Lawrence Block - Hit Man

“What breed is the dog?”

“The dog?”

“I just wondered,” Keller said.

“As it happens,” Breen said, “it’s an Australian cattle dog. Looks like a mongrel, doesn’t it? Believe me, it doesn’t talk. But why don’t you hang on to that photograph?”

“All right.”

“You’re making really fine progress in therapy,” Breen said. “I want to acknowledge you for the work you’re doing. And I just know you’ll do the right thing.”

A few days later Keller was sitting on a park bench in Washington Square. He folded his newspaper and walked over to a dark-haired woman wearing a blazer and a beret. “Excuse me,” he said, “but isn’t that an Australian cattle dog?”

“That’s right,” she said.

“It’s a handsome animal,” he said. “You don’t see many of them.”

“Most people think he’s a mutt. It’s such an esoteric breed. Do you own one yourself?”

“I did. My ex-wife got custody.”

“How sad for you.”

“Sadder still for the dog. His name was Soldier. Is Soldier, unless she’s gone and changed it.”

“This fellow’s name is Nelson. That’s his call name. Of course the name on his papers is a real mouthful.”

“Do you show him?”

“He’s seen it all,” she said. “You can’t show him a thing.”

“I went down to the Village last week,” Keller said, “and the damnedest thing happened. I met a woman in the park.”

“Is that the damnedest thing?”

“Well, it’s unusual for me. I meet women at bars and parties, or someone introduces us. But we met and talked, and then I happened to run into her the following morning. I bought her a cappuccino.”

“You just happened to run into her on two successive days.”

“Yes.”

“In the Village.”

“It’s where I live.”

Breen frowned. “You shouldn’t be seen with her, should you?”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you think it’s dangerous?”

“All it’s cost me so far,” Keller said, “is the price of a cappuccino.”

“I thought we had an understanding.”

“An understanding?”

“You don’t live in the Village,” Breen said. “I know where you live. Don’t look so surprised. The first time you left here I watched you from the window. You behaved as though you were trying to avoid being followed. So I bided my time, and when you stopped taking precautions, that’s when I followed you. It wasn’t that difficult.”

“Why follow me?”

“To find out who you were. Your name is Keller, you live at 865 First Avenue. I already knew what you were. Anybody might have known just from listening to your dreams. And paying in cash, and all of these sudden business trips. I still don’t know who employs you, the crime bosses or the government, but then what difference does it make? Have you been to bed with my wife?”

“Your ex-wife.”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes, I have.”

“Christ. And were you able to perform?”

“Yes.”

“Why the smile?”

“I was just thinking,” Keller said, “that it was quite a performance.”

Breen was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on a spot above and to the right of Keller’s shoulder. Then he said, “This is profoundly disappointing. I had hoped you would find the strength to transcend the Oedipal myth, not merely reenact it. You’ve had fun, haven’t you? What a naughty little boy you’ve been! What a triumph you’ve scored over your symbolic father! You’ve taken his woman to bed. No doubt you have visions of getting her pregnant, so that she can give you what she so cruelly denied him. Eh?”

“Never occurred to me.”

“It would, sooner or later.” Breen leaned forward, concern showing on his face. “I hate to see you sabotaging your own therapeutic process this way,” he said. “You were doing so well . ”

From the bedroom window you could look down at Washington Square Park. There were plenty of dogs there now, but none of them were Australian cattle dogs.

“Some view,” Keller said. “Some apartment.”

“Believe me,” she said, “I earned it. You’re getting dressed. Going somewhere?”

“Just feeling a little restless. Okay if I take Nelson for a walk?”

“You’re spoiling him,” she said. “You’re spoiling both of us.”

On a Wednesday morning, Keller took a cab to La Guardia and a plane to St. Louis. He had a cup of coffee with an associate of the man in White Plains and caught an evening flight back to New York. He caught another cab and went directly to the apartment building at the foot of Fifth Avenue.

“I’m Peter Stone,” he told the doorman. “I believe Mrs. Breen is expecting me.”

The doorman stared.

“Mrs. Breen,” Keller said. “In Seventeen-J.”

“Jesus.”

“Is something the matter?”

“I guess you haven’t heard,” the doorman said. “I wish it wasn’t me that had to tell you.”

“You killed her,” he said.

“That’s ridiculous,” Breen told him. “She killed herself. She threw herself out the window. If you want my professional opinion, she was suffering from depression.”

“If you want my professional opinion,” Keller said, “she had help.”

“I wouldn’t advance that argument if I were you,” Breen said. “If the police were to look for a murderer, they might look long and hard at Mr. Stone-hyphen-Keller, the stone killer. And I might have to tell them how the usual process of transference went awry, how you became obsessed with me and my personal life, how I couldn’t seem to dissuade you from some inane plan to reverse the Oedipal complex. And then they might ask you why you employ aliases, and just how you make your living, and… do you see why it might be best to let sleeping dogs lie?”

As if on cue, the dog stepped out from behind the desk. He caught sight of Keller and his tail began to wag.

“Sit,” Breen said. “You see? He’s well trained. You might take a seat yourself.”

“I’ll stand. You killed her, and then you walked off with the dog, and-”

Breen sighed. “The police found the dog in the apartment, whimpering in front of the open window. After I went down and identified the body and told them about her previous suicide attempts, I volunteered to take the dog home with me. There was no one else to look after it.”

“I would have taken him,” Keller said.

“But that won’t be necessary, will it? You won’t be called upon to walk my dog or make love to my wife or bed down in my apartment. Your services are no longer required.” Breen seemed to recoil at the harshness of his own words. His face softened. “You’ll be able to get back to the far more important business of therapy. In fact”-he indicated the couch-“why not stretch out right now?”

“That’s not a bad idea. First, though, could you put the dog in the other room?”

“Not afraid he’ll interrupt, are you? Just a little joke. He can wait for us in the outer office. There you go, Nelson. Good dog… Oh, no. How dare you bring a gun to this office? Put that down immediately.”

“I don’t think so.”

“For God’s sake, why kill me? I’m not your father. I’m your therapist. It makes no sense for you to kill me. You’ve got nothing to gain and everything to lose. It’s completely irrational. It’s worse than that, it’s neurotically self-destructive.”

“I guess I’m not cured yet.”

“What’s that, gallows humor? But it happens to be true. You’re a long way from cured, my friend. As a matter of fact, I would say you’re approaching a psychotherapeutic crisis. How will you get through it if you shoot me?”