Houdini, remember, question mark. Transfer the money by midnight, period.”’

‘That it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll text you when I hear, okay?’

‘Okay.’

3

He’s hungry, and why not? He hasn’t had anything but dry toast, and that was a long time ago. There’s a package of ground beef in the fridge. He peels open the plastic wrap and smells it. It seems all right, so he dumps half a pound or so into a skillet with a little bit of margarine. While he stands at the stove, chopping up the meat and stirring it around, his hand happens on that shopping list in his back pocket again. He takes it out and sees it’s not a shopping list at all. It’s Shan’s drawing of her and the pink flamingo, once named Freddy and now named Dave, although Billy guesses it won’t stay Dave for long. It’s folded up but he can see the red crayon ghosts of the hearts rising from the flamingo’s head toward hers. He doesn’t unfold it, just sticks it back in his pocket.

He’s laid in supplies for his stay and the cupboard beside the stove is full of canned goods: soup, tuna fish, Dinty Moore Beef Stew, Spam, SpaghettiOs. He takes a can of Manwich and dumps it over the simmering beef, sploosh. When it starts to bubble, he sticks two slices of bread into the toaster. While he waits for them to pop up, he takes Shan’s picture out of his pocket. This time he unfolds it. Ought to get rid of this, he thinks. Tear it up, flush it down the john. Instead he folds it and puts it in his pocket again.

The toaster pops. Billy puts the slices on a plate and spoons Manwich over them. He gets a Coke and sits down at the table. He eats what’s on the plate, then goes back for the rest. He eats that, too. He drinks the Coke. Then, as he’s washing out the skillet, his stomach knots up and he starts making a chugging sound. He runs to the bathroom, kneels in front of the bowl, and throws up until everything is in the toilet.

He flushes, wipes his mouth with toilet paper, flushes again. He drinks some water, then goes to his periscope window and looks out. The street is empty. So is the sidewalk. He guesses it’s often that way on Pearson Street. There’s nothing to see but the empty lot with the signs – NO TRESPASSING, CITY PROPERTY, DANGER KEEP OUT – guarding the jagged brick remnants of the train station. The abandoned shopping cart has disappeared but the men’s undershorts are still there, now caught on a bunch of weeds. An old Honda station wagon passes. Then a Ford Pinto. Billy wouldn’t have believed there were still any of those on the road. A pickup truck. No Transit van.

Billy closes the curtain, lies down on the couch, closes his eyes, and falls asleep. There are no dreams, at least that he can remember.

4

His phone wakes him up. It’s the ringtone, so Bucky must have news too detailed to put in a text. Only it’s not Bucky. It’s Bev Jensen, and this time she’s not laughing. This time she’s … what? Not crying, exactly, it’s more like the sound a baby makes when it’s unhappy. Grizzling.

‘Oh hi, hello,’ she says. ‘I hope I’m not …’ A watery gulp. ‘… not bothering you.’

‘No,’ Billy says, sitting up. ‘Not at all. What’s wrong?’

At that the grizzling escalates into loud sobs. ‘My mother is dead, Dalton! She really is!’

Well shit, Billy thinks, I knew that. He knows something else. She’s drunk-dialed him.

‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’ In his muzzy state that’s the best he can do.

‘I called because I didn’t want you to think I was a horrible person. Laughing and carrying on and talking about going on a cruise.’

‘You’re not going?’ This is a disappointment; he was looking forward to having the house to himself.

‘Oh, I guess we will.’ She gives a morose sniff. ‘Don wants to and I guess I do, too. We had a little bit of a honeymoon on Cape San Blas – that’s on what they call the Redneck Riviera – but since then we haven’t been anywhere. I just … I didn’t want you to think I was dancing on Momma’s grave, or anything.’

‘I didn’t,’ Billy says. This is the truth. ‘You had a windfall and you were excited. Perfectly natural.’

At this she lets go completely, crying and gasping and snorkeling and sounding like she’s on the verge of drowning. ‘Thank you, Dalton.’ It comes out Dollen, like her husband. ‘Thank you for understanding.’