Billy might not live long even so, because safe is always better than sorry. He might fall down a flight of prison stairs with his hands cuffed behind his back. He might be stabbed in the shower with a sharpened toothbrush or have a bar of soap stuffed down his throat. He could hold his own against one guy, maybe even two, but faced with a posse of 88s or three or four widebodies from People Nation? No. And does he want to spend life in prison in any case? Also no. Better dead than caged. He guesses Nick knows that, too.
None of it will be an issue if he isn’t caught. He never has been, seventeen times he’s gotten away clean, but he’s never been faced with a situation like this one. It’s not like shooting from an alley with a car nearby to carry you away, the best route out of town carefully marked.
How did you disappear after you’d gunned a man down from the fifth floor of a downtown office building, with a shit-ton of city and county cops right across the way? Billy knows how it would work in a movie: the bad-guy shooter would use a sound-and-flash suppressor. That’s not an option in this case. The range is just a little too long, and he won’t get a second chance if he misses the first time. Also, there’s going to be the unmistakable crack of the bullet breaking the sound barrier. A suppressor can do nothing about that. Billy has a personal issue, as welclass="underline" he has simply never trusted potato-busters. Put a gadget on the end of a good rifle and you’re taking a risk of fucking up your shot. So it’s going to be loud, and while the source may not be immediately identifiable, when people stop cringing and look up, they’re going to see a window on the fifth floor from which a small circle of glass is missing. Because these windows don’t open.
The problems don’t daunt Billy. On the contrary, they engage him. The way the prospect of certain dangerous escapes – being chained up inside a safe and thrown into the East River, or dangling from a skyscraper in a straitjacket – no doubt engaged Houdini. Billy doesn’t have a whole plan yet, but he’s got a start. The parking garage was a little more loaded on the first two levels than Irv Dean had indicated, maybe today’s court docket is especially heavy, but by the time Billy got to Level 4, he had his pick of spots. Privacy, in other words, and privacy is good. Billy is sure Houdini would have agreed with that.
He goes back to the table, where the expensive Mac Pro is still playing Canfield. He powers up his own laptop and goes to Amazon. You can buy anything at Amazon.
2
A stretch of curb in front of Gerard Tower has been stenciled AUTHORIZED PARKING ONLY. At quarter past eleven a truck with a big sombrero on the side pulls up there. Below the sombrero, JOSE’S EATS. And below that, TODOS COMEN! People start leaving the building, trundling toward the truck like ants drawn to sugar. Five minutes later another truck pulls up behind the first. On the side of this one is a grinning cartoon boy woofing down a double cheeseburger. At eleven-thirty, while people are lined up for burgers and fries and tacos and enchiladas, a hotdog wagon appears.
Time to eat, Billy thinks. Also time to meet some more neighbors.
There are four people waiting for the elevator, three men and a woman. All are dressed for business and all look to be in their mid-thirties, the woman maybe even younger. Billy joins them. One asks if he’s the new writer in residence … as if Billy has supplanted an old one. Billy says he is and introduces himself. They do likewise: John, Jim, Harry, Phyllis. Billy asks what’s good down below. John and Harry suggest the Mexican wagon. ‘Excellent fish tacos,’ John says. Jim says the burgers aren’t bad and the onion rings are A-plus. Phyllis says she has her face fixed for one of Petie’s chili dogs.
‘None of it’s haute cuisine,’ Harry says, ‘but it beats brown-bagging it.’
Billy asks about the café across the street and all four shake their heads. Such instant unanimity strikes Billy funny and he has to grin.
‘Stay away from it,’ Harry says. ‘Crowded at lunch.’
‘And the prices are high,’ John adds. ‘I don’t know about writers, but when you work for a start-up law firm, you have to watch your nickels and dimes.’
‘Lots of lawyers in the building?’ Billy asks Phyllis as the elevator doors open.
‘Don’t ask me, ask them,’ she says. ‘I’m with Crescent Accounting. Answer the phone and check tax returns.’
‘Quite a few of us legal beagles,’ Harry says. ‘Some on three and four, a few more on six. I think there’s a start-up architectural firm on seven. And I know there’s a photography studio on eight. Commercial stuff for catalogs.’
John says, ‘If this place was a TV show, they’d call it The Young Lawyers. The big firms are mostly two or three blocks over, other side of the courthouse on Holland Street and Emery Plaza. We stay close and get crumbs from the big boys’ table.’
‘And wait for the big boys to die,’ Jim adds. ‘Most of the lawyers in the old-line firms are dinosaurs who wear three-piece suits and sound like Boss Hogg.’
Billy thinks of the sign in front: OFFICE SPACE AND LUXURY APARTMENTS NOW AVAILABLE. It looked like it had been there awhile, and like Hoff, it had a certain whiff of desperation. ‘I’d guess your firm got a break on the lease.’
Harry gives Billy a thumbs-up. ‘Bang. Four years at a price just north of incredible. And the lease will hold even if the guy who owns the building, Hoff’s his name, goes into Chapter 11. Ironclad. It gives us little fellas some time to get traction.’
‘Besides,’ Jim says, ‘a lawyer who gets screwed on his own lease agreement deserves to go broke.’
The young lawyers laugh. Phyllis smiles. The doors open on the lobby. The three men forge ahead, intent on chow. Billy crosses the lobby with Phyllis at a more leisurely pace. She’s a good-looking woman in an understated way, more daisy than peony.
‘Curious about something,’ he says.
She smiles. ‘It’s a writer’s stock in trade, isn’t it? Curiosity?’
‘I suppose so. I’m seeing a lot of people dressed casual. Like them.’ He points to a couple just approaching the door. The guy is wearing black jeans and a Sun Ra tee. The woman with him is in a smock top that declares her pregnant belly rather than hiding it. Her hair is pulled back in a careless ponytail secured with a red rubber band. ‘Don’t tell me those two are lawyers or architectural assistants. I guess they could be from the photography studio, but there’s a whole herd of them.’
‘They work for Business Solutions on the second floor. The whole second floor. It’s a collection agency. We call them BS for a reason.’ She wrinkles her nose as if at a bad smell, but Billy doesn’t miss the touch of envy in her voice. Dressing for success may be exciting at first, but as time passes it must become a drag, especially for women – the good hair, the good makeup, the click-clack shoes. Surely this nice-looking woman from the accounting firm on the fifth floor must from time to time think about how much of a relief it would be to just slop on a pair of jeans and a shell top, add a dash of lipstick, and call it good.
‘You don’t need to dress up when you spend the day working the phones in a great big open-plan office,’ Phyllis says. ‘Your targets don’t see you when you’re telling them to cough up the cash or the bank will slap a lien on your house.’ She stops just shy of the doors, looking thoughtful. ‘I wonder what they make.’
‘I guess you don’t crunch their numbers.’
‘You guess right. But keep us in mind if you hit big with your book, Mr Lockridge. We’re also a new firm. I think I’ve got a card in my purse …’