Lawrence Block - Enough Rope

“None.” Michael Haig smiled, and Colliard felt there was pride in the smile. Proud as a puppy, he thought, and every bit as eager. “I killed her with a knife,” he said. “Made it look like a burglary.”

“And it felt no different than if she had been a man?”

“No different at all. There was that thrilling moment when I did it, that sensation that’s always there, but it was no different from the way it always was.”

Then a shadow flickered on the younger’s man face, and Colliard, amused, left him wondering for a moment before rescuing him. “Yes,” he said, “that little shiver of delight and triumph and something more. It’s always there for me, too, Michael. In case you were wondering.”

“I was, sir.”

“The best people always get a thrill out of it, Michael. We don’t do it for the thrill, of course. We do it for the money. But there’s a touch of excitement in the act and it would be puerile to deny it. Don’t bother worrying about it.”

“I don’t know that I was worried, exactly. But thank you, sir.”

Colliard smiled. Now of whom did this young man remind him? The eagerness, the sincerity — God, the almost painful sincerity. It all held a sense of recognition, but recognition of whom? His own younger self? The son he had never sired? Those were the standard echoes one got, weren’t they?

Yet he didn’t really think he’d been very much like Michael Haig in his own younger days, not really. Had there been a veteran hand at the game whom he’d idolized? Certainly not. Could he ever, at his most callow, have been capable of playing the role Haig was playing in this conversation? No. God, no.

Nor would he have wanted a son like this youth, or indeed any sort of son at all. Women were a pleasure, certainly, like good food and good wine, like anything beautiful and luxurious and costly. But they were to be enjoyed and discarded. One didn’t want to own one, and one surely wouldn’t care to breed with them, to produce offspring, to litter the landscape with Xerox copies of oneself.

And yet he could not deny that he was enjoying this afternoon. The younger man’s company was refreshing in its way, there was no denying that, and the idolatry he provided was pleasant food for the ego.

And it was not as if he had any pressing engagements.

“So you’d like to hear me talk about... what? My life and times? My distinguished career?”

“I’d like that very much.”

“Anecdotes and bits of advice? The perspective gained through years at the top of this crazy business? All that sort of thing?”

“All of that. And anything else you’d care to tell me.”

Wilson Colliard considered for a moment, then rose to his feet. “I’m going to smoke a cigar,” he announced. “I allow myself one or two a day. They’re Havanas, not terribly hard to get if you know someone. I acquired a taste for them, oh, it must be twenty years ago. I did a job of work down there, you see. But I suppose you know the story.”

“I don’t, and I’d love to hear it.”

“Perhaps you will. Perhaps you will, Michael. But first may I bring a cigar for you?”

Michael Haig accepted the cigar. Somehow this did not surprise Wilson Colliard in the least.

As the afternoonwore on, Colliard found himself increasingly at ease in the role of reminiscent sage. Never before had he trotted out his memories like this for the entertainment and education of another. Oh, in recent years he had become increasingly inclined to sit at this window and look back over the years, but this had heretofore been a silent and solitary pursuit. It was quite a different matter to be giving voice to one’s memories and to have another person on hand, worshipful and attentive, to utter appropriate syllables and draw out one’s own recollections. Why, he was telling young Haig things he hadn’t even bothered to think about in years, and in so doing he was making mental connections and developing perceptions he’d never had before.

With the cigars extinguished and fresh glasses of sherry poured, Colliard leaned back and said, “Now how far are we with our Assassin’s Credo, Michael? Point the first — minimize risk. And point the second — seize the moment, strike while the iron is hot, all those banalities. Is that all we’ve established so far? It’s certainly taken me a great many words to hammer out those two points. You know, I think the third principle is more important than either of them.”

“And what is that, sir?”

“Look to your reputation.”

“Ah.”

“Reputation,” Colliard said. “It’s all one has going for oneself in this business, Michael. We have no bankable assets, you and I. We have only our reputations. And what reputations we possess are underground matters. We can’t hire public relations men or press agents to give us standing. We have to depend wholly upon word of mouth. We must make ourselves known to those who might be inclined to engage our services, and they have to be supremely confident of our skill, our reliability, our discretion.”

“Yes.”

“We are paid in advance, Michael. Our clients must be able to take it for granted that once a fee has been passed to us the target is as good as dead. And, because the client himself is a party to criminal homicide, he must be assured that whatever fate befalls the assassin, the client will not be publicly involved. Skill, reliability, discretion. Reputation, Michael. It’s everything to us.”

They were silent for a moment. Wilson Colliard aimed his eyes out the window at the expanse of green far below. But his gaze was not focused on the park. He was looking off into the middle distance, seeing across time.

Tentatively Haig said, “I suppose if a man does good work, sooner or later he develops a good reputation.”

“Sooner or later.”

“You make it sound as though there’s a better way to go about it.”

“Oh, there is,” Colliard agreed. “Sometimes circumstances are such that you can be your own advertising man, your own press agent, your own public relations bureau. Now and then you will find yourself with the opportunity to act with a certain flair that captures the public imagination so dramatically, so vividly, that it will go on to serve as the very cornerstone of your professional reputation for the remainder of your life. When such a chance comes to you, Michael, you have to take hold of it.”

“I think—”

“Yes?”

“I think I know the case you mean, sir.”

“It’s quite possible that you do.”

“I was wondering if you would mention it. I almost brought it up myself. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard the story. It’s at the very heart of the legend of Wilson Colliard.”

“Indeed. ‘The Legend of Wilson Colliard.’ ”

“But you are a legend, sir. And the story — I hope you’ll tell me just what did and didn’t happen. I’ve heard several versions and it’s hard to know where the truth leaves off.”

Colliard smiled indulgently. “Suppose you tell me what you’ve heard. If I’m to tell you the truth it wouldn’t hurt me to know first how the legend goes. If the legend’s better than the truth I’d probably be well advised to leave well enough alone.”

“Well, from what I’ve heard, you accepted two assignments at about the same time. A businessman in New Jersey, I believe in Camden—”

“Trenton, actually,” Colliard said. “Not that it makes any substantial difference. Neither city has ever been possessed of anything you might be inclined to call charm. Of course, this was some time ago and the urban blight was less pronounced then, but even so, both Trenton and Camden were towns no one ever went to without a good reason. My client manufactured bicycle tires. The business is long gone now, of course. I believe some bicycle manufacturer bought up the firm and absorbed it. My client’s name — well, names don’t really matter, do they?”