Lawrence Block: Hit List

Years ago a Cuban had told him always to room on the ground floor, in case he had to jump out the window. The Cuban, it turned out, was acting less on tradecraft than on a fairly severe case of acrophobia, so Keller had largely discounted the advice. Still, old habits died hard, and when offered a choice he usually took the ground floor.

Way his luck was running, this would be the time he had to go out the window.

After breakfast he drove into downtown Louisville and left the car in a parking ramp, the gun locked in the glove compartment. There was a security desk in the lobby of Hirschhorn’s office building. Keller didn’t figure it would be too much of a challenge, but he couldn’t see the point. There would be other people in Hirschhorn’s office, and then he’d have to ride down on the elevator and fetch the car from where he’d parked it. He exited the lobby, walked around for twenty minutes, then collected his car and drove over the bridge into Indiana. He rode around long enough to get lost and straightened out again, then stopped at a convenience store to top up the gas tank and use the phone.

“This fellow I’ve got to see,” he said. “What do we know about him?”

“We know the name of his damn dog,” Dot said. “How much more do you need to know about anybody?”

“I went looking for his office,” he said, “and I didn’t know what name to hunt for in the directory.”

“Wasn’t his name there?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “because I didn’t go in for a close look, not knowing what to look for. Aside from his own name, I mean. Like if there’s a company name listed, I wouldn’t know what company.”

“Unless it was the Hirschhorn Company.”

“Well,” he said.

“Does it matter, Keller?”

“Probably not,” he said, “or I would have figured out a way to learn what I had to know. Anyway, I ruled out going to the office.”

“So why are you calling me, Keller?”

“Well,” he said.

“Not that I don’t welcome the sound of your voice, but is there a point to all this?”

“Probably not. I had trouble getting to sleep, there were Hell’s Angels partying upstairs.”

“What kind of place are you staying at, Keller?”

“They gave me a new room. Dot, do we know anything about the guy?”

“If I know it, so do you. Where he lives, where he works-“

“Because he seems so white-bread suburban, and yet he’s got enemies who give you a car with a gun in the glove compartment. And a spare clip.”

“So you can shoot him over and over again. I don’t know, Keller, and I’m not even sure the person who called me knows, but if I had to come up with one word it would be gambling.”

“He owes money? They fly in a shooter over a gambling debt?”

“That’s not where I was going. Are there casinos there?”

“There’s a race track,” he said.

“No kidding, Keller. The Kentucky Derby, di dah di dah di dah, but that’s in the spring. City’s on a river, isn’t it? Have they got one of those riverboat casinos?”

“Maybe. Why?”

“Well, maybe they’ve got casino gambling and he wants to get rid of it, or they want to have it and he’s in the way.”

“Oh.”

“Or it’s something entirely different, because this sort of thing’s generally on a need-to-know basis, and I don’t.” She sighed. “And neither do you, all things considered.”

“You’re right,” he said. “You want to know what it is, Dot? I’m out of synch.”

“Out of synch.”

“Ever since I got off the goddam plane and walked up to the wrong guy. Tell me something. Why would anyone meet a plane carrying an unreadable sign?”

“Maybe they told him to pick up a dyslexic.”

“It’s the same as the little red light on the phone.”

“Now you’ve lost me, Keller. What little red light on the phone?”

“Never mind. You know what I just decided? I’m going to cut through all this crap and just do the job and come home.”

“Jesus,” she said. “What a concept.”

The convenience store clerk was sure they had ear plugs. “They’re here somewhere,” she said, her nose twitching like a rabbit’s. Keller wanted to tell her not to bother, but he sensed she was already committed to the hunt. And, wouldn’t you know it, she found them. Sterile foam ear plugs, two pairs to the packet, $1.19 plus tax.

After all she’d gone through, how could he tell her he’d changed his room and didn’t need them, that he’d just asked out of curiosity? Oh, these are foam, he considered saying. I wanted the titanium ones. But that would just set her off on a twenty-minute hunt for titanium ear plugs, and who could say she wouldn’t find some?

He paid for them and told her he wouldn’t need a bag. “It’s a good thing they’re sterile,” he said, pointing to the copy on the packet. “If they started breeding we’d have ’em coming out of our ears.”

She avoided his eyes as she gave him his change.

He drove back to Kentucky, then out to Norbourne Estates and Winding Acres Drive. He passed Hirschhorn’s house and couldn’t tell if anyone was home. He circled the block and parked where he could keep an eye on the place.

On his way there he’d seen school buses on their afternoon run, and, shortly after he parked and killed the engine, one evidently made a stop nearby, because kids in ones and twos and threes began to show up on Winding Acres Drive, walking along until they either turned down side streets or disappeared into houses. One pair of boys stopped at the Hirschhorn driveway, and the shorter of the two went into the garage and emerged dribbling a basketball. They dropped their book bags at the side of the driveway, shucked their jackets, and began playing a game which seemed to involve shooting in turn from different squares of the driveway. Keller wasn’t sure how the game worked, but he could tell they weren’t very good at it.

But as long as they were there, he could forget about getting into the garage. He didn’t know if the Jeep was there or if Betsy Hirschhorn was out stocking up at the Safeway, but for now it hardly mattered. And he couldn’t stay where he was, not for very long, or somebody would call 911 to report a suspicious man lurking on a block full of children.

He got out of there. The development had been laid out by someone with a profound disdain for straight lines and right angles, balanced by a special fondness for dead-end streets. It was hard to keep one’s bearings, but he found his way out, and had a cup of coffee at the suburb’s equivalent of Starbucks. The other customers were mostly women, and they looked restless. If you wanted to pick up a caffeinated housewife with attitude to spare, this was the place to do it.

He found his way back to Winding Acres Drive, where the two boys were still playing basketball. They had switched games and were now doing a White Guys Can’t Jump version of driving layups. He parked in a different spot and decided he could stay there for ten minutes.

When the ten minutes were up, he decided to give it five minutes more, and just before they ran out Betsy Hirschhorn came home, honking the Cherokee’s horn to clear the boys from the driveway. The garage door ascended even as they dribbled out of her path, and she drove in. Before the door closed, Keller drove by the driveway himself. Her Jeep was the only vehicle in the garage, unless you wanted to count the power lawn mower. Walter Hirschhorn’s Subaru squareback hadn’t come home yet.

Keller drove away and came back, drove away and came back, passing the Hirschhorn house at five- to ten-minute intervals. The idea was to be waiting inside the garage when Hirschhorn came home, but first the boys had to finish their game. For Christ’s sake, how long could two unathletic kids keep this up? Why weren’t they inside playing video games or visiting Internet porn sites? Why didn’t Jason take the family dog for a walk? Why didn’t his friend go home?