Read Billy Summers for Free Online Page B

books to read. There’s so much to watch as well, it seems. The sheer volume of choices is intimidating and he decides to go to bed early instead of watching anything. Before undressing, he checks his phone and finds a text from his new agent.
    GRusso: 9 AM at Gerard Tower. Don’t drive. Uber.
    Billy doesn’t have a David Lockridge phone—neither Giorgio nor Frank Macintosh gave him one—and he doesn’t have a burner. He decides to use his personal since Giorgio already did. With the encrypted messaging app it should be all right. And Billy has something he really needs to say.
    Billy S: OK. Don’t bring Hoff.
    Dots roll as Giorgio composes his reply. It doesn’t take long.
    GRusso: Have to. Sorry.
    The dots disappear. Discussion over.
    Billy empties his pockets and puts his pants in the washing machine along with everything else. He does this slowly, brow furrowed. He doesn’t like Ken Hoff. Did not like him, in fact, even before he opened his mouth. Gut reaction. What Giorgio’s parents and grandparents would have called reazione istintiva . But Hoff is in it. Giorgio’s text made that clear: Have to . It’s not like Nick and Giorgio to bring a local into their business, especially not life-and-death business like this. Is Hoff in it because of the building? Location, location, location, as the real estate guys like to say? Or because Nick isn’t local himself?
    Neither of those things quite excuse Ken Hoff in Billy’s mind. I’m a little bit tight this year he’d said, but Billy guesses you had to be more than a little bit short in the shekels department to get involved in an assassination plot. And from the very first—the macho beard scruff, the Izod shirt, the Dockers with the slightly frayed pockets, the Gucci loafers worn at the heel—Hoff smelled to Billy like the guy who would be first to flip in an interrogation room if offered a deal. Deals, after all, were what the Ken Hoffs of the world made.
    He turns in and lies in the dark, hands under the pillow, looking up at nothing. Some traffic on the street, but not much. He’s wondering when two million dollars starts to look like not enough, when it starts to look like dumb money. The answer seems obvious: after it’s too late to back out.
5
    Billy Ubers to the Gerard Tower, as instructed. Hoff and Giorgio are waiting in front. The face-bristles still make Hoff look (to Billy, at least) like a hobo instead of a cool dude, but otherwisehe’s squared away in a summerweight suit and subdued gray tie. “George Russo,” on the other hand, looks larger than ever in an unfortunate green shirt, untucked, and blue jeans with enough ass in them to make a puptent. Billy supposes it’s that fat man’s idea of how a big-time literary agent dresses for a visit to sticksville. Propped between his feet is a laptop case.
    Hoff seems to have pulled back on the salesman bonhomie , at least a little. Possibly at Giorgio’s request, but he still can’t resist a jaunty little salute: mon capitaine. “Good to see you. The security guy on duty this morning—and most weekdays—is Irv Dean. He’ll want your driver’s license and a quick snap. That okay?”
    Because it has to be if they’re going to proceed, Billy nods.
    A few workbound people are still crossing the lobby to the elevators. Some wear suits, some of the women are in those high heels Billy thinks of as click-clack shoes, but a surprising number are dressed informally, some even in branded tees. He doesn’t know where they work, but it’s probably not meeting the public.
    The guy sitting at the concierge-type stand at the lobby’s center is portly and elderly. The lines around his mouth are so deep they make him look like a life-sized ventriloquist’s dummy. Billy guesses retired cop, now only two or three years from total retirement. His uniform consists of a blue vest with POLK