Nine

"Stuart!" Billy shouted. He banged on the door with his fist. "Stuart! Open up!"

Stuart lived in a second-floor unit of a low-rent motel in Milford. Most of the rentals were long-term, with only a few on the first floor available for transients who needed a place to stay for a couple of days, or certain types of businesswomen and their clients who might only need a room for an hour or two.

Billy was hitting the door hard enough that some neighbors had popped their heads out to see what the fuss was about. It wasn't unusual for the police to drop by, always good for breaking the monotony. But this was some regular guy making a racket, looking pretty pissed, and it was better not to get in the way of someone like that, so they closed their doors after taking a quick peek.

Billy heard a chain slide back and then the door opened.

"What the fuck?" Stuart said, a video game controller in his hand. "I had my 'buds in and couldn't hear—"

Billy put a hand on Stuart's chest and shoved him back into the room. He tripped on his own feet and landed on his back on the unmade double bed. The game controller hit the floor.

"Jesus," Stuart said.

"Need a word," Billy said, closing the door behind him and turning off the TV where Stuart had been virtually wandering some dark alley, shooting one person after another.

This was, at least by this motel's standards, one of the nicer units. The bedroom area was up front by the door, while a small nook with a table and four chairs, a small fridge, and a cooktop took up the back. This, plus a bathroom, was home sweet home for Stuart.

He got himself sitting on the end of the bed while Billy paced back and forth, his face flushed.

Stuart said, "You look like you're gonna have a heart attack or something. You got blood on your shirt."

Billy stopped pacing and pointed a finger at him. "You need to be a hundred percent straight with me here."

"'Bout what?"

"Psycho Bitch and Butthead paid me a visit. And not on a pickup day."

"So?"

"They're saying I stole from them."

"Did you?" Stuart asked.

"I look like I got a death wish? Look at this." He lifted up his shirt to reveal a large purple bruise and a bandage taped over the right side of his chest. "Nipple was practically hanging off."

"Fuck," Stuart said. "How did they—"

There wasn't time to finish the question. Billy grabbed him by the shirt, threw him down on the floor, and sat on his stomach, straddling him with his legs, pinning his arms.

"Billy! Get the fuck—"

Billy released one arm and grabbed Stuart's jaw so he could stop his head from moving and fixed his glare on him. "You gotta be straight with me like never before. If you took it, if you admit it, right now, without my having to beat the truth out of you, then okay, we'll figure out how to handle it. Say you didn't know it was theirs. Something. Then you give me the money to pay them back. Make things right."

"Billy, I didn't take—"

"Do not fucking lie to me. This is your one chance, Stuart. Maybe one time, when I was asleep or something, you took my key and opened the locker and helped yourself to just a little of what was in there? Didn't think I'd notice? Didn't think they'd notice?"

"You're my fucking friend!" Stuart said, taking a swing with his free arm at Billy's face and missing. "Make that ex-friend! Jesus!"

And then Stuart started to weep.

"Oh shit," Billy said, getting off his friend and standing. He extended a hand to help him up.

"Fuck you," Stuart said, and found his own way up.

"I'm just—I'm losing my mind here, man. I'm sorry."

Stuart walked to a far corner of the room, and now it was his turn to point.

"Listen, if I had taken any of your shit, I'd have been within my rights to do it. You always freeze me out." He sniffed, took a tissue from his pocket, and wiped his nose. "I could have helped you with it, helped you hide stuff, done whatever you needed, but no. That's not how you treat friends."

He opened his arms wide to indicate his residence. "Look at this shithole. How do you sleep at night in your nice house with your nice wife you can fuck whenever you want knowing this is how I live?" He shook his head. "And then accusing me of ripping you off. I didn't do it. I didn't touch your shit."

Billy hung his head. "Okay." He found a chair and sat. "I gotta pay them back. Where do I find that kind of money? I don't make this right, they'll fucking kill me."

"They've got you in place. They need you."

Billy shook his head. "They'll find someone else. Another guy at another airport. Bring it in by truck. FedEx it, whatever. I got a good thing going here and I'm gonna lose it if I don't find out what happened to that shipment."

"Maybe somebody dipped into it before it got put on the plane," Stuart said, his voice softening.

"They say no."

"Who else knows what you're holding for them?"

"Nobody."

Stuart gave him a look, like maybe Billy knew but wasn't willing to admit it.

"What?" Billy said.

"It's not for me to say."

"No, no way. No fucking way. Lucy wouldn't do that."

Stuart nodded. "Of course not. You're right. She wouldn't."

Billy bit his lip and looked away.