He did have a couple of other questions. The most important was how much lead time he could expect when the deal was about to go down.
‘Not a lot,’ Nick said, ‘but it won’t be “He’s gonna be there in fifteen minutes,” either. We’ll know right after the extradition is ordered, and you’ll get a call or a text. It’ll be twenty-four hours at the very least, maybe three days or even a week. Okay?’
‘Yeah,’ Billy said. ‘Just as long as you understand I can’t guarantee anything if it is fifteen minutes. Or even an hour.’
‘It won’t be.’
‘What if they don’t bring him up the courthouse steps? What if they use another door?’
‘There is another door,’ Giorgio said. ‘It’s the one some of the courthouse employees use. But you’ll still have a sightline from the fifth floor and the distance is only sixty yards or so longer. You can do that, can’t you?’
He could, and said so. Nick lifted a hand as if to wave away a troublesome fly. ‘It’ll be the steps, count on it. Anything else?’
Billy said there wasn’t and now he lies here, thinking it over, waiting for sleep. On Monday he’ll be moving into the little yellow house, leased for him by his agent. His literary agent. On Tuesday, he’ll see the office suite Georgie Pigs has also leased for him. When Giorgio asked him what he’d do there, Billy told him he’d start by downloading ComiXology to his laptop. And maybe a few games.
‘Be sure to write something between funnybooks,’ Giorgio said, half-joking and half not. ‘You know, get into character. Live the part.’
Maybe he will. Maybe he will do that. Even if what he writes isn’t very good, it will pass the time. Autobiography was his suggestion. Giorgio suggested a novel, not because he thinks Billy’s bright enough to write one but because Billy could say that when someone asked, as someone will. Probably lots of someones, once he gets to know people in the Gerard Tower.
He’s slipping toward sleep when a cool idea wakes him up: why not a combination of the two? Why not a novel that’s actually an autobiography, one written not by the Billy Summers who reads Zola and Hardy and even plowed his way through Infinite Jest, but one written by the other Billy Summers? The alter ego he calls his dumb self? Could that work? He thinks yes, because he knows that Billy as well as he knows himself.
I might give it a try, he thinks. With nothing but time on my hands, why not? He’s thinking about how he might begin when he finally drifts off.
CHAPTER 3
1
Billy Summers once more sits in the hotel lobby, waiting for his ride.
It’s Monday noon. His suitcase and laptop case are beside his chair and he’s reading another comic book, this one called Archie Comics Spectacular: Friends Forever. He’s not thinking about Thérèse Raquin today but what he might write in the fifth-floor office he’s never seen. It isn’t clear in his mind, but he has a first sentence and holds onto it. That sentence might connect to others. Or not. He’s prepared for success but he’s also prepared for disappointment. It’s the way he rolls and it’s worked out pretty well so far. In the sense, at least, that he’s not in jail.
At four minutes past twelve, Frank Macintosh and Paulie Logan enter the lobby dressed in their suits. There are handshakes all around. Frank’s pompadour appears to have had an oil change.
‘Need to check out?’
‘Taken care of.’
‘Then let’s go.’
Billy tucks his Archie book into the side pocket of his bag and picks it up.
‘Nah, nah,’ Frankie says. ‘Let Paulie. He needs the exercise.’
Paulie holds his middle finger against his tie like a clip, but he takes the bag. They go out to the car. Frank drives, Paulie sits in back. They drive to Midwood and the little yellow house. Billy looks at the balding lawn and thinks he’ll water it. If there’s no hose, he’ll buy one. There’s a car in the driveway, a subcompact Toyota that looks a few years old, but with Toyotas, who can really tell?
‘Mine?’
‘Yours,’ Frank says. ‘Not much, but your agent keeps you on a tight budget, I guess.’
Paulie puts Billy’s suitcase down on the porch, takes an envelope from his jacket pocket, removes a keyring, unlocks the door. He puts the keys back in the envelope and hands it to Billy. Written on the front is 24 Evergreen Street. Billy, who didn’t check the street sign yesterday or today, thinks, Now I know where I live.