Keller's Fedora (Kindle Single) (8 page)

“Or daughter.”

“Yeah, coulda been a daughter. Cops are working their way through the Wet Spot’s regulars, checking out everybody that mighta had it in for Harold.”

Keller half-listened while the two of them worked their way through a lengthy list of potential suspects. Earlier, he’d remembered a job years ago that had sent him across the country to a town in Oregon, where someone had spotted a man who’d vanished into the Witness Protection Program. Keller liked the place, liked the life the man was leading there, and found himself contemplating retirement. It was just a fantasy, but in the course of it he’d made the horrible mistake of getting to know the fellow.

When, inevitably, he’d come to his senses, his mission was consequently far more difficult. Still, you did what you had to do. But, having done it, you took pains to avoid such complications in the future.

As Roy went on and on, now explaining how he’d known it was his duty to tell this woman on Robin’s Nest Drive what had happened to Harold, because otherwise she might never know, or she’d read it in the paper, or worst of all the police would turn up on her doorstep and give her the shock of her life, and—

On and on and on, with Pete chiming in now and then, and with Roy admitting that, well, he had to admit he’d wanted to confirm some of the things Harold had told him about the lady, because Harold had a tendency to exaggerate, but in this instance Harold had it right, all right, and—

All of this, he realized, was very different from what he’d gone through in Roseburg, Oregon. There he’d liked the man, and he’d had to set that aside and do his job. But here in Baker’s Bluff, the more time he spent with Roy and his friend Pete, the fewer his reservations about earning his fee. Every sentence spoken, every clap of that big hand on his shoulder, made Keller a little more eager to swing that brand-new Stanley hammer not merely with professionalism but with pleasure.

And now, of course, it was out of the question.

“B
ACK IN A
minute,” he said. “I want to hear the rest of this.”

He got to his feet. Roy was in the middle of a sentence, but Roy was pretty much always in the middle of a sentence, and a call of nature was something a beer drinker could certainly understand. Keller went to the restroom, answered nature’s call, and left the room.

Back in a minute. I want to hear the rest of this.

Well, how was that for a pair of barefaced lies, one right after the other? He certainly didn’t want to hear anymore, nor would he be back, not in a minute and not in an hour. He walked out of the men’s room and down the hall and out the door, took a quick backward glance to make sure no one was paying attention, and crossed the lot to his car.

He got behind the wheel, stuck the key in the ignition, and looked over at the passenger seat, where the hammer was waiting. He shouldn’t have bought the hammer, he thought. For that matter, he shouldn’t have bought that second ticket to Chicago. He should have stayed home.

He got out the Pablo phone, made a call.

“I can’t do anything,” he said. “I bought a hammer, it’s on the car seat next to me, perfectly good hammer, never been used—and all I can do is toss it.”

“If you toss it far enough,” Dot said, “you could wind up with an Olympic medal.”

“I think that’s a different kind of hammer.”

“You’re probably right. What happened?”

He told her.

“I get it,” she said. “You got to know them, and you bonded a little, and the idea of taking them out—”

“—is more appealing than ever,” he said, “because not even Krazy Glue could bond me to these two idiots. But I’ve been seen with them, and in a public place, and—”

“And if anything happens to either of them, somebody’s going to remember their friend with the hammer.”

“And come looking,” he said.

“I’ll tell the client,” she said. “And I’ll send the money back.”

“He paid?”

“In full for the original job, which he won’t get back because we fulfilled the contract. But he sent half the payment for your friend in the cowboy hat, and—”

“Not my friend.”

“It’s just an expression, Pablo. He sent half by FedEx, and I’ll send it back to him. God, how I hate to return money.”

“I know.”

“Once I actually have it in hand, you know, it’s not their money anymore. So why should they get it back?”

Wait a minute…

“Dot—”

“Oh, I know why. I’m talking about how my mind works. But, you know, that’s just my mind, and I’ve learned not to pay too much attention to it. I’ll send the money back.”

“Not just yet,” he said.

“Oh?”

“I just thought of something.”

He retrieved his key, opened the door. He paused for another glance at the passenger seat, wishing the fedora were sitting there. But no, all that was there was the hammer, and he had no use for it now.

