5
Billy Ubers to the Gerard Tower, as instructed. Hoff and Giorgio are waiting in front. The face-bristles still make Hoff look (to Billy, at least) like a hobo instead of a cool dude, but otherwise he’s squared away in a summerweight suit and subdued gray tie. ‘George Russo,’ on the other hand, looks larger than ever in an unfortunate green shirt, untucked, and blue jeans with enough ass in them to make a puptent. Billy supposes it’s that fat man’s idea of how a big-time literary agent dresses for a visit to sticksville. Propped between his feet is a laptop case.
Hoff seems to have pulled back on the salesman bonhomie, at least a little. Possibly at Giorgio’s request, but he still can’t resist a jaunty little salute: mon capitaine. ‘Good to see you. The security guy on duty this morning – and most weekdays – is Irv Dean. He’ll want your driver’s license and a quick snap. That okay?’
Because it has to be if they’re going to proceed, Billy nods.
A few workbound people are still crossing the lobby to the elevators. Some wear suits, some of the women are in those high heels Billy thinks of as click-clack shoes, but a surprising number are dressed informally, some even in branded tees. He doesn’t know where they work, but it’s probably not meeting the public.
The guy sitting at the concierge-type stand at the lobby’s center is portly and elderly. The lines around his mouth are so deep they make him look like a life-sized ventriloquist’s dummy. Billy guesses retired cop, now only two or three years from total retirement. His uniform consists of a blue vest with POLK SECURITY on it in gold thread. A cheap hire. More evidence that Hoff is in trouble. Big trouble, if he’s solely on the hook for this building.
Hoff turns on his charm turbocharger, approaching the old guy with a smile and outstretched hand. ‘How’s it going, Irv? All okay?’
‘Fine, Mr Hoff.’
‘Wife tip-top?’
‘The arthritis bothers her some, but otherwise she’s fine.’
‘This is George Russo, you met him last week, and this is David Lockridge. He’s going to be our resident author.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Lockridge,’ Dean says. A smile lights up his face and makes him look younger. Not much, but a little. ‘Hope you’ll find some good words here.’
Billy thinks that’s a nice thing to say, maybe even the best thing. ‘I hope so, too.’
‘Mind me asking what your book is about?’
Billy puts a finger to his lips. ‘Top secret.’
‘Okay, I hear you. That’s a nice little suite on five. I think you’ll like it. I have to take your picture for your building ID, if that’s okay?’
‘Sure.’
‘Got a DL?’
Billy hands over the David Lockridge driver’s license. Dean uses a cell phone with GERARD TOWER Dymo’d on the back to photograph first his license and then Billy himself. Now there’s a picture of him on this building’s computer servers, retrievable by anyone with authorization or hacking skills. He tells himself it doesn’t matter, this is his last job, but he still doesn’t like it. It feels all wrong.
‘I’ll have the card for you when you leave. You need to use it if there’s nobody here at the stand. Just put it on this reader gadget. We like to know who’s in the building. I’ll be here most of the time, or Logan when I’m off, and when we are, we’ll sign you in.’
‘Got it.’
‘You can also use your card for the parking garage on Main. It’s good for four months. Your, uh, agent paid for that. It’ll open the barrier as soon as I put you in the computer. Parking on the street when court’s in session, forget it.’ Which explains the Uber. ‘There’s no assigned space in the garage, but most days you’ll find a spot on the first or second level. We’re not overcrowded just now.’ He gives Ken Hoff an apologetic look, then returns his attention to the new tenant. ‘Anything I can do for you, just tap one-one on your office phone. Landline’s installed. Your agent there took care of that, too.’
‘Mr Dean has been very helpful,’ Giorgio says.
‘It’s his job!’ Hoff exclaims cheerfully. ‘Isn’t it, Irv?’
‘Absolutely right.’
‘You say hi to your wife, tell her I hope she feels better. Those copper bracelets are supposed to help. The ones they advertise on TV?’
‘Might give them a try,’ Dean says, but he looks dubious, and good for him.
When they pass the security stand, Billy sees that Mr Polk Security has a copy of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue in his lap. There’s a bodacious babe on the cover, and Billy makes a mental note to pick one up. The dumb self likes sports, and he likes babes.
They take the elevator up to five and step out in a deserted corridor. ‘There’s an accounting office down there,’ Hoff says, pointing. ‘Two connecting suites. Also some lawyers. There’s a dentist on this side. I think. Unless he moved out. I guess he did, because the plaque on the door is gone. I’ll have to ask the rental agent. Rest of the floor is unoccupied.’
Oh, this guy is in real trouble, Billy thinks again. He risks a glance at Giorgio, but Giorgio – George – is gazing at the door behind which there is now no dentist. As if there was something there to see.
Near the end of the hall, Hoff reaches into his suitcoat pocket and produces a little cloth keycard wallet with GT stamped on the front in gold. ‘This is yours. Also two spares.’
Billy touches one of the keycards to the reader and steps into what would be a small reception area if this were a going business. It’s stuffy. Stale.
‘Jesus, someone forgot to turn on the air conditioning! Just a second, wait one.’ Hoff punches a couple of buttons on the wall controller and has an anxious moment when nothing happens. Then cool air begins to whoosh from an overhead vent. Billy reads Hoff’s relief in the slump of his shoulders.
The next room is a big office that could double as a small conference room. There’s no desk, just a table long enough for maybe six people, if they crammed in shoulder to shoulder. On it is a stack of Staples notebooks, a box of pens, a landline telephone. This room – his writing studio, Billy supposes – is even hotter than the antechamber because of the morning sun flooding in. No one has bothered to lower the blinds, either. Giorgio flaps the collar of his shirt against his neck. ‘Whew!’
‘It’ll cool quick, real quick,’ Hoff says. He sounds a bit frantic. ‘This is a great HVAC system, state of the art. It’s starting already, feel it?’
Billy doesn’t care about room temperature, at least for the time being. He steps to the right side of the big window facing the street and looks down that diagonal to the courthouse steps. Then he traces another diagonal to the small door further on. The one courthouse employees use. He imagines the scene: a police car pulling up, or maybe a van with SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT or CITY POLICE on the side. Law enforcement gets out. Two at least, maybe three. Four? Probably not. They will open the door on the curb side if it’s a car. The back doors if it’s a van. He’ll watch Joel Allen clear the vehicle. There will be no problem picking him out, he’ll be the one bracketed by cops and wearing handcuffs.
When the time comes – if it comes – there will be nothing to this shot.
‘Billy!’ Hoff’s voice makes him jerk, as if waking him from a dream.
The developer is standing in the doorway of a much smaller room. It’s the kitchenette. When Hoff sees he has Billy’s attention, he gestures around palm up, pointing out the mod cons like a model on The Price Is Right.
‘Dave,’ Billy says. ‘I’m Dave.’
‘Right. Sorry. My bad. You got your little two-burner stove, no oven but you got your microwave for popcorn, Hot Pockets, TV dinners, whatever. Plates and cookware in the cupboards. You got your little sink to wash up your dishes. Mini-fridge. No private bathroom, unfortunately, the men’s and women’s are at the end of the hall, but at least they’re at your end. Short walk. And then there’s this.’