by Stephen King
“Porch steps’ll do fine,” Jamal says.
They sit. They open the cans: fsst. Billy tips his to Jamal’s and says, “Thanks.”
They drink. They survey the lawn.
“It’ll take more than water to bring that mess back,” Jamal says. “I’ve got some Miracle-Gro, if you want to use some. They had a BOGO deal at the Wally World Garden Center last month and I have plenty.”
“I might take you up on that. I’m planning a trip to Wally World myself. I might get a couple of chairs for the porch. But probably not until next week. You know how it is, new place and all.”
Jamal laughs. “Do I ever. This is the third house we’ve lived in since I got married in ’09. First one was her mom’s.” He pretends to shiver. Billy smiles. “Got two kids, ten and eight. Boy and a girl. When they bug you, cause they will, holler them back home.”
“If they don’t break the windows or light the place on fire, they won’t bug me.”
“You buying or renting?”
“Leasing. I’ll be here awhile, don’t know just how long. I’m… it’s a little embarrassing to come right out and say it, but I’m writing a book. Trying, anyway. Looks like there’s a chance I can get it published, might even be some real money in it, but I’ll have to buckle down. I’ve got an office in town. The Gerard Tower? At least I think I do. I’m going to look at it tomorrow.”
Jamal’s eyes have gotten very wide. “An author! Living right here on Evergreen Street! I’ll be goddamned!”
Billy laughs and shakes his head. “Easy, big fella. I’m just a wannabe for now.”
“Still, man! Wow. Wait ’til I tell Corinne. We gotta have you over to dinner some night. We’ll be able to tell people we knew you when.”
He holds up a hand. Billy slaps him five. You get along with people without buddying up to them, Nick said. It’s true and it’s not a shuck. Billy likes people, and he likes to keep them at arms’ length. It sounds like a contradiction, but it’s not.
“What’s it about, your book?”
“Can’t tell you.” This is where the editing begins. Giorgio may think he knows it all from reading a few writers’ magazines and online posts, but he doesn’t. “Not because it’s a big secret or something, but because I’ve got to keep it bottled up. If I start talking about it…” He shrugs.
“Yeah, man, got it.” Jamal smiles.
And so, yeah. Just like that.
4
That night Billy browses Netflix on the big TV in the rumpus room. He knew it was a thing these days but has never bothered to investigate it when there are so many books to read. There’s so much to watch as well, it seems. The sheer volume of choices is intimidating and he decides to go to bed early instead of watching anything. Before undressing, he checks his phone and finds a text from his new agent.
GRusso: 9 AM at Gerard Tower. Don’t drive. Uber.
Billy doesn’t have a David Lockridge phone—neither Giorgio nor Frank Macintosh gave him one—and he doesn’t have a burner. He decides to use his personal since Giorgio already did. With the encrypted messaging app it should be all right. And Billy has something he really needs to say.
Billy S: OK. Don’t bring Hoff.
Dots roll as Giorgio composes his reply. It doesn’t take long.
GRusso: Have to. Sorry.
The dots disappear. Discussion over.
Billy empties his pockets and puts his pants in the washing machine along with everything else. He does this slowly, brow furrowed. He doesn’t like Ken Hoff. Did not like him, in fact, even before he opened his mouth. Gut reaction. What Giorgio’s parents and grandparents would have called reazione istintiva. But Hoff is in it. Giorgio’s text made that clear: Have to. It’s not like Nick and Giorgio to bring a local into their business, especially not life-and-death business like this. Is Hoff in it because of the building? Location, location, location, as the real estate guys like to say? Or because Nick isn’t local himself?
Neither of those things quite excuse Ken Hoff in Billy’s mind. I’m a little bit tight this year he’d said, but Billy guesses you had to be more than a little bit short in the shekels department to get involved in an assassination plot. And from the very first—the macho beard scruff, the Izod shirt, the Dockers with the slightly frayed pockets, the Gucci loafers worn at the heel—Hoff smelled to Billy like the guy who would be first to flip in an interrogation room if offered a deal. Deals, after all, were what the Ken Hoffs of the world made.
He turns in and lies in the dark, hands under the pillow, looking up at nothing. Some traffic on the street, but not much. He’s wondering when two million dollars starts to look like not enough, when it starts to look like dumb money. The answer seems obvious: after it’s too late to back out.
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 build
ing. 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.”
He takes a key from his pocket and reaches up to the rectangular wooden panel above the door between the office/conference room and the kitchenette. He turns the key, pushes the panel, and it swings up. The space inside looks to be eighteen inches high, four feet long, two feet deep. It’s empty.
