Hit List

didn’t know, and neither did Keller.
    After another hour of biker bedlam, Keller was about ready to find out for himself. He’d finished recording his new stamps in his catalog, but found the operation less diverting than usual. The noise from above kept intruding. With the job done and the stamps and catalog tucked away, he found a movie on television and kicked the volume up a notch. It didn’t drown out the din from upstairs, but it did let him make out what William Holden was saying to Debra Paget.
    There was no point, he found, in hitting the Mute button during the commercials, because he needed the TV sound to cancel out the bikers. And what good was TV if you couldn’t mute the commercials?
    He watched as much of the movie as he could bear, then got into bed. Eventually he got up, moistened scraps of toilet paper, made balls of them, and stuffed them in his ears. His ears felt strange—why wouldn’t they, for God’s sake? But he got used to it, and the near silence was almost thrilling.

Three
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    Keller awoke to the faint sound of a phone ringing in the apartment next to his. Funny, he thought, because he couldn’t usually hear anything next door. His was a prewar building, and the walls were good and thick, and—
    He sat up, shook off the mantle of sleep, and realized he wasn’t in his apartment, and that the telephone ringing ever so faintly was right there on the bedside table, its little red bubble lighting up every time it rang. And just what, he wondered, was the point of that? So that deaf guests would be aware that the phone was ringing? What good would it do them? What could they do about it, pick up the receiver and wiggle their fingers at the mouthpiece?
    He answered the phone and couldn’t hear a thing. “Speak up,” he said. “Is anybody there?” Then he realized he had little balls of toilet paper in his ears. “Hell,” he said. “Just hold on a minute, will you?” He put the receiver down next to the gun and dug the wads of paper out of his ears. They had dried, of course, rather like papier mâché, and it took some doing to get them out. He thought whoever it was would have hung up by then, but no, his caller was still there.
    “Sorry to disturb you,” she said, “but we’ve got you down for a room change. A second-floor unit? Housekeeping just finished with your new room, and I thought you might want to pick up the key and transfer your luggage.”
    He looked at his watch and was astonished to note that it was past ten. The noise had kept him up late and the toilet-paper-induced silence had kept him sleeping. He showered and shaved, and it was eleven o’clock by the time he’d packed his things and moved to Room 210.
    Once you were inside it with the door closed, the new room was indistinguishable from the one he’d just vacated. The same twin double beds, the same desk and dresser, the same two prints—a fisherman wading in a stream, a boy herding sheep—on the same concrete-block walls. Its second-floor front location, on the other hand, was the precise opposite of where he’d been.
    Years ago a Cuban had told him always to room on the ground floor, in case he had to jump out the window. The Cuban, it turned out, was acting less on tradecraft than on a fairly severe case of acrophobia, so Keller had largely discounted the advice. Still, old habits died hard, and when offered a choice he usually took the ground floor.
    Way his luck was running, this would be the time he had to go out the window.
    After breakfast he drove into downtown Louisville and left the car in a parking ramp, the gun locked in the glove compartment. There was a security desk in the lobby of Hirschhorn’s office building. Keller didn’t figure it would be too much of a challenge, but he couldn’t see the point. There would be other people in Hirschhorn’s office, and then he’d have to ride down on the elevator and fetch the car from where he’d parked it. He exited the lobby, walked around for twenty minutes, then collected his car and drove over the bridge into Indiana. He rode around long enough to get lost and straightened out again, then stopped at a convenience store to top up the gas tank and use the phone.
    “This fellow I’ve got to see,” he said. “What do we know about him?”
    “We know the name of his damn dog,” Dot said. “How much more do you need to know about anybody?”
    “I went looking for his office,” he said, “and I didn’t know what name to hunt