It’s not really a duplex. The interior of the ground floor has been gutted to make a single large space. It looks like a living area. I can see a couch and a TV and, off in a corner, a bed. But I can’t see much more because of the guy standing in front of me, holding the big gun.

The gun is a Desert Eagle.45. I know because I have seen it waved around by so many bad guys on TV. The dude on the other side of the gun is in his twenties, has black hair with bleached tips, is wearing a vintageStar Wars T-shirt over very groovy green corduroys and has the prettiest blue eyes I have ever seen. He blinks them and shakes his head tightly from side to side.

– Get the fuck out,Maddog.

Clearly there has been a misunderstanding.

– I’m Billy.

The gun is pointed at my face.

– You’re a fucking mad dog killer. Get the fuck out.

Oh.

– No, I’m.

– Get the fuck out so I don’t have to figure out a way to get rid of your fucking corpse.

– Tim sent me.

– No shit. If you see him before the cops gun you down, you can tell him I’m pissed. Get.The. Fuck. Out.

– Can I show you something?

I start to move my hand toward my jacket pocket.

– Don’t put your hand in that pocket.

My fingertips are inside my jacket. He jabs the barrel of the gun an inch closer to my face.

– Don’t put your hand in that pocket.

My fingers are all the way inside. The gun moves closer still and the end of the barrel nowlooks big enough for me to stick my head inside. My hand is in the pocket.

– Leave it there. Leave your hand in that fucking pocket.

I start to take my hand out.

– Don’t! Don’t!

He has the barrel of the gun stuck up against my right eyebrow. He’s got his arm stretched out to the limit. Trying to keep as far from me as possible so he won’t be splashed by too much of my blood when he shoots me, I suppose. My hand is out of my pocket. His pretty eyes are locked on mine.

– Drop it. Fucking drop it.

I drop it and it hits the floor with a soft flap. We stand there. Then he takes three quick steps straight back away from me and looks down at the bundle of hundreds on the floor.

– It’s about nine grand. I have a bit more on me, but I might need it. I can get more to you later. I didn’t kill any of those people they say I did.

He looks from the cash to me and back again.

– How much more?

– Alot, but it may take a while.

He looks down again, the gun still on me, and then backs up.

– Fuck it. Nine’s good for now.

He stuffs the gun in his waistband.

– I’mBilly. Let’s go up to the shop and get started. Bring the money.

He turns and heads for a spiral steel staircase over by the bed. I pick up the cash and follow.

Billy has an awesome stereo. Most of the components are exotic German stuff I’ve never heard of, the speakers wired throughout his workshop to provide virtually flawless surround sound no matter where you stand. We’re listening to the Psychedelic Furs’Mirror Moves. I haven’t heard this stuff since high school. It’s really kind of cool. Billy moves around the shop, switching on various pieces of computer equipment and gathering tools and materials.

– These guys really never got their due,ya know? There was so much crap being ground out in the early eighties that they just kind of fell through the gap, except for “Pretty in Pink.” And that was more a hit because of the movie, which I do love, don’t get me wrong. But listen.

I listen.

– This stuff holds up. Try listening to fucking ABC or Flock of Seagulls now, or even DuranDuran and it just sounds dated.Totally dated.

The second floor has been gutted just like the first, but up here it’s all shop space. Billy sets stuff out on a bench next to his drafting table and a custom desktopcomputer, that looks to be based around a couple Power Mac G4s. He waves me a bit closer and switches on a set of lamps and shines them in my face.

– Come here. Let me get a good look at you,Maddog.

I step closer and he takes hold of my chin and tilts my face this way and that in the light.

– I’m not a mad dog.

He lets go of my face and takes a step back to look me over.

– I didn’t kill those people. I’m not a mad dog.

He sits down in front of his computer.

– At this point, man, I don’t really give a fuck.

– I do.

He looks at me over his shoulder.

– Fair enough,Maddog. As long as you’re paying, you didn’t kill anybody. But like I said, I really don’t give a fuck. So can it and I’ll try and get some work done.

I sit on a folding metal chair, unzip Bud and take him out. He’s awake, but a little dopey I think. Those pills kind of knock him out. I put him on the floor and he curls up under my chair. Billy starts doing things with the computer and pieces of paper and plastic and pens and razor blades and ink. I stay out of the way.

– I’m gonna give you some hair.

Hours have passed. Billy sent out to the White Castle and had a sack of burgers and fries delivered. It was really good. Bud is walking around, checking stuff out. I’ve been watching Billy, doing what he tells me to.

– It will be better if the passport and the driver’s license show you with some hair, especially if it’s two different styles. That way everything doesn’t look like it was done at the same time. Thing is, I don’t want to give you your natural color,cuz then you’ll just look like the Wanted posters. So you’re gonna be blond, OK?

– Sure.

– OK.

He took a few photos of me earlier and scanned them into the computer. He’s already digitally removed the bruises and cuts from my face and now he starts laying in various styles and shades of blond hair. I’ve moved my chair close so I can peek over his shoulder. He is good. He’s really fucking good.

– So, for the passport, I’m giving you a little buzz thing and how about thismoppy thing for the license?

I just watch while he moves things around with his mouse and occasionally pushes a button. He gets up and goes over to a set of large printers. He feeds a small sheet of plasticized cardboard into one.

– Those will burn for a while. So, let’s do some work on you.

He leads me to a corner of the shop concealed behind a heavy rubber drape on ceiling tracks, like in a hospital. He pulls back the drape to reveal a bathroom. He switches on more lights and looks at me again.

– You’re stuck with the bruises. I could put some makeup on them, but it wouldn’t last very long. Leave them alone and if anyone asks, tell them you were in a car accident. Tell them you got rear-ended and smacked the steering wheel with your face. The hair I want to change. That fuzz is too dark for the blond I gave you in the photos. We can’t match the color exactly, but we can bleach it so it looks like you’re trying to be hip or something. You ever bleach your hair before?

– No.

– It hurts, gonna burn your scalp like hell.

It does hurt.Quite a bit.

My name is John. John Peter Carlyle. Billy made me write it out a couple hundred times before he’d let me sign it on the documents. He said I needed to work at it to make it look natural. And it does, it looks great, it all looks great. Billy has everything laid out on a table and he explains it all to me while he takes sips of Dr Pepper from a two-liter bottle.

– The passport and the license should get you through any kind of airport thing and past any border. I put stamps for Mexico, Canada and France in the passport to give you a little travel history, backdated everything and distressed it all so it looks like you’ve had it for a while. The problem is,there’s no backup identity in any of the official computers. If a cop or someone actually runs your name through a computer or tries to zip that driver’s license, it’s gonna come up blank and the jig will be up, so don’t let it happen. Got that?