B
ACK IN THE
Spotted Tiger, he stopped at the bar for three bottles of beer and carried them back to the table. “Well now,” Roy said appreciatively. “Thanks, pardner. Pete, we’re drinking to the man with the hat.”

Keller took a hearty sip of beer, acknowledging the toast. It struck him as curious, given that he was the only bareheaded man at the table, but it seemed to confirm what the salesman at Peller & Smythe had said about the classic quality of the fedora. It continued to impress people even when you were no longer wearing it.

“Something I was thinking,” he said. “Maybe I’m remembering wrong, but didn’t you ask your friend, the one who got killed—”

“Harold,” Pete supplied.

“Right, Harold. Didn’t you ask him if the lady had a sister?”

“Well, you know,” Roy said. “Sort of joking with him. Seems to me he said she was an only child.”

“But wasn’t there something about how he thought she’d be up for a threesome?”

Roy got a look on his face.

Pete: “Hey, look who swallowed the canary!”

Roy: “No such thing.”

Pete: “Where’d that canary-eating grin come from? There’s something you ain’t telling.”

Roy: “Well—”

Well, Roy explained, he was going to mention it. Because he’d actually brought up the subject to Melania, and the last thing she wanted was anything that involved another woman. Anything that went down in her life, she wanted to be the only girl in the room.

“But a second guy,” he said, “might be different. And I was gonna say something, but, well, two guys is one thing and three guys is another, and—”

Keller held up a hand, palm forward. “You know what they say,” he said. “Four is a crowd. And I’m leaving town first thing in the morning, won’t be back for close to three weeks.”

Pete wanted to know where he was going, and that required some swift improvisation. Keller invented a trip to San Francisco, and Roy said he’d always wanted to go there, and Pete said he’d heard it was cold in the summer, so why would anyone want to go there?

Keller picked up his beer bottle and drank deep. He wasn’t working, there wouldn’t be any work for him, so why not enjoy the beer? And drinking it was something to do while he waited for the conversation to get back on track.

“So I can’t,” he said, when he got the chance. “But the two of you—”

Pete: “Yeah. Like how about tomorrow?”

Roy: “Well, I can’t just drop in, say ‘Here’s my friend,’ he wants to join the party.”

Keller: “Maybe if you called her…”

Pete: “Yeah! Call her!”

Roy: “And when her husband answers?”

Pete: “So you hang up. But if
she’s
the one who answers…”

Roy squinted, thinking about it. He said, “Two on one. Something else they call it, but what is it?”

“Threesomes,” Pete said, helpfully. “Threesome, three-way.”

“No, when it’s two men and one lady.” He snapped his fingers. “Tag team!”

“Ever done that?”

Pete shook his head.

“Me neither. Jim?”

It was, for a change, a question Keller could answer honestly. “Never,” he said.

Pete: “When you think about, you know, the possibilities…”

Roy, who seemed to be thinking about the possibilities, drew a deep breath and got to his feet, cell phone in hand. “Y’all give me a minute,” he said.

R
OY CAME BACK
with another round of beers, and news that the phone call had been a success. “Quarter past three tomorrow afternoon,” he announced. “We’ll meet up and take my van, ’cause there’s only room for one vehicle in her garage.”

Was that double entendre? Keller decided it wasn’t.

“What we don’t want to be is late,” Roy went on, “on account of we want to take our time. Husband’s got a long drive home after a full day at the office, but he could walk in anytime after six.”

“And what was it Jim here said? ‘Four’s a crowd.’”

“I’d say the two of us could handle him, but I’d just as soon not have to.”

“Rather spend my time handling her,” Pete said. “Damn, man, you went and talked her into it!”

Roy beamed, but Keller sensed that it hadn’t been that hard a sell. More like persuading a bee to sip nectar, or coaxing a moth toward a flame.

Pete said, “You’re the man, man. Old Harold, you figure he would have shared?”

“I’d say no. Harold, he was a hell of a guy, but I can’t say he was much of a one for sharing. Let me borrow his van one time, and first I had to sit through a whole lecture on how to keep from grinding the gears.”

“You want to grind her gears tomorrow, buddy, I’d say go right ahead.”

