In his office, Billy pulls off one of the green club covers – it’s the one that says SLAM! Sticking out of the Remington’s barrel is a curtain rod he hacksawed to the right length. Taped to the end of the rod is the bowl of a wooden serving spoon. With the green club cover snugged down over it, it looks enough like the head of a golf club to be one. He takes out the stock, barrel, and bolt of the 700. Then he pushes two of the clubs aside so he can remove the lunchbox, which is wrapped in a sweater to muffle any clinks and clunks. Inside are the smaller components – bolt plug, firing pin, ejector pin, floor-plate latch, all the rest. He puts the disassembled gun, plus the five-shot magazine, the Leupold scope, and a glass cutter, in the overhead cabinet between the office and the little kitchenette. He locks it and puts the key in his pocket.
He doesn’t even try to write. Writing is done until this shit-show has been put to bed. He pushes aside the MacBook on which he’s writing his story and opens his own. He types in the password, just a jumble of numbers and letters he’s memorized (there’s no giveaway sticky note hidden somewhere with the password written on it), and opens a file titled THE GAY BLADE. Said gay blade being Colin White of Business Solutions, of course. Listed there are ten flamboyant outfits Billy has observed Colin wearing to work.
There’s no way of predicting which one Colin will be wearing on the day Joel Allen is delivered to the courthouse, and Billy has decided it doesn’t matter. Not just because people believe their eyes even when their eyes are telling lies, but because it has to be the parachute pants. Sometimes Colin tops them with a wide-shouldered flower power shirt, sometimes with a tee that says QUEERS FOR TRUMP, sometimes with one of his many band shirts. It doesn’t matter because the Colin people see will be wearing a jacket on top with the Rolling Stones lips logo on the back. He’s never seen Colin in a jacket of any kind, not during the hot summer just past, but such a garment is certainly in his wheelhouse. And if the day of the shooting is hot, as fall weather tends to be here, the jacket will still be all right. It’s a fashion statement.
When Nick’s men in the fake DPW truck see Billy running past without stopping to get in, they won’t think
He hopes.
Still using his own laptop, Billy goes shopping on Amazon, specifying next-day delivery.
CHAPTER 9
1
A week passes. He keeps expecting to hear from Giorgio, but there’s nothing. On Friday evening he invites his neighbors over for a backyard barbecue, and for awhile afterward he, Jamal, and Paul Ragland play three-way pass in Billy’s backyard while the kids play tag, ducking under Paul and Jamal’s throws, which are sizzling. Even though the glove Jamal found for Billy is a well-padded catcher’s mitt, his hand is still stinging as he does up the few dishes. That’s when his phone rings.
He goes to the David Lockridge one first, but it’s not that one. Then to the Billy Summers phone, but it’s not that one, either. Which leaves the one he didn’t expect to ring at all. It has to be Bucky in New York, because he’s the only one who has the Dalton Smith number. But as he picks it up off the Welsh dresser in the living room, he realizes that’s not true. It was on the form he filled out for Merton Richter, the real estate agent, and he also gave it to Beverly Jensen, his upstairs neighbor.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, neighbor.’ It’s not Beverly; it’s her husband. ‘How’s Alabama?’
For a moment Billy has no idea what Jensen is talking about. He’s frozen.
‘Dalton? Did I lose you?’
It clicks into place. He’s supposed to be in Huntsville, installing a computer system for Equity Insurance. ‘No, I’m here. How is it? Hot, that’s how it is.’
‘Weather okay otherwise?’
Billy has no clue how the weather is in Huntsville, probably pretty much like here but who knows. If he’d had the slightest fucking idea Don Jensen might call, he’d have checked. ‘Nothing special,’ he says. ‘What can I do for you?’
Well, we were wondering just who the hell you really are, he imagines Don saying. That fake belly might fool most people, but my wife spotted it from the get-go.
‘I tell you what,’ Don says, ‘Bev’s mother took a turn for the worse yesterday and died this afternoon.’
‘Oh. I’m very sorry to hear that.’ Billy actually is sorry. Maybe not ‘very,’ but at least ‘sort of.’ Beverly is no Corrie Ackerman, but she’s okay.
