16 Hitman (3 page)

"It's not what I want you to do," Alice countered. "It's a question of what's right."

"You want me to do what's right?"

"Did I say that? I don't recall saying that.What I want you to do
might conflict with what's right. And where would we be then?"

"Where?"

"What I want you to do is what you want. Because if you don't
do what you want, you'll wind up frustrated and unhappy, and I'll
have to deal with it."

Uh-oh.

"So, what do you want?"

You notice how neatly the whole thing turned back on me?
Just when I thought I might get out from under. Actually, I knew
better. When Alice sets me in her sights, there is no escape.

"I don't want to cause anyone's death."

"That's an admirable sentiment."

"Alice-"

"Sorry. Go on."

"The only reason I'm even considering it is the prospect of
saving someone's life."

"Ah. My hero"

"The guy wants out.You think I should set up roadblocks in his
path?"

"You're not causing anyone's death. Goodness sakes, Stanley.
You think you're the only person in the world who could keep
this guy from carrying out his task?"

"Is that a new T-shirt?"

"You go out to buy shoes. The first store doesn't have any that
fit. I)o you give up buying shoes? No.You go to another store."

"It's hardly the same thing"

"Why not?"

"The clerk in the store can't bust you by giving the cops your
shoe size."

Alice spun away from the computer. "You think he'd kill you?"

"No."

"You thinking of turning him in?"

"No.

"You seem more sure about that."

"I can't turn him in. I don't know anything. The guy claims he's
a hitman. He could be a nut. He could be a cold-blooded killer. I
have no way of knowing. But if I tell the cops he's a hitman, he's
not going to like it. And since the cops will have absolutely no
reason to hold him, they'll have to let him go, and he'll be one
pissed-off hitman"

Alice spun back to the computer, clicked on an icon, typed
something in, shrank the screen again.

"What was that?"

"An instant message."

"What?"

"I'm on AOL Messenger. I just typed an instant message to
Mindy."

"Please tell me it had nothing to do with what we're talking
about"

"Just a little."

"What?"

"I told her you're being adorable."

"Alice!"

"I didn't say you were being adorable about a hitman."

"So, what are you going to tell her I was being adorable
about?"

"The computer. You're always being adorable about the
computer."

"Since when is adorable a synonym for incompetent?"

"See?" Alice said. "I can quote you on that and she'll be none
the wiser."

I sighed. "Great. Okay, I gotta go."

"Where?"

"I'm meeting him."

"The hitman?"

"Don't call him that."

"I don't know his name."

"It's Martin."

"What's his last name?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you"

"That's very funny."

"Yeah," I said. "Adorable."

MARTIN KESSLER WAS MEETING ME in my neighborhood,
which seemed rather considerate for a hitman. But I understood
why he didn't want me in his.

I met him at Carne, a steakhouse on the corner of Broadway
and 105th. Alice and I order out from there a lot. They make great
burgers, and they have a chopped salad with steak that Alice likes.
The restaurant has an elevated bar overlooking the dining area.
Not that it mattered. Still it seemed the sort of thing you'd want
in a movie setting.

I sat at the bar, ordered a Diet Coke.

"Will you be having dinner?" the bartender asked.

Carne served people at the bar. A man and a woman were
already eating. Another had just ordered.

"Not sure yet."

My answer seemed to satisfy him. He gave me a Diet Coke,
started to run a tab.

I sat back, looked around. It was early, but the place was filling
up. Carne was still doing well, even with Henry's across the street,
and the popular new French restaurant, Cafe du Soleil, in the
middle of the block. The neighborhood was really getting classy.
Soon Alice and I wouldn't be able to afford it.

At the end of the bar was a TV, tuned to a sports channel. It was
too early for the Yankee or Mets game, but a young NASCAR
driver was telling a reporter why he hadn't gotten killed in some
horrific crash they kept showing over and over. To me, the miracle
wasn't why he hadn't gotten killed, but why he was still driving.