“Hey, no worry there, Pete. This particular model’s self-lubricating.”

Oh, spare me, Keller thought. He said, “Two hours and change should be plenty of time. I mean, you won’t have to invest a lot of time in small talk.”

“No,” Roy said, “have to say she’s good to go.”

He nodded. “Of course,” he said, “it’d be good to be prepared just in case. Suppose he comes home early and he’s got something in his hand.”

“A hammer,” Pete said.

They looked at him.

“Guy like that,” he explained, “guy that owns his own home, you know he’s got a work bench with a few hundred tools on it.”

“Right,” Roy said. “Son of a bitch could walk into the bedroom carrying a spirit level.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Or a measuring tape,” Roy said, “in case there’s anything Melania doesn’t get around to measuring.”

“I said a hammer because I was thinking about Harold is all.”

Right, Keller thought. “What
I
was thinking,” he said, “is if I was coming to that party tomorrow, I’d think about bringing a gun.”

“Harold had one,” Roy said.

He did?

“And a whole lot of good it did him,” Pete said. “Guy sneaks up behind you, your head’s caved in before you can even think about getting that old gun off your hip.”

“And it’s no use unless you’ve got it in your hand,” Roy said. “But you’re right, pardner.” He patted his hip. “I won’t have to remember. Never leave home without it, you know?”

A
FEW MINUTES
later Keller had a genuine reason to visit the restroom, and decided he didn’t need to return to the table. He slipped outside, went to his car.

So the Marlboro Man had had a gun on his hip? He hadn’t known that, and it struck him as the sort of thing one would want to know in advance. Then again, he hadn’t suspected Cowboy Roy was walking around strapped, and that could have posed a real problem, especially if the scenario had called for him to deal with Roy and Pete at the same time. There were far too many ways that could have gone wrong, and just thinking about them was sobering.

Speaking of which, he wondered if he was okay to drive. He’d had what, three beers? And a sip of a fourth? He thought about it and decided he felt clearheaded enough. And once he got underway he certainly seemed to be fine, listening to the gentle but firm voice of the GPS lady, and following her instructions all the way back to the Super 8.

“I
GOT RID
of the hammer,” he told Dot. “Brand new hammer and I tossed it in a trash can.”

“You could have taken it back for a refund,” she said, “but what would you do, tell them it didn’t work? ‘Sir, you’re supposed to hold it by the handle, not the head.’ How far away was the trash can?”

“I was standing right next to it. It wasn’t a toss, really. I just dropped it in.”

“Well, nobody’s gonna give you a medal for that. So now should I send the money back?”

“Maybe wait a day,” he said.

H
E PUT THE
Pablo phone away, took out his iPhone, decided he didn’t care if it pinged off towers in Baker’s Bluff. What difference did it make now? He called Amtrak and booked a roomette on the City of New Orleans for the following night, then called Julia and told her he’d be home the day after that.

“I’ll pick you up at the station,” she said. “It, uh, went okay?”

“I sort of called it off.”

“I’m glad, if it means you’re getting on a train tomorrow night. Still, it’s a shame. Not that you called it off, but that you made the trip for nothing.”

“Well,” he said. “That remains to be seen.”

H
E SLEPT UNTIL
he woke up, then checked out of his motel and drove across the street to Denny’s. Something made him follow the GPS prompts to Robin’s Nest Drive, and all that accomplished was confirmation that the Overmont house was still standing. It had not burned to the foundation, or been swept away in a flash flood, or imploded from emotional intensity. The garage door was closed, the drapes were drawn, and not a single vehicle was parked at the curb for the full length of the block.

Was there any reason to look more closely? Any reason to do anything at all in the pleasant town of Baker’s Bluff?

None that he could think of. He touched the GPS screen, selected Previous Destinations, and headed for O’Hare to give the car back to Hertz.

A
ND FROM THERE
to Chicago, where James J. Miller of Waco went back to being Nicholas Edwards of New Orleans. It wasn’t noon yet, and his train wasn’t scheduled to leave until 8:05, so after he’d picked up the ticket he’d reserved and used it to check his bag through to New Orleans, he had a whole day to kill.