Billy Mercer could fix anything that had a number on it. A car's mileage. A property deed. An insurance claim. The numbers on a page bent to his pen the way grass bends to the wind—always in his direction, always exactly where he wanted them.
It started small. In 1974, when he was twenty-six and living in a fourth-floor walk-up on Grand Avenue with a radiator that hissed like a angry cat and a refrigerator that smelled permanently of something dead. Billy's job at the time was stocking shelves at a grocery store for $2.15 an hour. He was good at the stocking—could line up cans of peaches in spirals that made the aisle look like...
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