The Weirdness(6)

His head pounds. His stomach clenches.

Okay, he thinks. Okay. We can survive this.

He checks the time on the clock. It’s just past nine. He needs to be at work at eleven thirty. That maybe gives him a little time to look over some of his writing; he’s been invited to perform tomorrow night at a reading put together by this new lit mag, The Ingot, which is allegedly going to publish some of his stuff. But most of the stuff he’s been writing lately isn’t exactly what he would call well-adapted to the reading format, so he’d intended to spend the morning digging up something older, taking an hour or two to give it a little polish. He has an hour, maybe, but he can barely open his eyes against the oppressive daylight; looking at words on a computer screen might just finish him.

No, he thinks. You can do this. He sniffs the air. At least there’s coffee.

Wait. Why is there coffee?

He sits up. He looks over the railing, down into the living room. There’s a guy sitting on the couch, looking up at him. It’s not Jørgen. It’s not anybody Billy recognizes.

“Uhhh,” says Billy. He pinches the bridge of his nose, blinks hard. Maybe the guy will disappear. But no. There’s definitely a guy down there. He’s wearing a suit, a pretty nice-looking olive suit. He’s got a shaved head, looks a bit like he might have once been a bike messenger. “Hi?” Billy tries. He gets out of bed, feeling a bit exposed, just standing there in his boxers. He hurries to get his legs into a pair of jeans.

“Take your time,” says the man.

“Uhhh,” Billy says again. “You must be … a friend of Jørgen’s? He’s away.”

“No,” says the man, while Billy’s head is stuck inside a T-shirt.

“It is you, William Harrison Ridgeway, with whom I intend to speak.”

It is you with whom I intend to speak? Billy thinks. Who the fuck talks like that?

“Call me Billy,” Billy says reflexively, heading down the stairs, wondering, not entirely idly, whether he should be looking for something that might constitute a weapon. “So—okay? Hi? Are you—with the landlord?”

“I am not,” says the man. He hasn’t moved from the couch, and he continues to watch Billy with evident interest, which freaks Billy out a little bit, but on another level he feels surprisingly relaxed about the whole thing. The guy doesn’t match Billy’s image of a psychotic murderer. He’s clean. He’s got probably a day’s worth of stubble but it’s clearly part of the overall look. Billy doesn’t like the steady gaze, that’s freaky, but it’s also a calm gaze, the dude isn’t wild-eyed or anything. He’s not sitting there twitching. He’s just, like, hanging out. His suit has clearly been tailored, which suggests money. So the guy probably isn’t here to rob him either. It must just be a misunderstanding, something that can be resolved with ease.

“There’s coffee,” says the man.

“Thanks,” says Billy, heading into the kitchen, while still trying to maintain a kind of half-cautious watch over his shoulder. He’s prepared to be miffed that the guy broke into his coffee reserves without permission but he looks at the counter and sees that the guy actually brought his own beans. A bag of something called Fazenda Santa Terezinha, which smells pretty goddamn good. He fixes himself a cup.

“Okay,” Billy says, holding the cup in both hands, up close to his face. “So you said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Have a seat,” says the guy, gesturing at the armchair across from the couch.

“Um, yeah, no,” says Billy. “I’m doing fine over here.” You’re being ridiculous, he tells himself. But, fuck it, so what? There’s a steel counter between him and the guy and he’s got bunch of knives within arm’s reach. From that perspective he’s got the best space in the house.

“As you wish,” says the guy.

Billy sips the coffee. It’s really good.

“This is really good,” he says. It’s really fucking good.

“I am glad,” says the guy, “that you are enjoying it. But now. Let us get properly introduced.”

“You already know my name,” says Billy. “So why don’t you tell me yours?”

“I shall,” says the guy. He produces a business card, seemingly from nowhere, and places it carefully on the coffee table, among the messy piles of CDs, drug paraphernalia, and magazines. Billy makes no effort to approach to retrieve it, staying exactly where he is, in the kitchen, near the knives, drinking this really fucking good coffee.

“My name is Lucifer Morningstar,” says the guy.