Velocity

than half an hour.
    If Steve Zillis had left the tavern shortly before midnight, he would have had plenty of time to go to Lanny’s place, kill him, and move the body to the armchair in the master bedroom.
    If Billy had been handicapping suspects, he would have given long odds on Steve. But once in a while, a long shot won the race.
     
     
     

Chapter 20
     
    On the front porch were two teak rocking chairs with dark-green cushions, Billy seldom needed the second chair.
    This morning, wearing a white T-shirt and chinos, he occupied the one farthest from the porch steps. He didn’t rock. He sat quite still.
    Beside him stood a teak cocktail table. On the table, on a cork coaster, was a glass of cola.
    He hadn’t drunk any of the cola. He had prepared it as a prop, to distract the eye from consideration of the box of Ritz crackers.
    The box contained nothing but the snub-nosed revolver. The only crackers were a stack of three on the table, beside the box.
    Bright and clear and hot, the day was too dry to please the grape growers, but it was all right with Billy.
    From the porch, between deodar cedars, he could see a long way down the rural road that sloped up toward his house and far beyond.
    Not much traffic passed. He recognized some of the vehicles, but he didn’t know to whom they belonged.
    Rising off the sun-scorched blacktop, shimmering heat ghosts haunted the morning.
    At 10:53, a figure appeared in the distance, on foot. Billy did not expect the associate to hike in for the meeting. He assumed this was not the man.
    At first the figure might have been a mirage. The furnace heat distorted him, made him ripple as if he were a reflection on water. Once he seemed to evaporate, then reappeared.
    In the hard light, he looked tall and thin, unnaturally thin, as if he had recently hung on a cross in a cornfield, glaring the birds away with his button eyes.
    He turned off the county road and followed the driveway. He left the driveway for the grass and, at 10:58, arrived at the bottom of the porch steps.
    “Mr. Wiles?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    “I believe you’re expecting me.”
    He had the raw, rough voice of one who had marinated his larynx in whiskey and slow-cooked it in years of cigarette smoke.
    “What’s your name?” Billy asked.
    “I’m Ralph Cottle, sir.”
    Billy had thought the question would be ignored. If the man were hiding behind a false name, John Smith would have been good enough. Ralph Cottle sounded real.
    Cottle was as thin as the distorting heat had made him appear to be from a distance, but not as tall. His scrawny neck looked as if it might snap with the weight of his head.
    He wore white tennis shoes dark with age and filth. Shiny in spots and frayed at the cuffs, the cocoa-brown, summer-weight suit hung on him with no more grace than it would have hung from a coat rack. His polyester shirt was limp, stained, and missing a button.
    These were thrift-shop clothes from the cheapest bin; and he had gotten long wear out of them.
    “Mr. Wiles, may I come in the shade?”
    Standing at the bottom of the steps, Cottle looked as if the weight of the sunlight might collapse him. He seemed too frail to be a threat, but you never could tell.
    “There’s a chair for you,” Billy said.
    “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the kindness.”
    Billy tensed as Cottle ascended the stairs but relaxed a little when the man had settled into the other rocker.
    Cottle didn’t rock, either, as if getting the chair moving was a more strenuous task than he cared to contemplate.
    “Sir, do you mind if I smoke?” he asked.
    “Yes. I do mind.”
    “I understand. It’s a filthy habit.”
    From an inner coat pocket, Cottle produced a pint of Seagram’s and unscrewed the cap. His bony hands trembled. He didn’t ask if it was all right to drink. He just took a swig.
    Apparently, he had sufficient control of his nicotine jones to be polite about it. The hooch, on the other hand, told him when he needed it, and he could not disobey its liquid voice.
    Billy suspected that other pints were tucked in other pockets, plus cigarettes and matches, and possibly a couple of hand-rolled joints. This explained why a suit in summer heat: It was not only clothing but also a portmanteau for his various vices.
    The booze didn’t heighten the color of his face. His skin was already dark from much sun and red from an intricate web of burst capillaries.
    “How far did you walk?” Billy asked.
    “Only from the junction. I