by Stephen King
To Billy, Dalton Smith with his low-key but impeccable bona fides is as beautiful as a snowfield without a single track on it. He hates the idea of defacing that beauty by putting Dalton to work, but isn’t this exactly what Dalton Curtis Smith was created for? It is. One last job, the ever-popular last job, and Billy can disappear into a new identity. Probably not live the rest of his life in it, but even that’s possible, assuming he can get out of this town without being burned; the five hundred thousand down payment has already made the rounds and finished up at Dalton’s bank account in Nevis, and half a mil’s the biggest sign that Nick isn’t playing this funny. When the work is done, the rest will follow.
Dalton’s DL headshot shows a man of about Billy’s age, maybe a year or two younger, but he’s blond instead of dark. And he has a mustache.
4
The next morning, Billy parks on the fourth level of the garage near the Gerard Tower. After making certain adjustments to his appearance, he walks in the opposite direction. This is Dalton Smith’s maiden voyage.
When the city is small, small distances can make a big difference. Pearson Street is only nine blocks from the Main Street parking garage, a brisk fifteen-minute walk (Gerard Tower still looms close enough to be clearly seen), but this is a different world from the one where guys in ties and gals in click-clack shoes man and woman their posts and lunch in the kind of restaurants where the waiter hands you a wine list along with the menu.
There’s a corner grocery, but it’s closed up. Like many declining neighborhoods, this one is a food desert. There are two barrooms, one closed and the other looking like it’s just hanging on. A pawnshop that doubles as a check-cashing and small-loans business. A sad little strip mall a bit further on. And a line of homes that are trying to look middle class and not getting there.
Billy guesses the reason for the area’s decline is the vacant lot right across the street from his target house. It’s a big expanse of rubbly, trash-strewn ground. Cutting through it are rusting railroad tracks barely visible in high weeds and summer goldenrod. Signs posted at fifty-foot intervals read CITY PROPERTY and NO TRESPASSING and DANGER KEEP OUT. He notes the jagged remains of a brick building that once must have been a train station. Maybe it served bus lines as well—Greyhound, Trailways, Southern. Now the city’s land-based transportation has moved elsewhere, and this neighborhood, which might have been busy in the closing decades of the last century, is suffering from a kind of municipal COPD. A rusty shopping cart lies overturned on the sidewalk across the way. A tattered pair of men’s undershorts flap from one of its wheels in a hot wind that tousles the hair of Billy’s blond Dalton Smith wig and flutters his shirt collar against his neck.
Most of the houses need paint. Some have FOR SALE signs in front of them. 658 also needs paint, but the sign in front reads FURNISHED APARTMENTS FOR RENT. There’s a real estate agent’s number to call. Billy notes it down, then goes up the cracked cement walk and looks at the line of doorbells. Although it’s just a three-story, there are four bells. Only one of them, second from the top, has a name: JENSEN. He rings it. At this time of day there’s probably nobody home, but his luck is in.
Footsteps descend the stairs. A youngish woman peers through the dirty glass of the door. What she sees is a white man in a nice open-collared shirt and dress pants. His blond hair is short. His mustache is neatly trimmed. He wears glasses. He’s quite fat, not to the point of obesity but getting there. He doesn’t look like a bad person, he looks like a good person who could stand to drop twenty or thirty pounds, so she opens the door, but not all the way.
As if I couldn’t push my way in and strangle you right there in the foyer, Billy thinks. There’s no car in the driveway or parked at the curb, which means your husband’s at work, and those three unmarked bells strongly suggest that you are the only person in this old faux Victorian.
“I don’t buy from door-to-door salesmen,” Mrs. Jensen says.
“No, ma’am, I’m not a salesman. I’m new in the city and looking for an apartment. This looks like it might be in my price range. I just wanted to know if this is a nice place. My name’s Dalton Smith.”
