shotgun high above his head, letting the moment drag out, watching Myron struggle the way some people watch an injured ant before stomping it with their foot.
Billy Lee suddenly frowned. He lowered the weapon, studying it for a moment. Hram, he said.
Might break my gun that way.
Myron felt Billy Lee grab his shoulders and lift him and the chair back up. The shotgun was at
eye level now.
Fuck it, Billy Lee said. Might as well just shoot your sorry ass, am I right?
Myron barely heard the giggling now. When a gun is pointed so directly in your face, it has a
tendency to block out everything else. The double barrel's opening grows, moves closer,
surrounds you until everything you are and see and hear is consumed in its black mouth.
Pat tried again. Billy Lee
Myron felt the sweat under his arms begin to gush. Calm. Keep the tone calm. Don't excite him.
Tell me what's going on, Billy Lee. I want to help.
Billy Lee snickered, the shotgun still shaking in his hand. You want to help me?
Yes.
That made him laugh. Bullshit, Myron. Total bullshit.
Myron kept still.
We were never even friends, were we, Myron? I mean, we were frat brothers, and we hung out and stuff. But we were never really friends. Myron tried to keep his eyes on Billy Lee's. This is a heck of a time to go tiptoeing through the past, Billy Lee.
I'm trying to make a point here, asshole. You're peddling this crap about wanting to help me. Like we're friends. But that's a load of bullshit. We're not friends. You never really liked me. Never really liked me. Like they were third graders during recess. I still helped pull your ass out of a few fires, Billy Lee.
The smile. Not my ass, Myron. Clu's. It was always about Clu, wasn't it? The drunk driving
thing when we were living in Massachusetts. You didn't drive up to save my ass. You drove up
because of Clu. And that brawl at that bar in the city. That was also because of Clu.
Billy Lee suddenly tilted his head like a dog hearing a new sound. Why weren't we friends,
Myron?
Because you didn't invite me to your birthday party at the roller rink?
Don't fuck with me, asshole.
I liked you just fine, Billy Lee. You were a fun guy.
But it got tired after a while, didn't it? My whole act, I mean. While I was a college star, it was
pretty cool, right? But when I failed in the pros, I wasn't so cute and funny anymore. I was
suddenly pathetic. That sound about right, Myron?
You say so.
So what about Clu?
What about him?
You were friends with him.
Yes.
Why? Clu partied the same way. Maybe even harder. He was always getting his ass in trouble.
Why were you his friend?
This is stupid, Billy Lee.
Is it?
Put the gun down already.
Billy Lee's smile was wide and knowing and somewhere just south of sane. I'll tell you why you stayed friendly with Clu. Because he was a better baseball player than me. He was going to the bigs. And you knew that. That's the only difference between Clu Haid and Billy Lee Palms. He got drunk and took drugs and screwed tons of women, but it was all so funny because he was a pro.
So what are you trying to say, Billy Lee? Myron countered. That pro athletes are treated differently from the rest of us? Hell of a revelation.
But the revelation sat uneasily on Myron. Probably because Billy Lee's words, while wholly irrelevant, were at least in part true. Clu was charming and quirky simply because he was a pro athlete. But if the velocity of his fastball had dropped a few miles per hour, if the rotation of his arm had been just a little askew or if his finger position had not allowed for good ball movement on his pitches, Clu would have ended up like Billy Lee. Alternate worlds totally different lives and fates are right there, separated by a curtain no thicker than membrane. But with athletes, you can see your alternate life a little too clearly. You have the ability to throw the ball just a little faster than the next guy, you end up a god rather than the most pitiful of mortals. You get the girls, the fame, the big house, the money instead of the rats, the dull anonymity, the crummy apartment, the menial job. You get to go on TV and offer life insights. People want to be near you and hear you speak and touch the hem of your cloak. Just because you can hurl the rawhide with great velocity or put an orange ball in a metallic circle or swing a stick with a slightly more pure arc. You are special.
Nuts when you think about it.
Did you kill him, Billy Lee? Myron said.
Billy Lee looked like he'd been slapped. What?
You were jealous of Clu. He had everything. He left you behind.
He was my best friend!
A long time ago, Billy Lee.
Myron again debated making a move. He could try to slip the ropes they were not on very tightly but it would take time and he was still too far away. He wondered how Win was reacting to being cut off from all this and shuddered. Not worth dwelling upon.
A funny, tranquil flat line crossed Billy Lee's face. He stopped shaking, looked straight at Myron without jerking or twitching. His voice was suddenly soft.
Enough, he said.
Silence.
I have to kill you, Myron. It's self-defense.
What are you talking about?
You killed Clu. And now you want to kill me.
That's crazy.
Maybe you had your secretary do it. And she got caught. Or maybe Win did it. That guy's always been your lapdog. Or maybe you did it yourself, Myron. The gun was found in your office, right? The blood in your car?
Why would I kill Clu?
You use people, Myron. You used him to start up your business. But after he failed his last drug
test, Clu was finished. So you figured, why not cut your losses?
That makes no sense, Myron said. And even if it did, why would I want to kill you?
Because I can talk too.
Talk about what?
About how helpful you are.
Tears started rolling down Billy Lee's face. His voice tailed off. And Myron knew he was in
huge trouble.
The moment of calm was over. The barrel of the gun was shaking. Myron tested the ropes. Nope.
Despite the heat, something icy flooded his veins. He was trapped. No chance of making a move.
Billy Lee tried to giggle again, but something inside him was too weary now. Bye.
Panic squeezed Myron's insides. Billy Lee was only seconds away from killing him. Period.
There was no chance of talking him out of it. The combo of drugs and paranoia had scooped out
all his ability to reason. Myron accessed his options and liked none of them.
Win, Myron said.
I already told you. I ain't afraid of him.
I'm not talking to you. Myron glanced over at Pat. The bartender was breathing hard, and his
shoulders were drooping as though someone had packed them with wet sand. Once he pulls that
