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Billy Summers(40)

Author:Stephen King

‘Hello, Billy.’

‘It’s Dave, remember?’

‘Sure, Dave, right.’ Hoff looks over his shoulder, making sure there’s no one in the hall that might have overheard his mistake. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Sure, Mr Hoff.’ He’s not going to call the man who’s essentially his landlord Ken. He stands aside.

Hoff takes another look over his shoulder and comes in. They’re standing in what would be the reception area if this was an actual business office. Billy closes the door. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Nothing, I’m fine.’ Hoff wets his lips and Billy realizes the man is afraid of him. ‘Just came by to see if everything was, you know, all right. If you needed anything.’

Nick sent him, Billy thinks. The message? You got off on the wrong foot with Billy and he’s our man on the spot, so get right with him.

‘Just one thing,’ Billy says. ‘You’ll make sure the merch is there when I need it, right?’ Meaning the M24. What Hoff called a Remington 700.

‘That’s all in hand. All in hand, my friend. Do you want it now, or—’

‘No. One of our friends will tell you when it’s time. Until then, keep it someplace safe.’

‘No problem. It’s in my—’

‘I don’t want to know. Not yet.’ Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, he thinks. Book of Matthew. What he wants on this day is to get back to what he was doing. He had no idea how good writing could make you feel.

‘Okay, sure. Listen, you want to go for a drink sometime?’

‘That wouldn’t be a good idea.’

Hoff smiles. Probably it’s charming when he’s on his game but he’s not on it now. He’s in a room with a paid killer. That’s part of it but not all of it. This is a man who feels the walls closing in, and Billy doesn’t think it’s because Hoff suspects he might be played for a patsy. He should know but he doesn’t. Maybe he can’t conceive of it, the way Billy can’t conceive of black holes far out in space as actual real things.

‘It’d be okay. You’re a writer, after all. Socially, you’re in my zone.’

Whatever that means, Billy thinks. ‘Wouldn’t be good later. For you. You could answer any questions, say you had no idea what I was really doing here, but it’d be better if the questions never got asked.’

‘But we’re good, Billy, right?’

‘It’s Dave. You need to get used to that so you don’t slip up. And sure, we’re good, why wouldn’t we be?’ Billy gives him the wide-eyed dumb self look.

It works. This time Hoff’s grin is marginally more charming, because his tongue doesn’t come out to slurp his lips in the middle of it. ‘Dave now and forever. I won’t forget again. You’re sure you don’t need anything? Because, hey, I own the Carmike Cinema at the Southgate Mall, nine screens, got IMAX coming in next year. I could get you a pass, if you—’

‘That would be great.’

‘Terrific. I’ll bring it around this aftern—’

‘Why don’t you mail it? Here, or to the address on Evergreen Street. You’ve got it, right?’

‘Sure, yeah. Your agent gave it to me. All the big pictures play in the summer, you know.’

Billy nods as if he can’t wait to go see a bunch of actors in supersuits.

‘And listen, Dave, I’ve got an in at an escort service. Very nice girls, very discreet. I’d be happy to—’

‘Better not. Low profile, remember?’ He opens the door. Hoff isn’t just trouble, Hoff is an accident waiting to happen.

‘Irv Dean treating you all right?’

The security guard who works days in the lobby. ‘Yeah. He and I match for buck scratch-off tickets sometimes.’

Hoff laughs too loudly, then looks over his shoulder again for people who might overhear. Billy wonders if Colin White and the other staff members of Business Solutions have Ken Hoff on their call list. Probably not. The people Ken is in debt to – and he is in debt, Billy is sure of it – don’t call you on the phone. At a certain point they just come to your house, drown your dog in the swimming pool, and break your fingers on the hand that doesn’t write the checks.

‘Good, that’s good. And Steve Broder?’ Off Billy’s blank look: ‘Building manager.’

‘Haven’t even seen him,’ Billy says. ‘Listen, Ken, thanks for stopping by.’ Billy puts an arm around the shoulders of the man’s wrinkled shirt, escorts him into the hall, and turns him toward the elevators.

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