This time Billy reads the silence as surprise. Then Bucky says, ‘Are you sure you mean that?’
‘I do.’ He does. He feels tempted to promise Bucky the whole fucking thing, because he no longer wants it.
‘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.’
‘Uh-huh. Maybe you ought to take a couple of aspirin and lie down for awhile.’
‘That’s probably a good idea.’
‘Sure.’ There’s a soft bing. It has to be Bucky. ‘I’ll just say goodb—’
‘Is everything good there?’
No, Billy thinks. Everything is mega fucked up, Bev, thanks for asking. ‘Everything’s fine.’
‘I didn’t mean it about the plants, either. I’d feel terrible if I came back and found Daphne and Walter dead.’
‘I’ll take good care of them.’
‘Thank you. Thank you so very, very, very, very much.’
‘You’re very welcome. I have to go, Bev.’
‘Okay, Dollen. And thank you very, very, v—’
‘Talk soon,’ he says, and ends the call.
The text is from one of Bucky’s many communication aliases. It’s brief.
bigpapi982: No transfer of funds yet. He wants to know where you are.
Billy texts back under one of his own communication aliases.
DizDiz77: People in hell want ice water.
5
He scrambles some eggs and heats some tomato soup for supper, and this time he’s able to keep it down. When he’s finished he puts on the six o’clock news, tuning to the NBC affiliate because he doesn’t want or need to watch the Channel 6 video again. An ad for Liberty Mutual is followed by his own picture. He’s in his Evergreen Street backyard wearing a smile and an apron that says NOT JUST A SEX OBJECT, I CAN COOK! Others in the background have had their faces blurred out, but Billy knows them all. They were his neighbors. The photo was taken at the barbecue he had for the folks on the street, and he’s guessing it came from Diane Fazio because she’s always clicking pix, either with her phone or her little Nikon. He notes that his grass (he still thinks of it as his) looks damn good.
The super beneath the picture says WHO IS DAVID LOCKRIDGE? He’s pretty sure the cops already know. Computer fingerprint searches are lickety-split these days, and his dabs are on file from his Marine days.
‘This is the man police believe is responsible for the brazen assassination of Joel Allen on the courthouse steps,’ one of the two anchors says. He’s the one who looks like a banker.
The other anchor, the one who looks like a magazine model, picks up the narrative. ‘His motive is a mystery at this point, and so is his method of escape. Police are certain of one thing: he had help.’
I didn’t, Billy thinks. It was offered and I turned it down.