He holds out his hand. She gives it a token touch, then draws her own hand back. But she’s willing to talk. “Well, it’s not the greatest area, as you can see, and the nearest supermarket’s a mile away, but me and my husband haven’t had any real problems. Kids get into that old trainyard across the way sometimes, probably drinking and smoking dope, and there’s a dog around the corner that barks half the night, but that’s about the worst of it.” She pauses and he sees her look down, checking for a wedding ring that’s not there. “You don’t bark at night, do you, Mr. Smith? By which I mean parties and loud music.”
“No, ma’am.” He smiles and touches his stomach. The fake pregnancy belly has been inflated to about six months. “I like to eat, though.”
“Because there’s a clause about excessive noise in the rental agreement.”
“May I ask how much you pay per month?”
“That’s between me and my husband. If you want to live here, you’d have to take it up with Mr. Richter. He’s the man that handles this place. Couple of others down the block, too… although this one’s nicer. I think.”
“Completely understood. I apologize for asking.”
Mrs. Jensen thaws a little. “I will tell you that you don’t want the third floor. That place is a hotbox, even when the wind blows from across the old trainyard, which it does most of the time.”
“No air conditioning, I take it.”
“You take it right. But when it comes on cold weather, the heat’s okay. Course you have to pay for it. Electricity, too. It’s all in the agreement. If you’ve rented before, I guess you know the drill.”
“Boy, do I ever.” He rolls his eyes and finally gets a smile out of her. Now he can ask what he really wants to ask. “What about the downstairs? Is that a basement apartment? Because it looks like there’s a bell—”
Her smile widens. “Oh yes, and it’s quite nice. Furnished, like the sign says. Although, you know, just the basics. I wanted that one, but my husband thought it would be too small if our application gets approved. We’re trying to adopt.”
Billy marvels at this. She has just revealed a crucial piece of her heart—of her marriage’s heart—after she balked at revealing how much rent she and her husband pay. Which he asked not because he really wanted to know but because it would make him seem plausible.
“Well, good luck to you. And thanks. If this Mr. Richter and I see eye to eye, maybe you’ll see more of me. You have a good day, now.”
“You too. Nice to meet you.” This time she holds out her hand for a real shake, and Billy thinks again about what Nick said—You get along with people without buddying up to them. Nice to know that works even if you look fat.
As he walks down the sidewalk, she calls after him, “I bet that basement apartment stays nice and cool even in the hottest weather! I wish we’d taken it!”
He gives her a thumbs-up and heads back toward downtown. He has seen all he needs to see and has come to a decision. This is the place he wants, and Nick Majarian doesn’t need to know a thing about it.
Halfway back he comes to a hole-in-the-wall store that sells candy, cigarettes, magazines, cold drinks, and burner phones in blister packs. He buys one, paying cash, and sits on a bus bench to get it up and running. He will use it as long as he has to, then dispose of it. The others as well. Always supposing the deal goes down, the cops are going to know right away that it was David Lockridge who assassinated Joel Allen. They will then discover that David Lockridge is an alias of one William Summers, a Marine vet with sniper skills and sniper kills. They will also discover Summers’s association with Kenneth Hoff, the designated fall guy. What they must not discover is that Billy Summers, aka David Lockridge, has disappeared into the identity of Dalton Smith. Nick can never know that, either.
He calls Bucky Hanson in New York and tells Bucky to send the
box marked Safeties to his Evergreen Street address.
“So this is it, huh? You’re really pulling the pin?”
“Looks like it,” Billy says, “but we’ll talk some more.”
“Sure we will. Just make sure it isn’t collect from some toolie-bop city jail. You’re my man, hoss.”
Billy ends the call and makes another. To Richter, the real estate guy who is serving as rental agent for 658 Pearson.
“I understand it’s furnished. Would that include WiFi?”
“Just a second,” Mr. Richter says, but it’s more like a minute. Billy hears paper rustling. At last Richter says, “Yes. Put in two years ago. But no television, you’d have to supply that.”
“All right,” Billy says. “I want it. How about I drop by your office?”
