Hit Man

advance—”
    “He paid. But not half.”
    “What did he pay?”
    “It’s not a fortune. He sent us a thousand dollars. Your end of that’s nothing to retire on, but all you had to do besides stand around was sit around, and there are people in this world who work harder and get less for it.”
    “And I’ll bet it makes them happy,” he said, “to hear how much better off they are than the poor bastards starving in Somalia.”
    “Poor Keller. What are you going to do now?”
    “Get on a train and come home.”
    “Keller,” she said, “you’re in our nation’s capital. Go to the Smithsonian. Take a citizen’s tour of the White House. Slow down and smell the flowers.”
    He rang off and caught the next train.
    He went home and hung up his suit, but not before discarding the touch of panache from his lapel. He’d already gotten rid of the magazine.
    That was on a Wednesday. Monday morning he was in a booth at one of his usual breakfast places, a Greek coffee shop on Second Avenue. He was reading the Times and eating a plate of salami and eggs when a fellow said, “Mind if I join you?” He didn’t wait for an answer, either, but slid unbidden into the seat across from Keller.
    Keller eyed him. The guy was around forty, wearing a dark suit and an unassertive tie. He was clean-shaven and his hair was combed. He didn’t look like a nut.
    “You ought to wear a boutonniere,” the man said. “It adds, I don’t know, a certain something.”
    “Panache,” Keller suggested.
    “You know,” the man said, “that’s just what I was going for. It was on the tip of my tongue. Panache.”
    Keller didn’t say anything.
    “You’re probably wondering what this is all about.” Keller shook his head.
    “You’re not?”
    “I figure more will be revealed.”
    That drew a smile. “A cool customer,” the fellow said. “Well, I’m not surprised.” His hand dipped into the front of his suit jacket, and Keller braced himself with both hands on the edge of the table, waiting to see the hand come out with a gun.
    Instead the hand emerged clutching a flat leather wallet, which the man flipped open to disclose an ID. The photo matched the face across the table from Keller, and the accompanying card identified the face as that of one Roger Keith Bascomb, an operative of something called the National Security Resource.
    Keller handed the ID back to its owner.
    “Thanks,” Bascomb said. “You were all set to flip the table on me, weren’t you?”
    “Why would I do that?”
    “Never mind. You’re alert, which is all to the good. And I’m not surprised. I know who you are, and I know what you are.”
    “Just a man trying to eat his breakfast,” Keller said.
    “And a man who’s evidently not put off by all that scary stuff about cholesterol. Salami and eggs! I have to say I admire you, Keller. I bet that’s real coffee, too, isn’t it?”
    “It’s not great,” Keller said, “but it’s the genuine article.”
    “My breakfast’s an oat bran muffin,” Bascomb said, “and I wash it down with decaf. But I didn’t come here to put in a bid for sympathy.”
    Just as well, Keller thought.
    “I don’t want to make this overly dramatic,” Bascomb said, “but it’s hard to avoid. Mr. Keller, your country has need of your services.”
    “My country?”
    “The United States of America. That country.”
    “My services?”
    “The very sort of services you rode down to Washington prepared to perform. I think we both know what sort of services I’m talking about.”
    “I could argue the point,” Keller said.
    “You could.”
    “But I’ll let it go.”
    “Good,” Bascomb said, “and I in turn will apologize for the wild goose chase. We needed to get a line on you and find out a few things about you.”
    “So you picked me up in Union Station and tagged me back to New York.”
    “I’m afraid we did, yes.”
    “And learned who I was, and checked me out.”
    “Like a book from a library,” Bascomb said. “Just what we did. You see, Keller, your uncle would prefer to cut out the cutout man.”
    “My uncle?”
    “Sam. We don’t want to run everything through What’s-his-name in White Plains. This is strictly need-to-know, and he doesn’t.”
    “So you want to be able to work directly with me.”
    “Right.”
    “And you want me to. . . ”
    “To do what you do best, Keller.”
    Keller ate some salami, ate some eggs, drank some coffee.
    “I don’t think so,” he said.
    “I beg