Lawrence Block - Hit List

“What’s he going to do with it?”

“Buy something he couldn’t afford otherwise. Keller, you sink a lot of dollars into your stamp collection. Are there stamps you can’t afford to buy?”

“Are you kidding? There are stamps, plenty of them, that run into six figures.”

“And that artist you didn’t kill. Niswander. Did you ever buy one of his paintings?”

“No.”

“But you thought about it. You could have bought one if you wanted to, couldn’t you?”

“Sure.”

“Suppose you wanted a Picasso.”

Or a Hopper. “Okay,” he said. “I get it.”

“The guy’s a pig,” she said. “The more he gets the more he wants. He wants to be the only hitter out there so he can get all the money. What the hell’s the difference why he wants it? That’s not the question. The question is what are we going to do about it.”

If somebody was trying to kill you, what you did was kill him first. That much seemed obvious.

But how? Keller killed people all the time, it was what he did, but it was easier when you knew who they were and where to find them. The whole operation was fairly straightforward. It demanded resolve and ingenuity, and it helped if you could think on your feet, but it wasn’t rocket science.

“I keep thinking he’s from Louisville,” he said, “but he probably flew there himself, same as I did. You know, that may not have been him at the baggage claim. He could have given some mope ten bucks to hold up a sign while he was over to one side, keeping his eyes open.”

“There has to be a way to find him.”

“How?”

They were silent, considering the question. Then Dot said, “How would you do it, Keller?”

“That’s what I can’t figure, and-“

“No,” she said. “Suppose you were him. You want to be the Microsoft of murder and wipe out the competition. How would you go about it?”

“Oh, I see what you mean. How would I even know where to start? I don’t know anybody else who does what I do. It’s not like there’s an annual convention.”

“That’s good, because I’d hate to see all you guys in funny hats.”

“He doesn’t know anybody, either,” he said. “That’s why he has to stand around airports. But how does he know what airport to stand around in? You know what I’d do, Dot? Turn down work.”

“How’s that?”

“I get a call, can I do such and such a guy in Omaha. I find out all I can about the job and then I make some excuse, why I can’t do it.”

“Your grandmother’s funeral, that’s always good.”

“A conflict, a prior commitment, who cares what. I tell the man he’ll have to hire somebody else and then I go to Omaha and see who turns up.”

“And wait until your replacement does the deed before you take him out. Why wait?”

“So nobody knows. Say he takes me out that first day in Louisville. Say instead of looking for Ralph he just plants himself outside my door, and when I show my face he gives me my two in the head. Right away, the client knows.”

“And after the job?”

“The best thing to do,” he said, “is follow me home.”

“Which he did, but he went to the wrong room.”

“No,” he said. “Follow me all the way home. Follow me back to New York, find out who I am and where I live and take me out at leisure, while I’m living my life.”

“Seeing a movie,” she said. “Pasting stamps in your album.”

“Whatever. That’s how he worked it with the guy who died in his sleep. Followed him home and bided his time.”

“But with you he couldn’t wait.”

“Evidently not, one reason or another. It’s a good thing, too, because he would have had me cold. I wouldn’t have expected a thing. And if he tried for me in New York and killed the wrong person, he could come back the next day and try again.”

“The miserable son of a bitch.”

“You could call him that.”

“It’s not like he doesn’t have enough work. The way you laid it out, he turns down a job every time.”

“Well, that’s the way I would do it.”

“And I’ll bet it’s the way he does it, too, the rat bastard. Well, he made a mistake. He’s in trouble.”

“He’s in trouble? We don’t know anything about him, Dot. Not who he is or where he lives or what he looks like. How much trouble can he be in?”

“We know he’s out there,” she said grimly. “And that’s enough. Keller, go home.”

“Huh?”

“Go home, lie down, put your feet up. Play with your stamps. This guy’s not a danger today. He probably thinks he got the right person when he nailed Louis Minot. And even if he knows better, he doesn’t know where to look for you. So go home and live your life.”

“And?”

“And I’ll pick up the phone,” she said, “and ask a few questions, and see what I can find out about this unprincipled son of a bitch.”

“What I don’t get,” she was saying, “is where they get off calling this a Long Island Iced Tea. There must be half a dozen different kinds of booze in it, but is there any tea at all?”

“You’re asking the wrong person.”

“No tea,” she decided. “Are they being ironic? Like this is what they drink for tea on Long Island? Or do you figure it’s a reference to Prohibition?”

“Beats me.”

“And I bet you don’t care, either. Well, one of these is going to be enough, I’ll say that much. I want to be sober when I shop, and the last thing I want is to sleep through The Lion King tonight.”

They were at a restaurant on Madison Avenue. Dot didn’t come to the city often, and when she did she managed to look like a suburban matron all gussied up for a day of shopping and a night at the theater. Which was reasonable enough, he thought, since that pretty much described her.

When the food came she said, “Well, let’s get to it. I didn’t want to do this over the phone, and why make you chase up to White Plains when I had to come in anyway? I ordered this ticket so long ago I feel as though I’ve already seen the play. I made some calls.”

“You said you were going to.”

“And I found out a thing or two about Roger.”

“That’s his name?”

“Probably not,” she said, “but that’s what he goes by. No last name, just Roger.”

“Where does he live?”

“Nobody knows.”

“Somebody’s got to. Not his address necessarily, but the city.”

“Roger the Lodger,” she said. “But wherever he’s lodged, it’s a secret.”

“If somebody wants to reach me,” he said, “they go through you. Who do you call to reach Roger?”

“Any of several brokers. Or you call him direct.”

“Well, there you go. His number must have an area code. What is it?”

“Three-oh-nine.”

“I don’t know that one.”

“ Peoria, Illinois. But all you get when you call the number is his voice mail at Sprint’s central office, and that’s nowhere near Peoria. You leave a number and he calls you back.”

“You figure he lives in Peoria?”

“There’s a chance,” she said, “but I’ve probably got a better chance in the lottery, and I haven’t bought a ticket. I think he went to Peoria once and bought a cell phone just so he could have the voice mail.”

“He calls you back,” he said. “Probably not on his cell phone, he probably just uses that for his messages. Then what?”

“You tell him about the job and he says yes or no.”

“You give him the name and address, the other details.”

“And anything else he’s going to need.”

“Suppose you want to point out the target?”

She shook her head. “No finger men for Roger. Nobody ever meets his plane.”

“In other words, nobody ever sees the guy.”