He unpacked and showered, then went around the corner for a beer and a burger. He took a walk afterward, but it wasn’t much fun. He went back to the apartment and called the airlines. Then he packed again and caught a cab to JFK.
He phoned White Plains while he waited for them to call his flight. “On my way,” he told Dot.
“You continue to surprise me, Keller,” she said. “I thought for sure you’d stay the night.”
“No reason to.”
There was a pause. Then she said, “Keller? Is something wrong?”
“ Andria left,” he said, surprising himself. He hadn’t intended to say anything. Eventually, sure, but not just yet.
“That’s too bad,” Dot said. “I thought the two of you were happy.”
“So did I.”
“Oh.”
“She has to find herself,” Keller said.
“You know, I’ve heard people say that, and I never know what the hell they’re talking about. How would you lose yourself in the first place? And how would you know where to look for yourself?”
“I wondered that myself.”
“Of course she’s awfully young, Keller.”
“Right.”
“Too young for you, some would say.”
“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 be null and void. Money from Strang wasn’t really a retainer, it came more under the heading of windfall profits, and needn’t weigh in the balance. You could even argue that taking Strang’s advance payment was a perfectly legitimate tactical move, designed to lull the quarry into a feeling of false security, thus making him easier to get to.
On the other hand…
On the other hand, if Moncrieff had just kept his damned mouth shut, Strang wouldn’t have been forewarned, and consequently forearmed. It was Moncrieff, running his mouth about his plans to do the fat man in, that had induced Strang to call somebody, who called somebody else, who wound up talking to the old man in White Plains.
And it was Moncrieff’s blabbing that had made Strang such an elusive target. Otherwise it would have been easy to get to the fat man, and by now Keller would have long since completed the assignment. Instead of sitting all by himself in a motel on the outskirts of Cincinnati, he could be sitting all by himself in an apartment on First Avenue.
Moncrieff, loose of lip, had sunk his own ship. Moncrieff, unable to keep a secret, had sabotaged the very contract he had been so quick to arrange. Couldn’t you argue that his actions, with their unfortunate results, had served to nullify the contract? In which case the old man was more than justified in retaining his deposit while accepting a counterproposal from another interested party.
Which meant that the thing to do was regard the fat man as the bona fide client and Moncrieff (fat or lean, tall or short, Keller didn’t know which) as the proper quarry.
On the other hand…
Moncrieff had a penthouse apartment atop a high-rise not far from Riverfront Stadium. The Reds were in town for a home stand, and Keller bought a ticket and an inexpensive pair of field glasses and went to watch them. His seat was out in right field, remote enough that he wasn’t the only one with binoculars. Near him sat a father and son, both of whom had brought gloves in the hope of catching a foul ball. Neither pitcher had his stuff, and both teams hit a lot of long balls, but the kid and his father only got excited when somebody hit a long foul to right.
Keller wondered about that. If what they wanted was a baseball, wouldn’t they be better off buying one at a sporting goods store? If they wanted the thrill of the chase, well, they could get the clerk to throw it up in the air, and the kid could catch it when it came down.
During breaks in the action, Keller trained the binoculars on a window of what he was pretty sure was Moncrieff ’s apartment. He found himself wondering whether Moncrieff was a baseball fan, and if he took advantage of his location and watched the ball games from his window. You’d need a lot more magnification than Keller was carrying, but if Moncrieff could afford the penthouse he could swing a powerful telescope as well. If he got the kind of gizmo that let you count the rings of Saturn, you ought to be able to tell whether the pitcher’s curveball was breaking.