Lawrence Block - The Best American Mystery Stories 1999

“They’re serious about their coffee,” he allowed. “Maybe too serious. Wine snobs are bad enough, but when all it is is coffee...”

“How’s that coffee by the way?”

“It’s fine.”

“I bet it can’t hold a candle to the stuff in Seattle,” she said. “But the weather’s lousy there. Rains all the time, the way I hear it.”

“There’s a lot of rain,” he said. “But it’s gentle. It doesn’t bowl you over.”

“It rains but it never pours?”

“Something like that.”

“I guess the rain got to you, huh?”

“How’s that?”

“Rain, day after day. And all that coffee snobbery. You couldn’t stand it.”

Huh? “It didn’t bother me,” he said.

“No?”

“Not really. Why?”

“Well, I was wondering,” she said, looking at him over the rim of her glass. “I was wondering what the hell you were doing in Denver.”

The TV was on with the sound off, tuned to one of the home-shopping channels. A woman with unconvincing red hair was modeling a dress. Keller thought it looked dowdy, but the number in the lower right corner kept advancing, indicating that viewers were calling in a steady stream to order the item.

“Of course, I could probably guess what you were doing in Denver,” Dot was saying, “and I could probably come up with the name of the person you were doing it to. I got somebody to send me a couple of issues of the Denver Post, and what did I find but a story about a woman in someplace called Aurora who came to a bad end, and I swear the whole thing had your fingerprints all over it. Don’t look so alarmed, Keller. Not your actual fingerprints. I was speaking figuratively.”

“Figuratively,” he said.

“It did look like your work,” she said, “and the timing was right. I’d say it might have lacked a little of your usual subtlety, but I figure that’s because you were in a big hurry to get back to Seattle.”

He pointed at the television set. He said, “Do you believe how many of those dresses they’ve sold?”

“Tons.”

“Would you buy a dress like that?”

“Not in a million years. I’d look like a sack of potatoes in something cut like that.”

“I mean any dress. Over the phone, without trying it on.”

“I buy from catalogs all the time, Keller. It amounts to the same thing. If it doesn’t look right, you can always send it back.”

“Do you ever do that? Send stuff back?”

“Sure.”

“He doesn’t know, does he, Dot? About Denver?”

“No.”

He nodded, hesitated, then leaned forward. “Dot,” he said, “can you keep a secret?”

She listened while he told her the whole thing, from Bascomb’s first appearance in the coffee shop to the most recent phone call, relaying the good wishes of the man who never inhaled. When he was done he got up and poured himself more coffee. He came back and sat down and Dot said, “You know what gets me? ‘Dot, can you keep a secret?’ Can I keep a secret?”

“Well, I—”

“If I can’t,” she said, “then we’re all in big trouble. Keller, I’ve been keeping your secrets just about as long as you’ve had secrets to keep. And you’re asking me—”

“I wasn’t exactly asking you. What do they call it when you don’t really expect an answer?”

“Prayer,” she said.

“Rhetorical,” he said. “It was a rhetorical question. For God’s sake, I know you can keep a secret.”

“That’s why you kept this one from me,” she said, “for lo these many months.”

“Well, I figured this was different.”

“Because it was a state secret.”

“That’s right.”

“Hush-hush, your eyes only, need-to-know. Matters of national security.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And what if I turned out to be a Commie rat?”

“Dot—”

“So how come I all of a sudden got a top-secret clearance? Or is it need-to-know? In other words, if I hadn’t brought up Denver...”

“No,” he said. “I was planning to tell you anyway.”

“Sooner or later, you mean.”

“Sooner. When I called yesterday and said I wanted to wait until today to come up, I was buying a little time to think it over.”

“And?”

“And I decided I wanted to run the whole thing by you, and see what you think.”

“What I think.”

“Right.”

“Well, you know what that tells me, Keller? It tells me what you think.”

“And?”

“And I think it’s about the same thing I think.”

“Spell it out, okay?”

“C-O-N,” she said, “J-O-B. Total B-U-L–L-S-H — Am I getting through?”

“Loud and clear.”

“He must be pretty slick,” she said, “to have a guy like you jumping through hoops. But I can see how it would work. First place, you want to believe it. ‘Young man, your country has need of you.’ Next thing you know, you’re knocking off strangers for chump change.”

“Expense money. It never covered the expenses, except the first time.”

“The patent lawyer, caught in his own mousetrap. What do you figure he did to piss Bascomb off?”

“No idea.”

“And the old fart in the wheelchair. It’s a good thing you iced the son of a bitch, Keller, or our children and our children’s children would grow up speaking Russian.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

“I’m just making you pay for that rhetorical question. All said and done, do you think there’s a chance in a million Bascomb’s on the level?”

Keller made himself think it over, but the answer wasn’t going to change. “No,” he said.

“What was the tip-off? The approval from on high?”

“I guess so. You know, I got a hell of a rush.”

“I can imagine.”

“I mean, the man at the top. The big guy.”

“Chomping doughnuts and thinking of you.”

“But then you think about it afterward, and there’s just no way. Even if he said something like that, would Bascomb pass it on? And then, when I started to look at the whole picture...”

“Tilt.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well,” she said, “what kind of a line do we have on Bascomb? We don’t know his name or address or how to get hold of him. What does that leave us?”

“Damn little.”

“Oh, I don’t know. We don’t need a hell of a lot, Keller. And we do know something.”

“What?”

“We know three people he wanted killed,” she said. “That’s a start.”

Keller, dressed in a suit and tie and sporting a red carnation in his buttonhole, sat in what he supposed you would call the den of a sprawling ranch house in Glen Burnie, Maryland. He had the TV on with the sound off, and he was beginning to think that was the best way to watch it. The silence lent a welcome air of mystery to everything, even the commercials.

He perked up at the sound of a car in the driveway, and as soon as he heard a key in the lock, he triggered the remote to shut off the TV altogether. Then he sat and waited patiently while Paul Ernest Farrar hung his topcoat in the hall closet, carried a sack of groceries to the kitchen, and moved through the rooms of his house.

When he finally got to the den, Keller said, “Well, hello, Bas-comb. Nice place you got here.”

Keller, leading a scoundrel’s life, had ended the lives of others in a great variety of ways. As far as he knew, though, he had never actually frightened anyone to death. For a moment, however, it looked as though Bascomb (né Farrar) might be the first. The man turned white as Wonder bread, took an involuntary step backward, and clasped a hand to his chest. Keller hoped he wasn’t going to need CPR.

“Easy,” he said. “Grab a seat, why don’t you? Sorry to startle you, but it seemed the best way. No names, no pack drill, right?”