Hit Man

don’t even know anybody in San Francisco, I was never there in my life. It was her birthday, we figured nothing could be safer. I don’t know a soul there.”
    “Somebody knew you.”
    “And followed me back here?”
    “I don’t even know. Maybe they got your plate and had somebody run it. Maybe they checked your registration at the hotel. What’s the difference?”
    “No difference.”
    Engleman picked up his coffee and stared into the cup. Keller said, “You knew last night. You’re in that program. Isn’t there someone you’re supposed to call?”
    “There’s someone,” Engleman said. He put his cup down. “It’s not that great a program,” he said. “It’s great when they’re telling you about it, but the execution leaves a lot to be desired.”
    “I’ve heard that,” Keller said.
    “Anyway, I didn’t call anybody. What are they going to do? Say they stake my place out, the house and the print shop, and they pick you up. Even if they make something stick against you, what good does it do me? We’ll still have to move again because the guy’ll just send somebody else, right?”
    “I suppose so.”
    “Well, I’m not moving anymore. They moved us three times and I don’t even know why. I think it’s automatic, part of the program, they move you a few times during the first year or two. This is the first place we’ve really settled in since we left, and we’re starting to make money at Quik Print, and I like it. I like the town and I like the business. I don’t want to move.”
    “The town seems nice.”
    “It is,” Engleman said. “It’s better than I thought it would be.”
    “And you didn’t want to develop another accounting practice?”
    “Never,” Engleman said. “I had enough of that, believe me. Look what it got me.”
    “You wouldn’t necessarily have to work for crooks.”
    “How do you know who’s a crook and who isn’t? Anyway, I don’t want any kind of work where I’m always looking at the inside of somebody else’s business. I’d rather have my own little business, work there side by side with my wife. We’re right there on the street and you can look in the front window and see us. You need stationery, you need business cards, you need invoice forms, I’ll print ’em for you.”
    “How did you learn the business?”
    “It’s a franchise kind of thing, a turnkey operation. Anybody could learn it in twenty minutes.”
    “No kidding?”
    “Oh, yeah. Anybody.”
    Keller drank some of his coffee. He asked if Engleman had said anything to his wife and learned that he hadn’t. “That’s good,” he said. “Don’t say anything. I’m this guy, weighing some business ventures, needs a printer, has to have, you know, arrangements so there’s no cash-flow problem. And I’m shy talking business in front of women, so the two of us go off and have coffee from time to time.”
    “Whatever you say,” Engleman said.
    Poor scared bastard, Keller thought. He said, “See, I don’t want to hurt you, Burt. I wanted to, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’d put a gun to your head, do what I’m supposed to do. You see a gun?”
    “No.”
    “The thing is, I don’t do it, they send somebody else. I come back empty, they want to know why. What I have to do, I have to figure something out. You’re positive you don’t want to run?”
    “No. The hell with running.”
    “Swell, I’ll figure something out,” Keller said. “I’ve got a few days. I’ll think of something.”
    After breakfast the next morning, Keller drove to the office of one of the real estate agents whose ads he’d been reading. A woman about the same age as Betty Engleman took him around and showed him three houses. They were modest homes but decent and comfortable, and they ranged between forty and sixty thousand dollars.
    He could buy any of them out of his safe deposit box.
    “Here’s your kitchen,” the woman said. “Here’s your half-bath. Here’s your fenced yard.”
    “I’ll be in touch,” he told her, taking her card. “I have a business deal pending and a lot depends on the outcome.”
    He and Engleman had lunch the next day. They went to the Mexican place and Engleman wanted everything very mild. “Remember,” he told Keller, “I used to be an accountant.”
    “You’re a printer now,” Keller said. “Printers can handle hot food.”
    “Not this printer. Not this printer’s stomach.”
    They each drank a bottle of Carta Blanca with the