“I could meet you there, show you the place.”
“That won’t be necessary. I just want it as a base of operations while I’m in this part of the country. Could be a year, could be two. I travel quite a bit. The important thing is the neighborhood looks quiet.”
Richter laughs. “Since they demolished the train station, you bet it is. But the people out there might trade a little more noise for a little more commerce.”
They set a time to meet the following Monday and Billy returns to Level 4 of the parking garage, where his Toyota is parked in a dead spot neither of the security cameras can see. If they can see at all; they look mighty tired to Billy. He removes the wig, the mustache, the glasses, and the fake pregnancy belly. After stowing them in the trunk, he takes the short walk back to Gerard Tower.
He’s there in time to get a burrito from the Mexican wagon. He eats it with Jim Albright and John Colton, the lawyers from five. He sees Colin White, the dandy who works for Business Solutions. Today he’s looking mighty cute in a sailor suit.
“That guy,” Jim says, laughing. “He’s quite the bandbox, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Billy agrees, and thinks, A bandbox who’s just about my height.
5
It rains all weekend. On Saturday morning Billy goes to Walmart where he buys a couple of cheap suitcases and a lot of cheap clothes that will fit his overweight Dalton Smith persona. He pays cash. Cash has amnesia.
That afternoon he sits out on the porch of the yellow house, watching the grass in his front yard. Watching it rather than merely looking at it, because he can almost see it perking up. This is not his house, not his town or state, he’ll leave without a look back or single regret, but he still feels a certain proprietorial pride in his handiwork. It won’t be worth mowing for a couple of weeks, maybe not even until August, but he can wait. And when he’s out there, zinc ointment on his nose, mowing in gym shorts and a sleeveless tee (maybe even a wifebeater), he’ll be one step closer to belonging. To blending in with the scenery.
“Mr. Lockridge?”
He looks next door. The two kids, Derek and Shanice Ackerman, are standing on their porch, looking at him through the rain. It’s the boy who’s spoken. “My ma just made sugar cookies. She ast me to ast you if you want half a dozen.”
“That sounds good,” Billy says. He gets up and runs through the rain. Shanice, the eight-year-old, takes his hand with a complete lack of self-consciousness and leads him inside, where the smell of fresh-baked cookies makes Billy’s stomach rumble.
It’s a neat little house, tight and shipshape. There are about a hundred framed photos in the living room, including a dozen on the piano that holds pride of place. In the kitchen, Corinne Ackerman is just removing a baking sheet from the oven. “Hi, neighbor. Do you want a towel for your hair?”
“I’m fine, thanks. Ran between the raindrops.”
She laughs. “Then have a cookie. The kids are having milk with theirs. Would you like a glass? There’s also coffee, if you’d prefer that.”
“Milk would be fine. Just a little.”
“Double shot?” She’s smiling.
“Sounds about right.” Smiling back.
“Then sit down.”
He sits with the kids. Corinne puts a plate of cookies on the table. “Be careful, they’re still hot. Your take-homes will be in the next batch, David.”
The kids grab. Billy takes one. It’s sweet and delicious. “Terrific, Corinne. Thank you. Just the thing on a rainy day.”
She gives her kids big glasses of milk, Billy a small one. She pours her own small glass and joins them. The rain drums on the roof. A car goes hissing by.
“I know your book is top secret,” Derek says, “but—”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Corinne admonishes. “You’re spraying crumbs everywhere.”
“I’m not,” Shanice says.
“No, you’re doing good,” Corinne says. Then, with a sideways glance at Billy: “Doing well.”
Derek has no interest in grammar. “But tell me one thing. Is there blood in it?”
Billy thinks of Bob Raines, flying backward. He thinks of his sister with all her ribs broken—yes, every fucking one—and her chest stomped in. “Nope, no blood.” He takes a bite of his cookie.
