Lawrence Block - Hit Parade

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Hit Parade: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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The New York Times bestselling author and master of the modern mystery returns with a fierce and poignant new novel featuring his acclaimed killer-for-hire, Keller
John Keller is everyone's favorite hit man: a new kind of hero for a new, uncertain age. He's cool. Reliable. A real pro: the hit man's hit man. The inconvenient wife, the aging sports star, the business partner, the retiree with a substantial legacy. He's taken care of them all, quietly and efficiently.
Keller's got a code of honor, though he'd never call it that. And he keeps the job strictly business. "What happens is you wind up thinking of each subject not as a person to be killed but as a problem to be solved. Now there are guys doing this who cope with it by making it personal. They find a reason to hate the guy they have to kill. I don't know what's a sin and what isn't, or if one person deserves to go on living and another deserves to have his life ended. Sometimes I think about stuff like that, but as far as working it all out in my mind, well, I never seem to get anywhere."
But while Keller might be a pragmatic and crack assassin, he's also prone to doubts and loneliness just like everybody else. There was a psychotherapist once. A dog. Even a woman. And though he's got Dot, his wisecracking contact and sometimes confidante, and his precious stamp collection, these days, it doesn't seem to be enough.
Keller's been at this business a long while. Just maybe it's time to pack it in and find a nice little house in the desert. Only problem is, retirement takes money. And to get money, he's got to go to work…
Hit Parade, the third novel featuring the fascinating Keller, displays the hallmarks that distinguish Lawrence Block's award-winning fiction: the intelligence, the clever plotting, the humor, the tricky twists and ironic turns, the darkness and emotional complexity – and, above all else, the humanity.

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“Oh,” she said. “Oh, of course. I…you surprised me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I had noticed you, but I didn’t think…” She swallowed, started over. “I guess you don’t look the way I expected you to look.”

“Well, I’m older than I was a few hours ago.”

“No, I don’t mean…I don’t know what I mean. I’m sorry. How was your flight?”

“Routine.”

“I guess we have to collect your luggage.”

“I just have this,” he said, holding up the flight bag. “So we can go to your car.”

“We can’t,” she said. She managed a smile. “I don’t have one, and couldn’t drive it if I did. I’m a city girl, Mr. Niebauer. I never learned to drive. We’ll have to take a cab.”

There was a moment, of course, when Keller was sure he’d get the same cab, and he could see himself trying to field the driver’s questions without alarming the woman. Instead they got into a cab driven by a jittery little man who talked on his cell phone in a language Keller couldn’t recognize while his radio was tuned to a talk program in what may or may not have been the same unrecognizable language.

Keller, once again trying not to feel foolish, settled in for the drive back to Manhattan.

Two days earlier,on the wraparound porch of the big old house in White Plains, Keller hadn’t felt foolish. What he’d felt was confused.

“It’s in New York,” he said, starting with the job’s least objectionable aspect. “I live in New York. I don’t work there.”

“You drummed up a job on your own, remember? And it was right here in New York.”

“And it was a mistake, and we wound up spinning it, and by the time it ended it wasn’t in New York after all. It was in Detroit.”

“So it was,” she said, “but you’ve worked other jobs in New York.”

“A couple of times,” he allowed, “and it worked out all right, all things considered, but that doesn’t make it a good idea.”

“I know,” Dot said, “and I almost turned it down without consulting you. And not just because it’s local.”

“That’s the least of it.”

“Right.”

“It’s short money,” he said. “It’s ten thousand dollars. It’s not exactly chump change, but it’s a fraction of what I usually get.”

“The danger of working for short money,” she said, “is word gets around. But one thing we’d make sure of is nobody knows you’re the one who took this job. So it’s not a question of ten thousand dollars versus your usual fee, because your usual fee doesn’t come into the picture. It’s ten thousand dollars for two or three days’ work, and I know you can use the work.”

“And the money.”

“Right. And, of course, there’s no travel. Which was a minus the first time we looked at it, but in terms of time and money and all of that-”

“Suddenly it’s a plus.” He took a sip of his iced tea. “Look, this is stupid. We’re not talking about the most important thing.”

“I know.”

“The, uh, subject is generally a man. Sometimes it’s a woman.”

