Lawrence Block - Hit Parade

“Why three cell phones? Oh, two from him and the one you used for calling him.”

He nodded. “It bothered me a little, tossing the wrench. Lifetime guarantee and all.”

“We’ve got a Sears right here in White Plains, Keller. You can always pick up a replacement.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it would come in handy when you’re playing with your stamps. What’s the matter, aren’t you going to correct me?”

“Correct you?”

“Tell me you don’t play with your stamps, you work with them.”

He shrugged.

“Something the matter, Keller? You in a mood?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“What’s wrong? The job’s done, the loose ends are tied off, and we got paid. Got paid time and a half, since Barry Blyden paid the whole amount, and Harrelson’s in no position to request a refund of his deposit.” She sipped her iced tea and grinned over the brim of the glass. “Like I always say, Keller, now you can buy yourself some stamps.”

“I guess.”

“I’d say you’re definitely in a mood.”

“I think you’re right.”

She thought about it. “You met the guy, you got to know him, and then you had to do him. There was a personal element to it, and that’s what bothers you.”

He thought about it, shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t think so. Yes, I met him, and yes, I got to know him, but the more I got to know him the less I liked him. I wouldn’t say it was a pleasure to kill him, but it was satisfying, and not just in the sense of the satisfaction of a job well done.”

“He was a pain in the neck.”

“He was.”

“But?”

“I solicited him, Dot. He ran his mouth on the plane, but he wasn’t really looking to kill his partner. I put the idea into his head. That’s why he kept dragging his feet, and being a pain. He never would have been a client if I hadn’t pitched him.”

“You went proactive.”

“And then, when he became difficult to deal with-”

“Try impossible, Keller.”

“-I went to his partner, and Harrelson stopped being the client and became the target. It seems…”

“Strange?”

“Strange,” he agreed. “And, I don’t know. Inappropriate.”

“I’ll give you strange,” she said. “But I’m not signing on for inappropriate.”

“No?”

“No. He was the target from the beginning. It just took us a while to realize it.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“You sat next to him on the plane,” she said, “and he appointed you his designated psychotherapist and poured his heart out to you, and you saw an opportunity.”

“I was looking for one, after the turnaround I’d just gone through.”

“You were looking for one, and you recognized this one when you saw it. Here are two partners who hate each other and can’t get out from under each other. You came home, and you got the idea of turning proactive, and you approached Harrelson.”

“Right.”

“And that was your mistake.”

“Turning proactive.”

“No,” she said. “Actually that was brilliant, because we needed the money and you were going stale for lack of work. The mistake was you approached the wrong man. You should have gone straight to Blyden.”

“It never occurred to me.”

“Of course it didn’t. But when you think about it, it becomes obvious. Harrelson met you, he sat next to you on the plane, he heard your voice and saw your face. He’s got a name to go with the face, even if it’s not yours. It’s a risk, working for somebody who knows that much about you.”

“I know.”

“Besides,” she went on, “Blyden’s tough to kill. He’s in New York all the time, which means violating the don’t-crap-where-you-eat rule. And he’s got this routine that makes him very hard to get at.”

“I’d have found a way.”

“But it wouldn’t have been easy. Whereas Harrelson-”

“Was in a different city every week.”

“Exactly. And Blyden has never seen your face, or heard your voice, and never will. He’s heard my voice, but he doesn’t know who I am or how to reach me, and he doesn’t seem to care. All he had to know was that the partner he hated was planning to have him killed, and he was happy to spend a few dollars to turn the tables.”

“And he’s not going to talk about it,” Keller said, “because he’s Mr. Inside. He won’t spill the beans to the guy sitting next to him on the plane, because he’s not going to be on the plane in the first place.”

“There you go.”

“And you’re right,” he said. “Going proactive was fine, but my mistake was I didn’t see the whole picture. I should have gone straight to Blyden.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You should have come straight to me,” she said, “and I should have gone straight to Blyden.”

“You’re right.”

“But it came out all right,” she said, “and they tell me that’s all that matters. You feel better about it now?”

“I think so,” he said. “I guess I’ll go buy some stamps.”

“Keller,” she said, “you took the words right out of my mouth.”

Keller, trying notto feel foolish, hoisted his flight bag and stepped to the curb. Two cabs darted his way, and he got into the winner, even as the runner-up filled the air with curses. “JFK,” he said, and settled back in his seat.

“Which airline?”

He had to think about it. “American.”

“International or domestic?”

“Domestic.”

“What time’s your flight?”

Usually they just took you there. Today, when he didn’t have a plane to catch, he got a full-scale inquiry.

“Not to worry,” he told the driver. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

Which was just as well, because it took longer than usual to get through the tunnel, and the traffic on the Long Island Expressway was heavier than usual for that hour. He’d picked this time-early afternoon-because the traffic tended to be light, but today for some reason it wasn’t. Fortunately, he reminded himself, it didn’t matter. Time, for a change, was not of the essence.

“Where you headed?” the driver asked while Keller’s mind was wandering.

“ Panama,” he said, without thinking.

“Then you want International, don’t you?”

Why on earth had he said Panama? He’d been wondering if he should buy a straw hat, that was why. “ Panama City,” he corrected himself. “That’s in Florida, you change planes in Miami.”

“You got to fly all the way down to Miami and then back up again to Panama City? Ought to be a better way to do it.”

Thousands of cabdrivers in New York, and for once he had to draw one who could speak English. “Air miles,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument, and they left it at that.

At the designated terminal, Keller paid and tipped the guy, then carried his flight bag past the curbside check-in. He followed the signs down to baggage claim and walked around until he found a woman holding a hand-lettered sign that read NIEBAUER.

She hadn’t noticed him, so he took a moment to notice her, and to determine that no one else was paying any attention to either of them. She was around forty, a trimly built woman wearing a skirt and blouse and glasses. Her brown hair was medium length, attractive if not stylish, her sharp nose contrasted with her generous mouth, and on balance he’d have to say she had a kind face. This, he knew, was no guarantee of anything. You didn’t have to be kind to have a kind face.

He approached her from the side, and got within a few feet of her before she sensed his presence, turned, and stepped back, looking a little startled. “I’m Mr. Niebauer,” he said.