Hoff shakes. ‘Same here, Billy. This is just a squeeze I’m going through. You ever read a book called The Hero’s Journey?’
Billy has, but shakes his head.
‘You should, you should. I just skimmed the literary stuff to get to the main part. Straight to the meat of a thing, that’s me. Cut through the bullshit. Can’t remember the name of the guy who wrote it, but he says every man has to go through a time of testing before he becomes a hero. This is my time.’
By supplying a sniper rifle and an overwatch site to an assassin, Billy thinks. Not sure Joseph Campbell would put that in the hero category.
‘Well, I hope you pass.’
2
Billy supposes he’ll get a car eventually if he stays here, but right now he doesn’t know his way around and he’s happy to let Paul Logan drive him from the hotel to where Nick is ‘house-sitting.’ It’s the McMansion Billy was expecting yesterday, a cobbled-together horror-show on what looks like two acres of lawn. The gate to the long curving driveway swings open at a touch of Paulie’s thumb to the gadget on his visor. There is indeed a cherub peeing endlessly into a pool of water, and a couple of other statues （Roman soldier, bare-breasted maiden） that are lit by hidden spots now that dusk is here. The house is also lit, the better to show off its wretched excess. To Billy it looks like the bastard child of a supermarket and a mega-church. This isn’t a house, it’s the architectural equivalent of red golf pants.
Frank Macintosh, aka Frankie Elvis, is waiting on the endless porch to receive him. Dark suit, sober blue tie. Looking at him you’d never guess that he began his career breaking legs for a loan shark. Of course that was long ago, before he moved up to the bigs. He comes halfway down the porch steps, hand outstretched, like the lord of the manor. Or the lord of the manor’s butler.
Nick is once more waiting in the hall, one much grander than that of the humble yellow house in Midwood. Nick is built big, but the man with him is enormous, way north of three hundred. This is Giorgio Piglielli, of course known to Nick’s Las Vegas cadre as Georgie Pigs （and also never to his face）。 If Nick is a CEO, then Giorgio is his chief operating officer. For them both to be here, so far from their home base, suggests that what Nick called the agenting fee must be very high. Billy has been promised two million. How much have these guys been promised, or already pocketed? Someone is very worried about Joel Allen. Someone who probably owns a house like this, or one even uglier. Hard to believe such a thing is possible, but it probably is.
Nick claps Billy on the shoulder and says, ‘You probably think this fat-ass is Giorgio Piglielli.’
‘Sure looks like him,’ Billy says cautiously, and Giorgio gives a chuckle as fat as he is.
Nick nods. He’s got that million-dollar grin on his face. ‘I know it does, but this is actually George Russo. Your agent.’
‘Agent? Like in real estate?’
‘Nope, not that kind.’ Nick laughs. ‘Come on in the living room. We’ll have drinks and Giorgio will lay this out for you. Like I said yesterday, it’s a beaut.’
3
The living room is as long as a Pullman car. There are three chandeliers, two small and one big. The furniture is low and swoopy. Two more cherubs are supporting a full-length mirror. There’s a grandfather clock that looks embarrassed to be here.
Frank Macintosh, the leg-breaker turned manservant, brings them drinks on a tray: beer for Billy and Nick and what looks like a chocolate malted for Giorgio, who seems determined to ingest every calorie possible before dying at the age of fifty. He chooses the only chair that will fit him. Billy wonders if he’ll be able to get out of it without help.
Nick raises his glass of beer. ‘Here’s to us. May we do business that makes us happy and leaves us satisfied.’
They drink to that, then Giorgio says, ‘Nick tells me that you’re interested, but you haven’t actually signed on for this yet. Still in what could be called the exploratory phase.’
‘That’s right,’ Billy says.
‘Well, for the purposes of this discussion, let’s pretend that you’re on the team.’ Giorgio sucks on the straw in his malted. ‘Man, that’s good. Just the ticket on a warm evening.’ He reaches into the pocket of his suitcoat – enough fabric there to clothe an orphanage, Billy thinks – and produces a wallet. He holds it out.
Billy takes it. A Lord Buxton. Nice, but not fancy. And it’s been slightly aged, with a couple of scuffs and nicks in the leather.