Martin Kessler came in. I saw him in the mirror behind the bar.
Tonight he looked more like a hitman than a frumpy English professor, but perhaps I was just projecting. He wore a gray pinstripe
suit and striped tie. Well, so what? Surely there were men in pinstripe suits and striped ties who had never killed a soul.

In the movies he would have slid onto a barstool next to mine,
but the ones on either side were occupied. Worse, there was a
vacancy at the other end of the bar. Inconvenient, since he'd told me
not to recognize him. I wondered how he planned to handle that.

Martin Kessler bellied up to the bar right next to me, snapped
his fingers at the bartender, pointed to the TV, said, "Do you get
rugby?"

Bartenders field questions of all kinds; still, that probably wasn't
among the top ten. In light of which, he handled it pretty well.
"Not right now, we don't. TV's on ESPN till seven, when we
switch over to the Yankee game."

Kessler nodded. "Fair enough. Can I get a Dewar's on the
rocks?"

The bartender went to make the drink.

Kessler jerked his thumb at the TV. "You like this NASCAR
shit?"

"I will if they get it on Staten Island. Be a lot of accident claims
to investigate."

"You an ambulance chaser?"

"Yes, I am" I lowered my voice. "How long do we have to keep
this up?"

"Not at all. I just thought it would give you a thrill."

I don't want a thrill."

"You want the job?"

"I don't know if I want the job"

"You were supposed to think it over."

"I thought it over."

"You talk to anyone about it?"

I hesitated.

He shook his head. "That's bad. Very bad. You want to stay in
this business, you either come in with a denial right away or not
at all."
"

I don't want to stay in this business."

"Nor do I." He chucked. "Sorry. I should have said neither. Nor
just sounded more literary. Like a British spy, maybe. Which is
what you seem to equate this with. Never mind. Are you going
to help me?"

"Tell me why I should."

"Oh, dear. You want a moral justification. Besides saving
someone's life. I can't understand why that argument's not persuasive. I suppose it's because you can't see the fellow. Put a name or
a face to him. So he's just a statistic. Like a soldier killed in the war.
Two thousand. Three thousand. The death toll builds up. More
every day.You can't get excited about just one"

"That's not it."

"Sure it is"

"No, it's not. You told me yourself. You're not going to kill
this guy."

"Could you keep your voice a little lower?"

"It's a plot for a movie. We're discussing a plot for a movie.
People do it every day."

"I'm happy for them. Nonetheless . . "

"All right, all right," I conceded, lowering my voice. "The point
is, you're not going to do it. All you want me to do is keep my eyes
open, see if anyone's noticing you're not."

"You know that because that's what I told you."

"So?"

"I lied."

"What?"

"That's not what I want you to do."

"Good. Because I wouldn't be any good at it"

"Yet you were considering taking the job."

"Yeah. I'm a bad person. I don't know how you can bear to deal
with me."

"Touch&"

"Well, if it's not asking too much, what do you want me to do?"

"What you said before."

"Excuse me?"

"The job I have to do."
"

"What about it?"

I want you to stop me from doing it."

"Who's the guy?"

He shook his head, signaled the bartender for another scotch.

"Come on. Who's the guy?"

"I can't tell you that."

"How am I going to protect him."

"You're not supposed to protect him.You're supposed to stop me"

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"Not at all.You could protect him by arming him to the teeth,
placing him in police custody, or sending him to Tahiti. None of
which would involve me at all."

"They'd stop you.

"Not directly. They'd merely remove the need for me to be
stopped."

"So how am I supposed to stop you?You want me to shoot you?"

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Then how?"

"By your magnetic personality. Your winning ways. Your powers
of persuasion"

I shuddered. "The guy's as good as dead"

"Probably. Look, if you follow my trail, there will come a time
when I either carry out my mission or not. At that point you can
make a substantial contribution."

"How?"

"It will be obvious. For instance, if you see me about to off some
poor dude, you can say, `Hey, you don't really wanna do that."'

"Can you be serious?"

"I am being serious."

