‘Sure,’ he tells his empty apartment. ‘Better than nothing.’
Will it help if Shan and Derek and the other kids find out that their Monopoly buddy shot a bad guy? It would be nice to think so, but then there’s the fact that their Monopoly buddy shot the bad guy from cover. And in the back of the head.
2
He calls Bucky Hanson and gets voicemail. It’s what Billy expects, because when UNKNOWN CALLER comes up on his screen （Bucky knows better than to put Dalton Smith in his contacts）， Bucky won’t answer even if he’s there and thinks it’s his client calling from a hick town in the border south.
‘Call me back,’ Billy tells Bucky’s voicemail. ‘ASAP.’
He paces the shotgun-style apartment, phone in hand. It rings less than a minute later. Bucky doesn’t waste time, and he doesn’t use names. Neither of them do. It’s an ingrained precaution, even if Bucky’s phone is secure and Billy’s is clean.
‘He wants to know where you are and what the hell happened.’
‘I did the job, that’s what happened. He only needs to turn on the TV to see that.’ Billy touches one of his back pockets with his free hand and feels a Dave Lockridge shopping list there. He has a tendency to forget them after he’s finished Krogering.
‘He says there was a plan. It was all set up.’
‘I’m pretty sure a set-up is what it was.’
There’s silence as Bucky chews this over. He’s been in the brokerage business for a long time, never been caught, and he’s not dumb. At last he says, ‘How sure?’
‘I’ll know one way or another when the man pays the balance. Or when he doesn’t. Has he?’
‘Give me a break. This thing only went down a couple of hours ago.’
Billy glances at the clock on the kitchen wall. ‘More like three, and how long does it take to transfer money? We’re living in the computer age, in case you forgot. Check for me.’
‘Wait one.’ Billy hears clicking computer keys twelve hundred miles north of his basement apartment. Then Bucky comes back. ‘Nothing yet. Want me to get in touch? I’ve got an email cutout. Probably goes to his fat sidekick.’
Billy thinks of Ken Hoff, looking desperate and smelling of mid-morning booze. A loose end. And he, Billy Summers, is another.
‘You still there?’ Bucky asks.
‘Wait until three or so, then check again.’
‘And if it’s still not there, do I email then?’
Bucky has a right to ask. A hundred and fifty thousand of Billy’s million-five payday belongs to Bucky. A very nice bundle, and tax free, but there’s a drawback. You can’t spend money if you’re dead.
‘Do you have family?’ In all the years he’s worked with Bucky, this is a question Billy has never asked. Hell, it’s been five years since he was face to face with the man. Their relationship has been strictly biz.
Bucky doesn’t seem surprised at the change of subject. This is because he knows the subject hasn’t changed. He’s the one link between Billy Summers and Dalton Smith. ‘Two ex-wives, no kids. I parted company with the last ex twelve years ago. Sometimes she sends me a postcard.’
‘I think you need to get out of the city. I think you need to catch a cab to Newark Airport as soon as you hang up.’
‘Thanks for the advice.’ Bucky doesn’t sound mad. He sounds resigned. ‘Not to mention for royally fucking up my life.’
‘I’ll make it worth your while. The man owes me one-point-five. I’ll see you get the one.’
This time Billy reads the silence as surprise. Then Bucky says, ‘Are you sure you mean that?’
‘I do.’ He does. He feels tempted to promise Bucky the whole fucking thing, because he no longer wants it.
‘If you’re right about the situation,’ Bucky says, ‘you could be promising me something your employer doesn’t mean to deliver. Maybe never meant to deliver.’
Billy thinks again of Ken Hoff, who could almost have PATSY tattooed on his forehead. Did Nick think the same of Billy? The idea makes him mad, and he welcomes the feeling. It beats the hell out of feeling ashamed.
‘He’ll deliver. I’ll make sure of it. In the meantime, you need to get over the hills and far away. And travel under a different name.’
Bucky laughs. ‘Don’t teach your grampy how to suck eggs, kiddo. I’ve got a place.’
Billy says, ‘I guess I do want you to send a message through your email cutout. Write it down.’