Shanice reaches for another. “You can have that one,” her mother says, “and one more. You too, D. The rest are for Mr. Lockridge and for later. You know your dad likes these.” To Billy she says, “Jamal works six days a week and overtime when he can get it. The Fazios are good about keeping track of these two while we’re both at work. This is not a bad neighborhood, but we’ve got our eye on something better.”
“Movin on up,” Billy says.
Corinne laughs and nods.
“I don’t ever want to move,” Shanice says, then adds with a child’s charming dignity: “I have friends.”
“So do I,” Derek says. “Hey, Mr. Lockridge, do you know how to play Monopoly? Me’n Shan are going to play, but it’s stupid with just two and Mom won’t.”
“Mom won’t is right,” Corinne says. “Most boring game in the world. Get your father to play with you tonight. He will, if he’s not too tired.”
“That’s hours away,” Derek says. “I’m bored right now.”
“Me too,” Shanice says. “If I had a phone, I could play Crossy Road.”
“Next year,” Corinne says, and rolls her eyes in a way that makes Billy think the girl has been phone-campaigning for quite a while. Maybe since the age of five.
“Do you play?” Derek asks, although without much hope.
“I do,” Billy says, then leans across the table, pinning Derek Ackerman with his eyes. “But I have to warn you that I’m good. And I play to win.”
“So do I!” Derek is smiling below a milk mustache.
“So do I!” Shanice says.
“I wouldn’t hold back just because you’re kids and I’m a grownup,” Billy says. “I’d wound you with my rental properties, then kill you with my hotels. If we’re going to play, you have to know that up front.”
“Okay!” Derek says, jumping up and almost spilling the rest of his milk.
“Okay!” Shanice cries, also jumping up.
“Are you kids going to cry when I win?”
“No!”
“No!”
“Okay. As long as we have that straight.”
“Are you sure?” Corinne asks him. “That game, I swear it can go on all day.”
“Not with me rolling the dice,” Billy says.
“We play downstairs,” Shanice says, and once more takes his hand.
The room down there is the same size as the one in Billy’s house, but it’s only half a man-cave. In that part, Jamal has set up a work space with tools pegged to the wall. There’s also a bandsaw, and Billy notes with approval that there’s a padlocked cover over the on/off switch. The kids’ half of the room is littered with toys and coloring books. There’s a small TV hooked up to a cheap game console that uses cassettes. To Billy it looks like a yardsale purchase. Board games are stacked against one wall. Derek takes the Monopoly box and puts the board on a child-sized table.
“Mr. Lockridge is too big for o
ur chairs,” Shanice says, sounding dismayed.
“I’ll sit on the floor.” Billy removes one of the chairs and does so. There’s just room for his crossed legs under the table.
“Which piece you want?” Derek asks. “I usually take the racing car when it’s just me ’n Shan, but you can have it if you want.”
“That’s okay. Which one do you like, Shan?”
“The thimble,” she says. Then adds, rather grudgingly, “Unless you want it.”
Billy takes the top hat. The game begins. Forty minutes later, when Derek’s turn comes around again, he calls for his mother. “Ma! I need advice!”
Corinne comes down the stairs and stands with her hands on her hips, surveying the board and the distribution of Monopoly money. “I don’t want to say you kids are in trouble, but you kids are in trouble.”
“I warned them,” Billy says.
“What do you want to ask me, D? Keep in mind your mother barely passed Home Economics back in the day.”
“Well, here’s my problem,” Derek says. “He’s got two of the green ones, Pacific and Pennsylvania, but I got North Carolina. Mr. Lockridge says he’ll give me nine hundred dollars for it. That’s three times what I paid, but…”
“But?” Corinne says.
“But?” Billy says.
“But then he can put houses on the green ones. And he already has hotels on Park Place and Boardwalk!”
“So?” Corinne says.
“So?” Billy says. He’s grinning.
“I gotta go to the bathroom and I’m almost broke anyway,” Shanice says, and gets up.
“Honey, you don’t need to announce your bathroom calls. You just need to say excuse me.”