He finally registers the shocked expressions of his companions, turns his head, and sees Billy standing two steps from the carpeted floor. The look of fear and amazement that dawns on Nick’s face gives Billy a great deal of satisfaction. It isn’t payback for the last five months of his life, not even close, but it’s a step in the right direction.
‘Billy?’ The bowl balanced on Nick’s stomach overturns and popcorn goes pattering to the rug.
‘Hello, Nick. You’re probably not glad to see me, but I’m glad to see you.’ He gestures with the Glock at the accountant guy, who has already raised his hands. ‘What’s your name?’
‘M-Mark. Mark Abromowitz.’
‘Get down on the floor, Mark. You too, Reggie. On your stomachs. Arms and legs spread. Like you’re making snow angels.’
They don’t argue. They set aside their popcorn bowls – carefully – and get down on the floor.
‘I’ve got a family,’ Mark Abromowitz says.
‘That’s good. Behave yourself and you’ll see them again. Are either of you armed?’ He doesn’t have to ask about Nick, because in that ridiculous game-day outfit he’s got no place for a hidden weapon, not even an ankle gun.
The two men, face down, shake their heads.
Nick says Billy’s name again, this time not as a question but as an exclamation of delight. He’s striving for his old lord of the manor bonhomie and not finding very much of it. ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you!’
Billy wouldn’t bother to answer this ridiculous lie even if he didn’t have a more pressing concern. There’s a fourth chair, and a half-empty bowl of popcorn beside it.
‘They keep it on the ground with Barkley,’ the play-by-play announcer is saying, ‘with Jones leading the way, and—’
‘Turn it off,’ Billy says. Nick is king of the house and king of the couch, so of course the controller is beside him.
‘What?’
‘You heard me, turn it off.’
As Nick points the remote at the television, Billy is happy to see a slight tremble in his hand. The game goes away. Now it’s just the four of them, but that fourth empty chair with the popcorn bowl beside it says there’s an unaccounted-for fifth.
‘Where is he?’ Billy asks.
‘Who?’
Billy points at the empty chair.
‘Billy, I have to explain why I had to wait to get in touch with you. There was a problem at my end. It—’
‘Shut up.’ What a pleasure to say that, and what a pleasure not to have to play dumb. ‘Mark!’
The accountant jerks his legs, as if he’s just had an electric shock.
‘Where is he?’
Mark replies promptly, which is wise. ‘He went to the bathroom.’
‘Shut up, asshole,’ Reggie says, and Billy shoots him in the ankle. He doesn’t know he’s going to do it until it’s done but his aim is as good as ever and he regrets it no more than he regrets cold-cocking Frank in the kitchen. Reggie was part of the plan to get rid of dumb old Billy Summers. Get him in the back of the fake DPW van, drive him a few miles out of town, put a bullet in his head, case closed. Besides, this little man-cave trio needs to know who is in charge.
Reggie screams and rolls on his back, trying to clutch his ankle. ‘You fuck! You fucking shot me!’
‘Shut up or I’ll shut you up. If you don’t believe me, give it a try.’ He turns the gun on Abromowitz, who’s looking at him with bulging eyes. ‘Where’s the bathroom? Point.’
Abromowitz points behind the couch. Three pinball machines are lined up against the wall, their lights flashing but all the boops and beeps silenced because of the game. Just beyond them is a closed wooden door.
‘Nick. Tell him to come out.’
‘Come on out, Dana!’
So that’s who the missing man is, Billy thinks. Reggie’s DPW partner. The little redhead with the dork knob who talked smack to me in the Gerard Tower. Maybe not the guy who got rid of Ken Hoff, but Billy thinks there’s a good chance that he was. Of course it’s Edison, because every character in a story must be used at least twice: Dickens’s rule. And Zola’s.
He doesn’t come out.
‘Come on, Dana!’ Nick calls. ‘It’s okay!’
No answer.
‘He armed?’ Billy asks Nick.
‘What, are you kidding? You think when I invite friends over to watch a football game they come strapped?’