Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, No. 5. Whole No. 801, May 2008
Keller the Dogkiller
by Lawrence Block
Readers who enjoy this new Keller story from Lawrence Block — adapted from one of the vignettes that comprised his 2006 Keller book Hit Parade — won’t want to miss the new novel starring the hit man, Hit and Run, sure to be witty, and due to be released by William Morrow in June of 2008. Also in 2008, Hard Case Crime will reissue one of Mr. Block’s vintage mysteries, A Diet of Treacle.
Keller, trying not to feel foolish, hoisted his flight bag and stepped to the curb. Two cabs darted his way, and he got into the winner, even as the runner-up filled the air with curses. “JFK,” he said, and settled back in his seat.
“Which airline?”
He had to think about it. “American.”
“International or domestic?”
“Domestic.”
“What time’s your flight?”
Usually they just took you there. Today, when he didn’t have a plane to catch, he got a full-scale inquiry.
“Not to worry,” he told the driver. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
Which was just as well, because it took longer than usual to get through the tunnel, and the traffic on the Long Island Expressway was heavier than usual for that hour. He’d picked this time — early afternoon — because the traffic tended to be light, but today for some reason it wasn’t. Fortunately, he reminded himself, it didn’t matter. Time, for a change, was not of the essence.
“Where you headed?” the driver asked, while Keller’s mind was wandering.
“Panama,” he said, without thinking.
“Then you want International, don’t you?”
Why on earth had he said Panama? He’d been wondering if he should buy a straw hat, that was why. “Panama City,” he corrected himself. “That’s in Florida, you change planes in Miami.”
“You got to fly all the way down to Miami and then back up again to Panama City? Ought to be a better way to do it.”
Thousands of cab drivers in New York, and for once he had to draw one who could speak English. “Air miles,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument, and they left it at that.
At the designated terminal, Keller paid and tipped the guy, then carried his flight bag past the curbside check-in. He followed the signs down to Baggage Claim and walked around until he found a woman holding a hand-lettered sign that read “Niebauer.”
She hadn’t noticed him, so he took a moment to notice her, and to determine that no one else was paying any attention to either of them. She was around forty, a trimly-built woman wearing a skirt and blouse and glasses. Her brown hair was medium length, attractive if not stylish, her sharp nose contrasted with her generous mouth, and on balance he’d have to say she had a kind face. This, he knew, was no guarantee of anything. You didn’t have to be kind to have a kind face.
He approached her from the side, and got within a few feet of her before she sensed his presence, turned, and stepped back, looking a little startled. “I’m Mr. Niebauer,” he said.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, of course. I... you surprised me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I had noticed you, but I didn’t think...” She swallowed, started over. “I guess you don’t look the way I expected you to look.”
“Well, I’m older than I was a few hours ago.”
“No, I don’t mean... I don’t know what I mean. I’m sorry. How was your flight?”
“Routine.”
“I guess we have to collect your luggage.”
“I just have this,” he said, holding up the flight bag. “So we can go to your car.”
“We can’t,” she said. She managed a smile. “I don’t have one, and couldn’t drive it if I did. I’m a city girl, Mr. Niebauer. I never learned to drive. We’ll have to take a cab.”
There was a moment, of course, when Keller was sure he’d get the same cab, and he could see himself trying to field the driver’s questions without alarming the woman. Instead they got into a cab driven by a jittery little man who talked on his cell phone in a language Keller couldn’t recognize while his radio was tuned to a talk program in what may or may not have been the same unrecognizable language.
Keller, once again trying not to feel foolish, settled in for the drive back to Manhattan.
Two days earlier, on the wraparound porch of the big old house in White Plains, Keller hadn’t felt foolish. What he’d felt was confused.
“It’s in New York,” he said, starting with the job’s least objectionable aspect. “I live in New York. I don’t work there.”
“You have.”
“A couple of times,” he allowed, “and it worked out all right, all things considered, but that doesn’t make it a good idea.”
“I know,” Dot said, “and I almost turned it down without consulting you. And not just because it’s local.”
“That’s the least of it.”
“Right.”
“It’s short money,” he said. “It’s ten thousand dollars. It’s not exactly chump change, but it’s a fraction of what I usually get.”
“The danger of working for short money,” she said, “is word gets around. But one thing we’d make sure of is nobody knows you’re the one who took this job. So it’s not a question of ten thousand dollars versus your usual fee, because your usual fee doesn’t come into the picture. It’s ten thousand dollars for two or three days’ work, and I know you can use the work.”
“And the money.”
“Right. And, of course, there’s no travel. Which was a minus the first time we looked at it, but in terms of time and money and all of that—”
“Suddenly it’s a plus.” He took a sip of his iced tea. “Look, this is stupid. We’re not talking about the most important thing.”
“I know.”
“The, uh, subject is generally a man. Sometimes it’s a woman.”
“You’re an equal-opportunity kind of guy, Keller.”
“One time,” he said, “somebody wanted me to do a kid. You remember?”
“Vividly.”
“We turned them down.”
“You’re damn right we did.”
“Adults,” he said. “Grownups. That’s where we draw the line.”
“Well,” she said, “if it matters, the subject this time around is an adult.”
“How old is he?”
“Five.”
“A five-year-old adult,” he said heavily.
“Do the math, Keller. He’s thirty-five in dog years.”
“Somebody wants to pay me ten thousand dollars to kill a dog,” he said. “Why me, Dot? Why can’t they call the SPCA?”
“I wondered that myself,” she said. “Same token, every time we get a client who wants a spouse killed, I wonder if a divorce wouldn’t be a better way to go. Why call us? Has Raoul Felder got an unlisted phone number?”
“But a dog, Dot.”
She took a long look at him. “You’re thinking about Nelson,” she said. “Am I right or am I right?”
“You’re right.”
Nelson, an Australian cattle dog, had entered Keller’s life in unexpected fashion, and made an equally surprising exit. He’d acquired the animal upon the death of a client, and lost it when the woman he’d hired to walk it — Andria, her name was, and she painted her toes all the colors of the rainbow — walked out of his life, and took Nelson with her.
“Keller,” she said, “I met Nelson, and I liked Nelson. Nelson was a friend of mine. Keller, this dog is no Nelson.”
“If you say so.”
“In fact,” she said, “if Nelson saw this dog and trotted over to give him a friendly sniff, that would be the end of Nelson. This dog’s a pit bull, Keller, and he’s enough to give the breed a bad name.”