Sequel to Block's previous work, Hit Man, a gripping insight into the life of a paid assassin who finds his way on to someone else's hit list.Superficially, John Keller - the urban lonely guy of assassins - leads a normal life despite his profession. He has an office manager, the breezily efficient Dot, who organises his "jobs" and reassures his grumbling conscience. He is an obsessive stamp collector. In a blackly comic twist, he even gets called for jury service. Laid back, couldn't care less, morally distanced from his vocation, Keller is an intriguing character. A visit to an astrologer tells him, and us, that he is a gentle man who is simply surrounded by violence rather than being a perpetrator of it. His professional satisfaction, we learn, comes from "solving a problem". Taking lives causes him no real anxiety. And then Keller's jobs start to go wrong. Targets die before he can get to them. Gradually he realises that he is being stalked. Another hitman is trying to weed out the competition and kill him. Keller and Dot try to turn the tables but how many innocents will get caught in the crossfire before Keller is truly safe
Few mystery authors have a stable of protagonists as uniformly appealing as Lawrence Block's. Whether Block's taking the reader into PI Matthew Scudder's world of dimly lit bars and basement AA meetings, quirky burglar Bernie Rhodenbarr's used bookstore, or the international hot-spot hangouts of Evan Tanner, the spy who never sleeps, he always provides good company. John Keller, star of Block's 1998 story collection
Hit Man, is a typical Block invention: an unassuming, get-the-job-done-and-move-on New York contract killer who collects stamps, does the morning crossword, eats Vietnamese takeout, and falls for the occasional woman.
When Keller gets off a plane in Louisville, ready to do the job he's been hired for, something about it feels wrong from the start. And when two people are killed in the motel room he's just vacated, he realizes he narrowly missed a setup, but can't figure out why. Then he goes to Boston to do another job, and afterwards dines in a coffee shop where another patron has the misfortune of leaving with Keller's raincoat:
The Globe didn't have it. But there it was in the Herald, a small story on a back page, a man found dead on Boston Common, shot twice in the head with a small-caliber weapon. Keller could picture the poor bastard, lying face-down on the grass, the rain washing relentlessly down on him. He could picture the dead man's coat, too. The Herald didn't say anything about a coat, but that didn't matter. Keller could picture it all the same.
Keller's agent, Dot, puts the pieces--including the death of another contract killer she books occasionally--together and comes up with the seemingly crazy idea that a greedy hit man is knocking off the competition. In between other legit hits, romancing a commitment-shy artist, visiting an astrologer, and a long stint on jury duty, Keller slowly moves closer to the faceless nemesis he and Dot dub "Roger." But it's Dot, the woman of action, who figures out what to do about him. Though
Hit List is too introspective to be a caper novel, and too funny to be noir, it's bound to find a rapt audience with fans of both subgenres. After two such engaging books, can
Hit Parade be far behind?
--Barrie Trinkle
