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“What would I do?” he’d asked on the single occasion Dan had brought the subject up. “Retire to
that deathfarm where you work? Wait for your pet cat to pay me a visit? Thanks but no thanks.”
When the last two or three riders had ambled on their way, probably in search of dinner, Billy
butted his cigarette and joined him. “I’ll put er in the barn. Unless you want to do that, too.”
“No, go right ahead. You’ve been sitting on your ass long enough. When are you going to give up
the smokes, Billy? You know the doctor said they contributed to your little gut problem.”
“I’ve cut down to almost nothing,” Billy said, but with a telltale downward shift in his gaze. Dan
could have found out just how much Billy had cut down—he probably wouldn’t even need to touch
the guy in order to get that much info—but he didn’t. One day in the summer just past, he’d seen a
kid wearing a t-shirt with an octagonal road sign printed on it. Instead of STOP, the sign said TMI.
When Danny asked him what it meant, the kid had given him a sympathetic smile he probably
reserved strictly for gentlemen of a fortyish persuasion. “Too much information,” he’d said. Dan
thanked him, thinking: Story of my life, young fellow.
Everyone had secrets. This he had known from earliest childhood. Decent people deserved to keep
theirs, and Billy Freeman was decency personified.
“Want to go for a coffee, Danno? You got time? Won’t take me ten minutes to put this bitch to
bed.”
Dan touched the side of the engine lovingly. “Sure, but watch your mouth. This is no bitch, this is
a la—”
That was when his head exploded.
2
When he came back to himself, he was sprawled on the bench where Billy had been smoking. Billy
was sitting beside him, looking worried. Hell, looking scared half to death. He had his phone in one
hand, with his finger poised over the buttons.
“Put it away,” Dan said. The words came out in a dusty croak. He cleared his throat and tried
again. “I’m okay.”
“You sure? Jesus Christ, I thought you was havin a stroke. I thought it for sure.”
That’s what it felt like.
For the first time in years Dan thought of Dick Hallorann, the Overlook Hotel’s chef
extraordinaire back in the day. Dick had known almost at once that Jack Torrance’s little boy shared
his own talent. Dan wondered now if Dick might still be alive. Almost certainly not; he’d been
pushing sixty back then.
“Who’s Tony?” Billy asked.
“Huh?”
“You said ‘Please, Tony, please.’ Who’s Tony?”
“A guy I used to know back in my drinking days.” As an improvisation it wasn’t much, but it was
the first thing to come into his still-dazed mind. “A good friend.”
Billy looked at the lighted rectangle of his cell a few seconds longer, then slowly folded the phone
and put it away. “You know, I don’t believe that for a minute. I think you had one of your flashes. Like
on the day you found out about my . . .” He tapped his stomach.
“Well . . .”
Billy raised a hand. “Say nummore. As long as you’re okay, that is. And as long as it isn’t somethin
bad about me. Because I’d want to know if it was. I don’t s’pose that’s true of everyone, but it is with
me.”