Lawrence Block - Hit List

It was easier to watch the whole thing on Court TV. And that’s what he was doing now, sitting in his motel room and muting the commercials, trying to figure out what they were selling. Eventually he’d be intrigued enough to turn the sound back on, and then you’d have him hanging on every word. It hadn’t happened to Keller yet, but he could see how it might.

He watched the commercial, his finger poised over the Mute button, and only when it ended did he put the sound back on. A commentator was saying something about the arrival at last of the much-anticipated Michael Petrosian, the government’s star witness, and they cut to an outside shot as a cameraman in a helicopter filmed the arrival of the government convoy.

And, just as he’d figured, there was no way anybody could get anywhere near the son of a bitch. There were no other cars around when the government cars pulled up, and the only spectators on the courthouse steps were a small contingent of photographers and reporters. They looked frustrated, penned as they were behind a rope barrier, unable to get close to their quarry. Even from the helicopter it was hard to spot Petrosian, just another body in a herd of bodies emerging from the cars and moving briskly up the flight of marble steps.

Lee Marvin and the boys would have their work cut out for them, he thought. Unless… well, suppose that was Lee up there in the helicopter? And he brings the chopper in as close as he can, steering one-handed and leaning out of the thing with a machine gun. That might work, but so would a tactical nuclear weapon, and one was about as likely as the other for Keller.

You had to hand it to the cameraman, though. He’d managed to single out Petrosian, and there the guy was, head lowered, shoulders hunched forward, climbing those steps.

And then, for some reason, the men circling Petrosian drew away from him. He turned, and raised his balding head so that he was looking right at the camera. He looked terrified, Keller thought. Stricken.

And Keller watched as the government’s star witness paled, clutched his hand to his chest, and pitched forward on his face.

“They think you’re a genius,” Dot said. “A miracle worker. And you know what, Keller? I have to say I agree with them.”

“I watched it on TV,” he said.

“Keller,” she said, “ everybody watched it on TV. More people saw it than saw Ruby shoot Oswald. I must have seen it twenty times myself. I wasn’t watching while it happened, but who needs to in the Age of Instant Replay?”

“I saw it live.”

“And a few times since then, I’ll bet. Did I say twenty times? It was probably closer to fifty. And you know something, Keller? I still can’t figure out how you did it.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“I understand they’re looking for puncture marks,” she said, “like the Bulgarian that got stabbed with the umbrella, or whatever the hell it was. Then two days later he died. They’re looking for puncture marks and traces of a slow-acting poison.”

“And when they don’t find them?”

“That’ll show that it’s a poison without a trace, and one that was delivered without breaking the skin. A puff from an atomizer, say. He breathes it in, and a day or two later he has what looks for all the world like a heart attack.”

“It looked like one,” he said, “because that’s what it was.”

“Right, but how did you make it happen?”

“I didn’t.”

“It just happened.”

“Right.”

“Help me find a way to believe that, Keller.”

“Ask yourself why I would lie to you.”

She thought about it. “You wouldn’t,” she said. “Well, he was overweight, he was out of shape, and he was under a lot of stress.”

“Must have been.”

“And those stairs looked steep. In the movies when somebody gets shot on the stairs he falls all the way to the bottom, but he just sort of flopped on his face and stayed where he fell. Keller? This is even better than the guy crossing the street, and why can’t I remember his name?”

“Lee Klinger.”

“Right. There at least you were on the scene. When Petrosian got it you were watching TV in your motel room.”

“First there was a commercial,” he said, “and I couldn’t tell what they were advertising. And then Petrosian dropped dead, and the first thing I thought was the guy in the helicopter shot him. But nobody shot him, or stabbed him with an umbrella, or sprayed poisoned perfume in his face.”

“He just dropped dead.”

“In front of God and everybody.”

“Especially everybody.” She took a long drink of iced tea. “We got paid,” she said.

“That was quick.”

“Well, you’ve got a real fan club in Albuquerque, Keller. There are some people there who may not know your name, but they’re sure crazy about your work.”

“So they paid the second half. How about the escalator?”

“It was marble steps. Oh, sorry, I got lost there. Yes, they paid the escalator. You nailed the bastard before they could even swear him in. They paid the escalator, and they paid a bonus.”

“A bonus?”

“A bonus.”

“Why? What for?”

“To make themselves feel good, would be my guess. I don’t know what the prisons are like in New Mexico, but I gather they’re grateful not to be going, and they wanted to make a grand gesture. What they said, the bonus was for dramatic effect.”

“Dramatic effect?”

“On the courthouse steps, Keller? The man dies surrounded by G-men, and the whole world gets to see him do it over and over again? Believe me, they’ll get their money’s worth out of this one. They’ll be playing that tape every time they swear in a new member. ‘You think you can ever cross us and get away with it? Look what happened to Petrosian.’ “

He thought about it. “Dot,” he said, “I didn’t do anything.”

“You just went out every morning for a Mexican breakfast.”

“Huevos rancheros.”

“And here I always thought a Mexican breakfast was a cigarette and a glass of water. You ate eggs and watched television. What else? Get to a movie?”

“Once or twice.”

“Buy any stamps?”

He shook his head. “ Roswell ’s like a three- or four-hour drive from Albuquerque. The stamp dealers in town, a couple of them just work through the mails, and the one shop I went to was basically a coin dealer. He sells supplies and albums, a few packets, but he doesn’t really have a stamp stock.”

“Well, you can buy stamps now, Keller. Lots of them.”

“I suppose so.”

She frowned. “Something’s bothering you,” she said.

“I told you. I didn’t do anything.”

“I know, and that’ll have to be our little secret. And who’s to say it’s true?”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it,” she said, and hummed the Twilight Zone theme. “You go to Illinois and Klinger gets hit by a car. You go to Albuquerque and Petrosian has a handy little heart attack. Coincidence?”

“But…”

“Maybe your thoughts are powerful, Keller. Maybe all you have to do is get to thinking about a guy and his ticket’s punched.”

“That’s crazy,” he said.

“Be that as it may,” said Dot.

“It’s been a while,” Maggie Griscomb said.

They were in her loft on Crosby Street. Keller’s clothes were neatly folded on the couch, while Maggie’s lay in a black heap on the floor. Music played on her stereo, something weird and electronic. Keller couldn’t guess what the instruments were, let alone why they were being played like that.

“I thought you weren’t going to call me anymore,” she said. “And then you did. And here you are.”