“Storage,” Hoff says, and actually mimes shooting an invisible rifle. “The key’s so you can lock it on Fridays, when the cleaning staff—”
Billy almost says it, but Giorgio beats him to it, and that’s good because he’s supposed to be the thinker, not Billy Summers. “No cleaning in here. Not on Fridays, not on any other day. Top secret writing project, remember? Dave can keep the place neatened up himself. He’s a neat guy, right, Dave?”
Billy nods. He’s a neat guy.
“Tell Dean, tell the other security guy—Logan, yeah?—and tell Broder.” To Billy he says, “Steven Broder. The building super.”
Billy nods and files the name away.
Giorgio hoists the laptop bag onto the table, pushing aside the tools for writing by hand (a gesture Billy finds both sad and somehow symbolic), and unzips it. “MacBook Pro. Best money can buy, state of the art. My present to you. You can use your own if you want to, but this baby… all the bells and whistles. Can you get it going okay? There’s probably an instruction book, or something…”
“I’ll figure it out.”
No problem there, but something else might be. If Nick Majarian hasn’t rigged this beautiful black torpedo so he can use it as a kind of magic mirror into what Billy writes in this room, he has missed a trick. And Nick doesn’t miss many.
“Oh sugarpie, that reminds me,” Hoff says, and hands Billy another of his engraved cards along with the key to the cubby over the door to the kitchenette. “WiFi password. Totally safe. Secure as a bank vault.”
Bullshit, Billy thinks as he puts the card in his pocket.
“Well,” Giorgio says, “I guess that’s about it. We’ll leave you to your creative endeavors. Come on, Ken.”
Hoff seems reluctant to leave, as if he feels there should be more to show. “You call me if you need anything, Bi… Dave. Anything at all. Entertainment, maybe? A TV? Maybe a radio?”
Billy shakes his head. He has a considerable musical library on his phone, mostly country and western. He has many things to do in the days ahead, but at some point he’ll find time to rip his tunes to this fine new laptop. If Nick decides to listen in, he can catch up on Reba and Willie and all Hank Junior’s rowdy friends. And maybe he’ll write that book after all. On his own laptop, which he trusts. He will also take security measures on both lappies—the new one and his personal, which is an old pal.
Giorgio finally gets Hoff out and Billy is on his own. He goes back to the window and stands there tracing both diagonals: the one leading to the wide stone steps and the one leading to the employees’ door. Again he imagines what will happen, seeing it vividly. Real-world events are never quite the same as the ones you see in your head, but this work always begins with the seeing. It’s like poetry that way. The things that change, the unexpected variables, the revisions: that stuff has to be dealt with when it comes up, but it starts with the seeing.
His phone dings with a text.
GRusso: Sorry about H. I know he’s a bit of an asshole.
Billy S: Do I need to see him again?
G
Russo: Don’t know.
Billy would prefer something more definitive, but this will do for now. It will have to.
6
When he gets back to what he supposes is now home, his new David Lockridge building ID is in his pocket. Tomorrow he’ll be driving his new used car to work. On the porch, leaning against the door, is a bag of Miracle-Gro lawn food with a note taped to it: Thought you could use this! Jamal A.
Billy gives the house next door a wave, although he’s not sure there’s anyone there to see; it’s still half an hour shy of noon. Probably both Ackermans work. He takes the lawn food inside, props it in the hall, then drives to Walmart, where he buys two burner phones (an heir and a spare) and a couple of flash drives, although he’ll probably need just the one; he could put the complete works of Émile Zola on a single thumbie and barely fill a corner of the space available.
He also impulse buys a cheap AllTech laptop, which he puts in his bedroom closet, still in the carton. He pays cash for the phones and the flash drives. He uses his David Lockridge Visa for the laptop. He has no immediate plans for the burners, may never even use them. It all depends on his exit strategy, which at this point is only a shadow.
He stops at Burger King on the way back, and when he gets to the yellow house, a couple of kids on bikes are in front of it. A boy and a girl, one white and one black. He guesses the girl must belong to Jamal and Corinne Ackerman.
“Are you our new neighbor?” the boy asks.
“I am,” Billy says, and thinks he’ll have to get used to being one. It might even be fun. “I’m Dave Lockridge. Who are you?”
“Danny Fazio. This is my bud Shanice. I’m nine. She’s eight.”
Billy shakes hands with Danny, then with the girl, who looks at him shyly as her brown hand disappears into his white one. “Nice to meet you both. Enjoying your summer vacation?”
“Summer reading program’s okay,” Danny says. “They give out stickers for each book you read. I’ve got four. Shanice got five, but I’ll catch up. We’re going over my house. After lunch, a bunch of us gonna play Monopoly down the park.” He points. “Shan brings the board. I’m always the racecar.”