Page 68 of I Will Ruin You

He tucked the gun behind his back, under his belt. Didn’t think his associates would respond well if he opened the door with a gun in his hand. He took a deep breath, wanting to look as relaxed and unruffled as possible.

He opened the door. The bulb in the lamp above it had burned out, but it wasn’t so dark yet that he couldn’t see who it was.

Stuart.

Billy invited him in with a nod of his head.

“You look pissed,” Stuart said. “This a bad time?”

“Had a huge fight with Lucy. She took off.”

“What’s it this time?”

Billy shook his head tiredly. “You were right.”

“Fuck, no.”

“Yeah. It was Lucy. She dipped into the stash.”

“Oh man. What’re you gonna do?”

“Don’t know. Not so sure they’ll understand. Maybe take one last shot at trying to convince them there was a way someone else could have got into the case before it reached me. If Lucy could figure it out watching YouTube, anybody could.”

Heading over to his workbench, he turned his back to Stuart, who noticed for the first time what was tucked under the belt at Billy’s back.

“Uh, what’s with the gun, man?”

“Oh,” Billy said, like he’d forgotten it was there. He reached around for it, placed it sideways in his palm, and held it out for inspection. “Got it just in case. Wanna hold it?”

Stuart’s eyes went wide with wonder. Tentatively, he took it from Billy’s hand.

“Loaded?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t be much good otherwise. Just don’t fucking point it at me.”

Stuart raised the weapon as though getting ready to fire it, squinting over the barrel. “Pew, pew,” he said.

“It’s not Luke Skywalker’s blaster,” Billy said. “Give it to me before you do something stupid.”

Billy put the gun back on the workbench, turned around, leaned his butt up against it, crossed his arms, then placed his hand on his stomach. “So much shit going on, I forgot to eat. Stomach sounds like a cement mixer.”

Stuart said, “I could get some wings. Be back super-fast.”

Billy shrugged. “Sure.” He pulled out his wallet, handed over a couple of twenties. “Sorry for the way I’ve treated you, man.”

Stuart waved him off, slipped out the side door, and closed it behind him. Billy remained propped up against the workbench and gave the Camaro a long, defeated look.

“I really got no fuckin’ idea,” he said to himself.

Only a minute or two had passed before there was another rapping at the door. He opened it.

“Billy Finster,” said his latest visitor.

“The hell do you want?”

“This shit is over.”

Thirty