There’s an oversized freight elevator at the end of the hall, doors open, sides hung with furniture pads, but Billy doesn’t even think about using it. The machinery will be in the basement and if the elevator starts up, the shadow dancer will hear it. There’s a door to the left of the elevator marked STAIRS. Billy climbs to the third-floor landing. There he unzips his laptop case. He puts on the gloves and the mask. He puts the zip-ties in his pants pocket. He has the Ruger in his left hand and the can of oven cleaner in his right. He cracks the stairway door and peeks out into a little lobby. It’s empty. So is the hallway beyond. There’s one apartment door on the left, one on the right, and one at the end. That will be the one where the rapin’ roomies live.
Billy walks down the hall. There’s a bell, but instead of using it he knocks good and loud. He gives it a pause, then knocks even louder.
Footsteps approach. ‘Who is it?’
‘Police, Mr Donovan.’
‘He’s not here. I’m just one of his roommates.’
‘You don’t get a prize for that. Open up.’
The man who opens the door is olive-skinned and at least six inches taller than Billy. Alice Maxwell is five-four at most, and the thought of this big man hulking over her infuriates Billy.
‘What—’ The guy’s face goes slack as he beholds a man in a Melania Trump mask with a laptop bag slung over his shoulder.
‘Get them panties down.’ Billy says, and sprays him in the eyes with Easy-Off.
8
Jack or Hank, whichever one it is, stumbles backward, pawing at his eyes. Foam drips off his cheeks and plops from his jaws. He stumbles over a hassock in front of a wicker chair with a hood – what Billy thinks is called a ‘bungalow chair’ – and goes sprawling. It’s a swinging singles living room for sure, with a curving two-person couch – Billy knows that one, it’s a ‘love-seat’ – facing a big-screen TV. There’s a round table with a laptop on it and a bar in front of a wide window that looks toward the airport. Billy can see a plane taking off, and he’s sure if the fuckwit could see it, he’d wish he was on it. Billy slams the hall door shut. The guy is yelling that he’s blind.
‘No, but you will be if you don’t get your eyes rinsed out pretty fast, so pay attention. Hold out your hands.’
‘I can’t see! I can’t see!’
‘Hold out your hands and I’ll take care of you.’
Jack or Hank is rolling around on the wall-to-wall carpet. He’s not holding out his hands, he’s trying to sit up, and this guy is too big to fool with. Billy drops the laptop bag and kicks him in the stomach. He lets out a whoof of air. Splatters of foam fly and land on the carpet.
‘Did I stutter? Hold out your hands.’
He does it, eyes squeezed shut, cheeks and forehead bright red. Billy kneels, holds his wrists together, and secures him with one of the zip-ties before the man on the floor knows what’s happening.
‘Who else is here?’ Billy’s pretty sure there’s no one. If there was, this man’s bellowing would have brought them in a hurry.
‘Nobody! Ah Christ, my eyes! They burn!’
‘Get up.’
Jack or Hank blunders to his feet. Billy grabs him by the shoulders and turns him toward the passthrough that gives on the kitchen. ‘March.’
Jack or Hank doesn’t march, but he stumbles forward, waving his arms in front of him for obstacles. He’s breathing fast and hard but not whooping for breath the way Alice was; there’s no need to teach him the first verse of ‘Teddy Bears’ Picnic.’ Billy shoves him until the buckle of his pants hits the front of the sink. The faucet has a sprayer attachment. Billy turns on the water and points the spray at Jack or Hank’s face. He also gets wet in the process, but that’s all right. It’s actually refreshing.
‘It burns! It still burns!’
‘It’ll go away,’ Billy says, and it will, but hopefully not too soon. He’s betting Alice’s works burned plenty. Maybe still do. ‘What’s your name?’
‘What do you want?’ Now he’s crying. Got to be in his mid to late twenties, tall and at least two-twenty, but he’s crying like a baby.
Billy jams the Ruger into the small of the guy’s back. ‘That’s a gun, so don’t make me ask you again. What’s your name?’
‘Jack!’ he almost screams. ‘Jack Martinez! Please don’t shoot me, please!’
‘Let’s go in the living room, Jack.’ Billy pushes Jack ahead of him. ‘Sit in the wicker seat. Can you see it?’