Lawrence Block: Hit List

“But I couldn’t do it. Could I pull a trigger? Maybe I could. Maybe I already done that, one time or another. But your way is different, isn’t it?”

Was it?

The man didn’t wait for an answer. “By the baggage claim,” he said, “you didn’t see me right away. You were headed for one of the other guys.”

“I couldn’t make out the sign he was holding,” Keller said. “The letters were all jammed together. And I had the sense that he was waiting for somebody.”

“They’re all of them waiting for somebody. Point is, I was watching you, before you took notice of me. And I pictured myself living the life you lead. I mean, what do I know about your life? But based on my own ideas of it. And I realized something.”

“Oh?”

“It’s just not for me,” the man said. “I couldn’t do it.”

It cost Keller eight dollars to get his car out of the long-term lot, which struck him as reasonable enough. He got on the interstate going south, got off at Eastern Parkway, and found a place to have coffee and a sandwich. It called itself a family restaurant, which was a term Keller had never entirely understood. It seemed to embody low prices, Middle American food, and a casual atmosphere, but where did family come into the picture? There were no families there this afternoon, just single diners.

Like Keller himself, sitting in a booth and studying his map. He had no trouble finding Hirschhorn’s downtown office (on Fourth Street between Main and Jefferson, just a few blocks from the river) and his home in Norbourne Estates, a suburb a dozen miles to the east.

He could look for a hotel downtown, possibly within walking distance of the man’s office. Or-he studied the map-or he could continue east on Eastern Parkway, and there would almost certainly be a cluster of motels where it crossed I-64. That would give him easy access to the residence and, afterward, to the airport. He could get downtown from there as well, but he might not have to go there at all, because it would almost certainly be easier and simpler to deal with Hirschhorn at home.

Except for the damned picture.

Betsy, Jason, Tamara, and Powhatan. He’d have been happier not knowing their names, and happier still not knowing what they looked like. There were certain bare facts about the quarry it was useful to have, but everything else, all the personal stuff, just got in the way. It could be valuable to know that a man owned a dog-whether or not you chose to break into his home might hinge upon the knowledge-but you didn’t have to know the breed, let alone the animal’s name.

It made it personal, and it wasn’t supposed to be personal. Suppose the best way to do it was in a room in the man’s house, a home office in the basement, say. Well, somebody would find him there, and it would probably be a family member, and that was just the way it went. You couldn’t go around killing people if you were going to agonize over the potential traumatic effect on whoever discovered the body.

But it was easier if you didn’t know too much about the people. You could live easier with the prospect of a wife recoiling in horror if you didn’t know her name, or that she had close-cropped blond hair and bright blue eyes and cute little chipmunk cheeks. It didn’t take too much in the way of imagination to picture that face when she walked in on the death scene.

So it was unfortunate that the man with the Archibald sign had shown him that particular photograph. But it wouldn’t keep him from doing the job at Hirschhorn’s residence any more than it would lead him to abort the mission altogether. He might not care what calibre gun he used, and he didn’t know that he took a craftsman’s pride in his work, but he was a professional. He used what came to hand, and he got the job done.

“Now I can offer you a couple of choices,” the desk clerk said. “Smoking or non, up or down, front or back.”

The motel was a Super 8. Keller went for nonsmoking, rear of the building, first floor.

“No choice on beds,” the clerk said. “All the units are the same. Two double beds.”

“That still gives me a choice.”

“How do you figure that?”

“I can choose which bed to sleep in.”

“Clear-cut choice,” the clerk said. “First thing you’ll do is drop your suitcase on one of the beds.”

“So?”

“So sleep in the other one. You’ll have more room.”

There were, as promised, two double beds in Room 147. Keller considered them in turn before setting his bag on top of the dresser.

Keeping his options open, he thought.

From a pay phone, he called Dot in White Plains. He said, “Refresh my memory. Didn’t you say something about an accident?”

“Or natural causes,” she said, “though who’s to say what’s a natural cause in this day and age? Outside of choking to death on an organic carrot, I’d say you’re about as natural a cause of death as there is.”

“They provided a gun.”

“Oh?”

“A twenty-two auto, because that’s the kind guys like me prefer.”

“That’s a far cry from an organic carrot.”

“ ‘Use it and lose it.’ “

“Catchy,” Dot said. “Sounds like a failure to communicate, doesn’t it? Guy who furnished the gun didn’t know it was supposed to be natural.”

“Leaving us where? Does it still have to be natural?”

“It never had to, Keller. It was just a preference, but they gave you a gun, so I’d say they’ve got no kick coming if you use it.”

“And lose it.”

“In that order. Customer satisfaction’s always a plus, so if you can arrange for him to have a heart attack or get his throat torn out by the family dog, I’d say go for it. On the other hand-“

“How did you know about the dog?”

“What dog?”

“The one you just mentioned.”

“It was just an expression, Keller. I don’t know if he has a dog. I don’t know for sure if he’s got a heart, but-“

“It’s a golden retriever.”

“Oh?”

“Named Powhatan.”

“Well, it’s all news to me, Keller, and not the most fascinating news I ever heard, either. Where is all of this coming from?”

He explained about the photo on the Christmas card.

“What a jerk,” she said. “He couldn’t find a head and shoulders shot, the kind the papers run when you get a promotion or they arrest you for embezzlement? My God, the people you have to work with. Be grateful you were spared the annual Christmas letter, or you’d know how Aunt Mary’s doing great since she got her appendix transplant and little Timmy got his first tattoo.”

“Little Jason.”

“God, you know the kids’ names? Well, they wouldn’t put the dog’s name on the card and leave the kids off, would they? What a mess.”

“The guy was holding a sign. ‘Archibald.’ “

“At least they got that part right.”

“And I said that’s me, and he said, ‘Richard Archibald?’ “

“So.”

“You told me they said Nathan.”

“Come to think of it, they did. They screw that up too, huh?”

“Not exactly. It was a test, to make sure I wasn’t some smartass looking for a free ride.”

“So if you forgot the first name, or just didn’t want to make waves…”

“He’d have figured me for a phony and told me to get lost.”

“This gets better and better,” she said. “Look, do you want to forget the whole thing? I can tell you’re getting a bad feeling about it. Just come on home and we’ll tell them to shit in their hat.”

“Well, I’m already here,” he said. “It could turn out to be easy. And I don’t know about you, but I can use the money.”

“I can always find a use for it,” she said, “even if all I use it for is to hold on to. The dollars have to be someplace, and White Plains is as good a place as any for them.”