Hit List - Lawrence Block [1]
The car turned out to be a mid-size Olds, dark green in color. The man unlocked it and handed Keller the keys and a cardboard claim check. “Cost you a few dollars,” he said apologetically. “We brought her over last night. On the passenger seat there you got a street map of the area. Open it up, you’ll see two spots marked, home and office. I don’t know how much you been told.”
“Name and address,” Keller said.
“What was the name?”
“It wasn’t Archibald.”
“You don’t want to say? I don’t blame you. You seen a photo?”
Keller shook his head. The man drew a small envelope from his inside pocket, retrieved a card from it. The card’s face displayed a family photograph, a man, a woman, two children and a dog. The humans were all smiling, and looked as though they’d been smiling for days, waiting for someone to figure out how to work the camera. The dog, a golden retriever, wasn’t smiling, but he looked happy enough. “Season’s Greetings . . .” it said below the photo.
Keller opened the card. He read: “. . . from the Hirschhorns—Walt, Betsy, Jason, Tamara, and Powhatan.”
“I guess Powhatan’s the dog,” he said.
“Powhatan? What’s that, an Indian name?”
“Pocahontas’s father.”
“Unusual name for a dog.”
“It’s a fairly unusual name for a human being,” Keller said. “As far as I know it’s only been used once. Was this the only picture they could come up with?”
“What’s the matter with it? Nice clear shot, and I’m here to tell you it looks just like the man.”
“Nice that you could get them to pose for you.”
“It’s from a Christmas card. Musta been taken during the summer, though. How they’re dressed, and the background. You know where I bet this was taken? He’s got a summer place out by McNeely Lake.”
Wherever that was.
“So it woulda been taken in the summer, which’d make it what, fifteen months old? He still looks the same, so what’s the problem?”
“It shows the whole family.”
“Right,” the man said. “Oh, I see where you’re going. No, it’s just him, Walter Hirschhorn. Just the man himself.”
That was Keller’s understanding, but it was good to have it confirmed. Still, he’d have been happier with a solo headshot of Hirschhorn, eyes narrowed and mouth set in a line. Not surrounded by his nearest and dearest, all of them with fixed smiles.
He didn’t much like the way this felt. Hadn’t liked it since he walked off the plane.
“I don’t know if you’ll want it,” the man was saying, “but there’s a piece in the glove box.”
A piece of what, Keller wondered, and then realized what the man meant. “Along with the registration,” he said.
“Except the piece ain’t registered. It’s a nice little twenty-two auto with a spare clip, not that you’re gonna need it. The clip, I mean. Whether you need the piece altogether is not for me to say.”
“Well,” Keller said.
“That’s what you guys like, isn’t it? A twenty-two?”
If you shot a man in the head with a .22, the slug would generally stay within the skull, bouncing around in there, doing no good to the skull’s owner. The small-calibre weapon was supposed to be more accurate, and had less recoil, and would presumably be the weapon of choice for an assassin who prided himself in his artistry.
Keller didn’t spend much time thinking about guns. When he had to use one, he chose whatever was at hand. Why make it complicated? It was like photography. You could learn all about f-stops and shutter speeds, or you could pick up a Japanese camera and just point and shoot.
“Just use it and lose it,” the man was saying. “Or if you don’t use it just leave it in the glove box. Otherwise it goes in a Dumpster or down a storm drain, but why am I telling you this? You’re the man.” He pursed his lips and whistled without making a sound. “I have to say I envy a man like you.”
“Oh?”
“You ride into town, do what you do,