Hit Man - Lawrence Block [67]
“Some would.”
“Still, you probably miss her. Not to mention Nelson.”
“I miss them both,” he said.
“I mean you both must miss her,” Dot said. “Wait a minute. What did you just say?”
“They just called my flight,” he said, and broke the connection.
Cincinnati’s airport was across the river in Kentucky. Keller had turned in his Avis car that morning, and thought it might seem strange if he went back to the same counter for another one. He went to Budget instead, and got a Honda.
“It’s a Japanese car,” the clerk told him, “but it’s actually produced right here in the US of A.”
“That’s a load off my mind,” Keller told him.
He checked into a motel half a mile from the previous one and called in from a restaurant pay phone. He had a batch of questions, things he needed to know about Barry Moncrieff, the fellow who was at once Client #1 and Assignment #2. Dot, instead of answering, asked him a question of her own.
“What do you mean, you miss them both? Where’s the dog?”
“I don’t know.”
“She ran off with your dog? Is that what you’re saying?”
“They went off together,” he said. “Nobody was running.”
“Fine, she walked off with your dog. I guess she figured she needed him to help her go look for herself. What did she do, skip town while you were in Cincinnati?”
“Earlier,” he said. “And she didn’t skip town. We talked about it, and she said she thought it would be best if she took Nelson with her.”
“And you agreed?”
“More or less.”
“ ‘More or less’? What does that mean?”
“I’ve often wondered myself. She said I don’t really have time for him, and I travel a lot, and. . . I don’t know.”
“But he was your dog long before you even met her. You hired her to walk him when you were out of town.”
“Right.”
“And one thing led to another, and she wound up living there. And the next thing you know she’s telling you it’s best if the dog goes with her.”
“Right.”
“And away they go.”
“Right.”
“And you don’t know where, and you don’t know if they’ll be back.”
“Right.”
“When did this happen, Keller?”
“About a month ago. Maybe a little longer, maybe six weeks.”
“You never said anything.”
“No.”
“I went on about how you should pet him and kiss her, whatever I said, and you didn’t say anything.”
“I would have gotten around to it sooner or later.”
They were both silent for a long moment. Then she asked him what he was going to do. About what, he asked.
“About what? About your dog and your girlfriend.”
“I thought that’s what you meant,” he said, “but you could have been talking about Moncrieff and Strang. But it’s the same answer all around. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
What it came down to was this. He had a choice to make. It was his decision as to which contract he would fulfill and which he would cancel.
And how did you decide something like that? Two people wanted his services, and only one could have them. If he were a painting, the answer would be obvious. You’d have an auction, and whoever was willing to make the highest bid would have something pretty to hang over the couch. But you couldn’t have bids in the present instance because the price had already been fixed, and both parties independently had agreed to it. Each had paid half in advance, and when the job was done one of them would pay the additional 50 percent and the other would be technically entitled to a refund, but in no position to claim it.
So in that sense the contract was potentially more lucrative than usual, paying one and a half times the standard rate. It came out the same no matter how you did it. Kill Moncrieff, and Strang would pay the rest of the money. Kill Strang, and Moncrieff would pay it.
Which would it be?
Moncrieff, he thought, had called first. The old man had made a deal with him, and a guarantee of exclusivity was implicit in such an arrangement. When you hired somebody to kill someone, you didn’t require assurance that he wouldn’t hire on to kill you as well. That went without saying.
So their initial commitment was to Moncrieff, and any arrangements made with Strang ought to