"Suppose I did that. What would happen then?"

"I'd either take your advice or ignore it"

"What if you ignore it?"

"Then you've done the best you could."

"And I'd get paid?"

"Is that your real concern?"

"It's a big one. I'd hate to get scared out of my wits for
nothing"

"Not to mention the moral dilenmia"

"So, who's the guy?"

"You don't need to know."

"I'll know if you make a move on him"

"If you figure it out yourself, fine. By then it won't make any
difference. Beforehand it would be a disaster. You're compassionate. Considerate. Kind" He reeled them off as if they were
dirty words. "You'd want to warn the guy. Help him. It would be
a real mess. On the other hand, those qualities are why I want you.
You'll bust your tail tying to stop me. What could be better?"

"I can't think of a thing," I said dryly.

"So, will you do it?"

"I'll let you know."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

He grinned. "Checking me out, eh? Good. You're careful. I like
that. Okay, I'll call you tomorrow. You let me know."

"You're leaving?"

"No. You're leaving. I'm sitting here having a drink. On your
stool. Like that's what I was waiting for. Like I don't know you
at all."

I got up. "Good"

"Yeah," he said, sliding onto my barstool. "I thought you'd like
that."

MACAULLIF WAS IN A GOOD mood. Of course, all things are relative, and I've grown accustomed to him chewing a bucket of nails
while he talks, biting the heads off and spitting the points in my
general direction. But a thoroughly at ease and perfectly pleased
MacAullif was not what I was used to dealing with. It was like he
had a DANGER signal flashing a warning behind his head.

I decided to walk right into it. "You traced that name?"

MacAullif smiled and nodded. It was one of those nods where
he just kept nodding. And smiling. And nodding.

"You being a cop and all, I assume you had no trouble."

"None at all. Perfectly straightforward."

"You got everything there is to get?"

"That I did."

"You mind sharing the information?"

"Ordinarily, I would weigh my answer. I would stop, consider what
you have a right to know and what you don't have a right to know"

"Well, that's to be expected."

"Yes, it is. Only, in this case, I don't feel the need to do so"

"How come?"

MacAullif picked up a file folder from his desk. "Let's see.
Martin Kessler, English teacher. Harmon High. Thirty-six years of
age. Married. Two children. And here's the shocking part. Criminal record."

"He has one?"

"That he does. About three years ago, he made an illegal lefthand turn at West End Avenue and Seventy-second Street. Cops
pulled him over, nailed his ass. And it's not just the ticket."
MacAullif waggled his finger. "That's a moving violation. That's
points on your license. That goes on your driving record. I tell you,
this is one bad dude."

"That's it?"

"What do want, a written confession? The guy got nailed, paid
his fine, cops put him back on the street. Probably hated to, but
they couldn't hold him, what with him pleading guilty and paying
the fine."

"You're telling me this is a model citizen? What about ties to
the mob?"

"What about 'em? Unless he has a bumper sticker, I BREAK
FOR MAFIA MEMBERS, the guy is clean."

"You're sure of your sources?"

"As sure as I need to be."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

MacAullif's eyes twinkled. "Yeah, right. You and your hypothetical. `I'll give you a name. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't.' I don't
know how you pulled that name out of your ass, but he's not the
guy. Anytime you get good and ready to give me the real name
you want traced, just say the word."

"That is the name I want traced."

"Yeah, right."

"Damn it, MacAullif. If the guy's in deep cover, don't you
expect he'd check out clean?"

"Not this clean. This is squeaky clean. This is the-PTA-never-
got-pissed-off-at-him clean. This is no-coed-ever-accused-him
-of-scoping-out-her-tits-during-class clean. This is no-femaleteacher-ever-complained-about-him-making-lewd jokes-in-the
-faculty-lounge clean."

"There's a charge for that?"

"Yeah. Bein' a horny prick and havin' a dick. These days, if
someone doesn't accuse you of sexual harassment, you're either shy
or gay.

"You ever think of running for elective office, MacAullif?"