Velocity

one, they would have a record of it.
    “No,” Billy said. “I felt like such a bonehead. I needed a drink.”
    The reference to a drink had come naturally, not as if he were trying to sell them on his supposed inebriation. He thought he had sounded smooth, convincing.
    Napolitino said, “What number would you have asked for if you had called 411?”
    Billy realized that these inquiries were no longer related to his welfare and safety. A veiled antagonism colored Napolitino’s questions, subtle but unmistakable.
    Billy wondered if he should openly acknowledge this development and question their intent. He didn’t want to appear guilty.
    “Steve,” he said. “I needed Steve Zillis’s number.”
    “He is… ?”
    “He’s a bartender at the tavern.”
    “He covers your shift when you’re sick?” Napolitino asked.
    “No. He works the shift after mine. Why’s it matter?”
    “Why did you need to call him?”
    “I just wanted to warn him that I was out, and when he came on he’d have a mess to clean up because Jackie would have been tending bar alone.”
    “Jackie?” Napolitino asked.
    “Jackie O’Hara. He’s the owner. He’s covering my shift. Jackie doesn’t continually tidy the work bar, the lower bar, like he should. The clutter and spills just build up till the guy following him needs like a frantic fifteen minutes to get the set-up workable again.”
    Every time Billy had to give a longer, more explanatory answer, he heard a shakiness arise in his voice. He didn’t think that he was imagining it; he believed that the sergeants could hear it, too.
    Maybe everyone sounded this way when talking to on-duty cops for any substantial length of time. Maybe uneasiness was natural.
    A lot of gesturing was not natural, however, especially not for Billy. During his longer answers, he found himself using his hands too much, and he couldn’t control them. Defensively, but trying to appear casual, he slipped his hands into the pockets of his chinos. In each pocket, his fingers found three .38 cartridges, spare ammunition. Napolitino said, “So you wanted to warn Steve Zillis he’d have a mess.”
    “That’s right.”
    “You don’t know Mr. Zillis’s phone number?”
    “I don’t call him often.”
    They were not engaged in an innocent Q and A anymore. They had not descended to the level of an interrogation yet, but they were on the down escalator. Billy did not quite understand why this should be the case—except that perhaps his answers and his demeanor had not been as exculpatory as he had thought. “Isn’t Mr. Zillis’s number in the directory?”
    “I guess so. But sometimes it’s just easier to call 411.”
    “Unless you mistakenly dial 911,” Napolitino said.
    Billy decided that making no reply would be better than berating himself for idiocy, as he had done earlier. If the situation deteriorated to the point where they decided to search him, even just to pat him down, they would find the cartridges in his pockets. He wondered if he’d be able to explain the bullets with another facile and convincing lie. At the moment, he couldn’t think of one. But he couldn’t believe it would ever come to that. The deputies were here because they had been concerned that he might be in danger. He had only to convince them that he was safe, and they would leave. Something that he had said—or had not said—left them with lingering doubts. If he could only find the right words, the magic words, the sergeants would go away.
    Now, here, he chafed again at the limitations of language.
    As real as the change in Napolitino’s attitude seemed, a part of Billy argued that he was imagining it. The strain of disguising his anxiety had bent his perceptions, had made him a little paranoid.
    He counseled himself to be still, to have patience.
    “Mr. Wiles,” said Napolitino, “are you absolutely sure that you yourself dialed 911?”
    Although Billy could parse that sentence, he couldn’t quite make sense out of it. He couldn’t grasp the intention behind the question, and considering everything that he had told them thus far, he didn’t know what answer they expected from him.
    “Is there any possibility whatsoever that someone else in your house placed that call to 911?” Napolitino pressed.
    For an instant Billy thought somehow they knew about the freak, but then he understood. He understood.
    Sergeant Napolitino’s question was phrased with an eye toward eventual legal challenges to police