‘Look through it. It’s who you’ll be in this godforsaken burg.’
Billy does. Seventy dollars or so in the billfold. A few pictures, mostly of men who could be friends and women who could be gal pals. Nothing to indicate he has a wife and kids.
‘I wanted to Photoshop you into one,’ Giorgio says, ‘standing at the Grand Canyon or something, but nobody seems to have a photo of you, Billy.’
‘Photos can lead to trouble.’
Nick says, ‘Most people don’t carry pictures of themselves in their wallets, anyway. I told Giorgio that.’
Billy continues to go through the wallet, reading it like a book. Like Thérèse Raquin, which he finished while eating supper in his room. If he stays here, his name will be David Lockridge. He has a Visa card and a Mastercard, both issued by Seacoast Bank of Portsmouth.
‘What are the limits on the plastic?’ he asks Giorgio.
‘Five hundred on the Master, a thousand on the Visa. You’re on a budget. Of course, if your book works out like we hope it will, that could change.’
Billy stares at Giorgio, then at Nick, wondering if this is some kind of set-up. Wondering if they’ve seen through the dumb self.
‘He’s your literary agent!’ Nick nearly shouts. ‘Is that a hoot, or what?’
‘A writer is my cover? Come on, I never even finished high school. Got my GED in the sand, for God’s sake, and that was a gift from Uncle Sam for dodging IEDs and mujies in Fallujah and Ramadi. It won’t work. It’s crazy.’
‘It’s not, it’s genius,’ Nick says. ‘Listen to the man, Billy. Or should I start calling you Dave now?’
‘You’re never calling me Dave if this is my cover.’
Too close to home, far too close. He’s a reader, that’s for sure. And he sometimes dreams of writing, although he’s never actually tried his hand except for scraps of prose here and there, which he always destroyed.
‘It’ll never fly, Nick. I know you guys have already started this going …’ He raises the wallet. ‘… and I’m sorry, but it just won’t work. What would I say if someone asked what my book was about?’
‘Give me five minutes,’ Giorgio says. ‘Ten, tops. And if you still don’t like it, we all part friends.’
Billy doubts if that’s true but tells him to go ahead.
Giorgio puts his empty malted glass on the table （probably a Chippendale） beside his chair and belches. But when he turns his full attention on Billy, he can see what Georgie Pigs really is: a lean and athletic mind buried inside the ocean of blubber that will kill him before many more years. ‘I know how it sounds at first blush, you being the kind of guy you are, but it will fly.’
Billy relaxes a little. They still believe what they see. He’s safe on that score, at least.
‘You’re going to be here for at least six weeks and maybe as long as six months,’ Giorgio says. ‘Depends on how long it takes for the moke’s lawyer to run out the string fighting extradition. Or until he thinks he has a deal on the murder charge. You’re getting paid for the job, but you’re also getting paid for your time. You get that, right?’
Billy nods.
‘Which means you need a reason to be here in Red Bluff, and it’s not exactly a vacation spot.’
‘Truth,’ Nick says, and makes a face like a little kid looking at a plate of broccoli.
‘You also need a reason to be in that building down the street from the courthouse. You’re writing a book, that’s the reason.’
‘But—’
Giorgio holds up a fat hand. ‘You don’t think it’ll work, but I’m telling you it will. I’m going to show you how.’
Billy looks doubtful, but now that he’s over his fear that they’ve seen through the camouflage of the dumb self, he thinks he can see where Giorgio is going. This might have possibilities.
‘I did my research. Read a bunch of writers’ magazines, plus a ton of stuff online. Here’s your cover story. David Lockridge grew up in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Always wanted to be a writer but barely finished high school. Worked construction. You kept writing, but you were a hard partier. Lots of drinking. I thought about giving you a divorce but decided it would be a lot to keep straight.’
For a guy who’s smart about guns but not about much else, Billy thinks.
‘Finally you get going on something good, okay? There’s a lot of talk in the blogs I read about writers suddenly catching fire, and that’s what happens to you. You write a bunch, maybe seventy pages, maybe a hundred—’