Hit Man - Lawrence Block [30]
“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.