Nick would also send guys, probably Frankie Elvis and Paul Logan, to the neighborhood. The Fazios and the Raglands would be questioned. So would Jamal and Corrie. Maybe the kids? That was unlikely, grown men talking to kids attracted unwanted attention, but just the thought of those two questioning Shan and Derek makes him queasy.
There are two other things. He has never run out on a job, that’s number one. Joel Allen has it coming, that’s number two. He’s a bad person.
‘Sir? You’re next.’
Billy comes back to the Walmart checkout lane. ‘Sorry, I was woolgathering.’
‘No worries, I do it all the time,’ the checkout girl says.
He empties his carry-basket. There are bright green golf head covers with things like POW! and WHAM! printed on them, a gun cleaning kit, a set of wooden kitchen spoons, a big red bow with HAPPY BIRTHDAY on it in glitter, a light jacket with the Rolling Stones logo on the back, and a child’s lunchbox. The checkout girl beeps the lunchbox last, then holds it up for a better look.
‘Sailor Moon! Some little girl is going to love this!’
Shan Ackerman would love it, Billy thinks, but it’s not for her. In a better world it would be.
9
That night, after dinner with the Ackermans （Corrie’s shepherd’s pie is delicious）， he goes down to his basement rumpus room and slides the gun out of the golf bag. It’s an M24, as specified, and it looks okay. He breaks it down, laying the pieces out on the Ping-Pong table, and cleans each one, over five dozen in all. He finds the telescopic sight in one of the golf bag’s two zipper pockets. In the other pocket is a magazine, which holds five rounds of ammunition: Sierra MatchKing Hollow Point Boat Tails.
He will only need one.
10
When he enters the Gerard Tower lobby the next morning at quarter to ten, the strap of the golf bag is over his left shoulder. He has come in purposely late so that most of the business-gerbils will be running on their wheels. Irv Dean, the elderly security guy, looks up from his magazine – today it’s Motor Trend – and gives him a grin. ‘Goin on a golf adventure, Dave? Oh for the life of a writer!’
‘Not me,’ Billy says. ‘I think it’s the most boring game in the universe. These are for my agent.’ He shifts the bag so Irv can see the big bow on the side, with its glittery letters. It’s over the side pocket that now holds a loaded magazine instead of a couple of dozen tees.
‘Well that’s pretty damn nice of you. Expensive present!’
‘He’s done a lot for me.’
‘Uh-huh, I hear that. Only Mr Russo doesn’t exactly look cut out for the golf course.’ Irv holds his hands out in front of him, indicating Giorgio’s enormous front porch.
Billy is ready for this. ‘Yeah, he’d probably drop dead of a heart attack by the third hole if he was walking, but he’s got a custom golf cart. He told me he learned the game in college, when he was a lot slimmer. And you know what, the one time he talked me into going out on the course with him, he put a drive on that ball you wouldn’t believe.’
Irv gets up and for a cold moment Billy thinks the old guy’s cop reflexes have fired one last time and he means to inspect the clubs, which would save Joel Allen’s life and maybe end Billy’s. Instead he turns sideways and claps both hands to his own not inconsiderable hindquarters. ‘This is where the power comes from.’ Irv smacks himself again for emphasis. ‘Right here. You ask any NFL lineman or home run hitter. Ask José Altuve. Five-six, but he’s got an ass like a brick.’
‘That must be it. George sure does have one hell of a boot.’ Billy straightens one of the green club covers. ‘Irv, you have a good day.’
‘You do the same. Hey, when’s his birthday? I’ll get him a card or something.’
‘Next week, but he may not be here. He’s out on the west coast.’
‘Palm trees and pretty girls by the swimming pool,’ Irv says, sitting down. ‘Nice. You staying late tonight?’
‘Don’t know. Have to see how it goes.’
‘Oh for the life of a writer,’ Irv says again, and opens his magazine.
11
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.