“You’re an equal-opportunity kind of guy, Keller.”

“One time,” he said, “somebody wanted me to do a kid. You remember?”

“Vividly.”

“We turned them down.”

“You’re damn right we did.”

“Grown-ups,” he said. “Adults only. That’s where we draw the line.”

“Well,” she said, “if it matters, the subject this time around is an adult.”

“How old is he?”

“Five.”

“A five-year-old adult,” he said heavily.

“Do the math, Keller. He’s thirty-five in dog years.”

“Somebody wants to pay me ten thousand dollars to kill a dog,” he said. “Why me, Dot? Why can’t they call the SPCA?”

“I wondered that myself,” she said. “Same token, every time we get a client who wants a spouse killed, I wonder if a divorce wouldn’t be a better way to go. Why call us? Has Raoul Felder got an unlisted phone number?”

“But a dog, Dot.”

She took a long look at him. “You’re thinking about Nelson,” she said. “Am I right or am I right?”

“You’re right.”

“Keller,” she said, “I met Nelson, and I liked Nelson. Nelson was a friend of mine. Keller, this dog is no Nelson.”

“If you say so.”

“In fact,” she said, “if Nelson saw this dog and trotted over to give him a friendly sniff, that would be the end of Nelson. This dog’s a pit bull, Keller, and he’s enough to give the breed a bad name.”

“The breed already has a bad name.”

“And I can see why. If this dog was a movie actor, Keller, he’d be like Jack Elam.”

“I always liked Jack Elam.”

“You didn’t let me finish. He’d be like Jack Elam, but nasty.”

“What does he do, Dot? Eat children?”

She shook her head. “If he ever bit a kid,” she said, “or even snarled good and hard at one, that’d be the end of him. The law’s set up to protect people from dogs. What with due process and everything, he might rip the throats out of a few tykes before the law caught up with him, but once it did he’d be out of the game and on his way to Doggie Heaven.”

“Would he go to heaven? I mean, if he killed a kid-”

“All dogs go to heaven, Keller, even the bad ones. Where was I?”

“He doesn’t bite children.”

“Never has. Loves people, wants to make nice to everyone. If he sees another dog, however, or a cat or a ferret or a hamster, it’s another story. He kills it.”

“Oh.”

“He lives with his owner in the middle of Manhattan,” she said, “and she takes him to Central Park and lets him off his leash, and whenever he gets the chance he kills something. You’re going to ask why somebody doesn’t do something.”

“Well, why don’t they?”

“Because about all you can do, it turns out, is sue the owner, and about all you can collect is the replacement value of your pet, and you’ve got to go through the legal system to get that much. You can’t have the dog put down for killing other dogs, and you can’t press criminal charges against the owner. Meanwhile, you’ve still got the dog out there, a menace to other dogs.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Hardly anything does, Keller. Anyway, a couple of women lost their pets and they don’t want to take it anymore. One had a twelve-year-old Yorkie and the other had a frisky Weimaraner pup, and neither of them had a snowball’s chance against Fluffy, and-”

“Fluffy?”

“I know.”

“This killer pit bull is named Fluffy?”

“That’s his call name. He’s registered as Percy Bysshe Shelley, Keller, whom you’ll recall as the author of ‘Ozymandias.’ I suppose they could call him Percy, or Bysshe, or even Shelley, but instead they went for Fluffy.”

And Fluffy went for the Yorkie and the Weimaraner, with tragic results. As Dot explained it, this did seem like a time when one had to go outside the law to get results. But did they have to turn to a high-priced hit man? Couldn’t they just do it themselves?

“You’d think so,” Dot said. “But this is New York, Keller, and these are a couple of respectable middle-class women. They don’t own guns. They could probably get their hands on a bread knife, but I can’t see them trying to stab Fluffy, and evidently neither can they.”

“Even so,” he said, “how did they find their way to us?”

“Somebody knew somebody who knew somebody.”

“Who knew us?”

“Not exactly. Someone’s ex-husband’s brother-in-law is in the garment trade, and he knows a fellow in Chicago who can get things taken care of. And this fellow in Chicago picked up the phone, and next thing you know my phone was ringing.”

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