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book, this one called Archie Comics Spectacular: Friends Forever . He’s not thinking about Thérèse Raquin today but what he might write in the fifth-floor office he’s never seen. It isn’t clear in his mind, but he has a first sentence and holds onto it. That sentence might connect to others. Or not. He’s prepared for success but he’s also prepared for disappointment. It’s the way he rolls and it’s worked out pretty well so far. In the sense, at least, that he’s not in jail.
    At four minutes past twelve, Frank Macintosh and Paulie Logan enter the lobby dressed in their suits. There are handshakes all around. Frank’s pompadour appears to have had an oil change.
    â€œNeed to check out?”
    â€œTaken care of.”
    â€œThen let’s go.”
    Billy tucks his Archie book into the side pocket of his bag and picks it up.
    â€œNah, nah,” Frankie says. “Let Paulie. He needs the exercise.”
    Paulie holds his middle finger against his tie like a clip, but he takes the bag. They go out to the car. Frank drives, Paulie sits in back. They drive to Midwood and the little yellow house. Billylooks at the balding lawn and thinks he’ll water it. If there’s no hose, he’ll buy one. There’s a car in the driveway, a subcompact Toyota that looks a few years old, but with Toyotas, who can really tell?
    â€œMine?”
    â€œYours,” Frank says. “Not much, but your agent keeps you on a tight budget, I guess.”
    Paulie puts Billy’s suitcase down on the porch, takes an envelope from his jacket pocket, removes a keyring, unlocks the door. He puts the keys back in the envelope and hands it to Billy. Written on the front is 24 Evergreen Street . Billy, who didn’t check the street sign yesterday or today, thinks, Now I know where I live.
    â€œCar keys are on the kitchen table,” Frank says. He holds out his hand again, so this is goodbye. That’s okay with Billy.
    â€œShake her easy,” Paulie says.
    Less than sixty seconds later they’re gone, presumably back to the McMansion with the endlessly peeing cherub in the gigantic front yard.
2
    Billy goes upstairs to the master bedroom and opens his suitcase on a double bed that looks freshly made. When he opens the closet to put things away, he sees it’s already loaded with shirts, a couple of sweaters, a hoodie, and two pairs of dress pants. There’s a new pair of running shoes on the floor. All the sizes look right. In the dresser he finds socks, underwear, T-shirts, Wrangler jeans. He fills up the one empty drawer with his own stuff. There’s not much. He thought he’d be buying more clothes at the Walmart he saw down the way, but it seems like that won’t be necessary.
    He goes down to the kitchen. The Toyota keys are on the table beside an engraved card that says KENNETH HOFF and ENTREPRENEUR. Entrepreneur, Billy thinks. There’s a word for you. Heturns the card over and sees a brief note in the same hand as on the envelope containing the housekeys: If you need anything, just call . There are two numbers, one for business and one for cell.
    He opens the refrigerator and sees it’s stocked with staples: juice, milk, eggs, bacon, a few bags of deli meats and cheeses, a plastic carton of potato salad. There’s a rack of Poland Spring water, a rack of Coke, and a sixpack of Bud Light. He pulls out the freezer drawer and has to smile because what’s in there says so much about Ken Hoff. He’s single and until his divorce (Billy’s sure there was at least one), he has been fed and watered by women, starting with a mother who probably called him Kenny and made sure he got his hair cut every two weeks. The freezer is stuffed with Stouffer’s entrees and frozen pizza and two boxes of ice cream novelties, the kind that come on a stick. There are no vegetables, fresh or frozen.
    â€œDon’t like him,” Billy says