Free Hit Man by Lawrence Block

in a stall, left the gun in a storm drain half a mile away, left the car in the long-term lot at the airport.
    Flying home, he wondered why they had needed him in the first place. They’d supplied the car and the gun and the finger man. Why not do it all themselves? Did they really need to bring him all the way from New York to step on the mouse?
    “You said to think about my name,” he told Breen. “The significance of it. But I don’t see how it could have any significance. It’s not as if I chose it myself.”
    “Let me suggest something,” Breen said. “There is a metaphysical principle which holds that we choose everything about our lives, that in fact we select the very parents we are born to, that everything which happens in our lives is a manifestation of our will. Thus there are no accidents, no coincidences.”
    “I don’t know if I believe that.”
    “You don’t have to. We’ll just take it for the moment as a postulate. So, assuming that you chose the name Peter Stone, what does your choice tell us?”
    Keller, stretched full length upon the couch, was not enjoying this. “Well, a peter’s a penis,” he said reluctantly. “A stone peter would be an erection, wouldn’t it?”
    “Would it?”
    “So I suppose a guy who decides to call himself Peter Stone would have something to prove. Anxiety about his virility. Is that what you want me to say?”
    “I want you to say whatever you wish,” Breen said. “Are you anxious about your virility?”
    “I never thought I was,” Keller said. “Of course it’s hard to say how much anxiety I might have had back before I was born, around the time I was picking my parents and deciding what name they should choose for me. At that age I probably had a certain amount of difficulty maintaining an erection, so I guess I had a lot to be anxious about.”
    “And now?”
    “I don’t have a performance problem, if that’s the question. I’m not the way I was in my teens, ready to go three or four times a night, but then who in his right mind would want to? I can generally get the job done.”
    “You get the job done.”
    “Right.”
    “You perform.”
    “Is there something wrong with that?”
    “What do you think?”
    “Don’t do that,” Keller said. “Don’t answer a question with a question. If I ask a question and you don’t want to respond, just leave it alone. But don’t turn it back on me. It’s irritating.”
    Breen said, “You perform, you get the job done. But what do you feel, Mr. Peter Stone?”
    “Feel?”
    “It is unquestionably true that peter is a colloquialism for the penis, but it has an earlier meaning. Do you recall Christ’s words to the first Peter? ‘Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I shall build my church.’ Because Peter means rock. Our Lord was making a pun. So your first name means rock and your last name is Stone. What does that give us? Rock and stone. Hard, unyielding, obdurate. Insensitive. Unfeeling.”
    “Stop,” Keller said.
    “In the dream, when you kill the mice, what do you feel?”
    “Nothing. I just want to get the job done.”
    “Do you feel their pain? Do you feel pride in your accomplishment, satisfaction in a job well done? Do you feel a thrill, a sexual pleasure, in their death?”
    “Nothing,” Keller said. “I feel nothing. Could we stop for a moment?”
    “What do you feel right now?”
    “Just a little sick to my stomach, that’s all.”
    “Do you want to use the bathroom? Shall I get you a glass of water?”
    “No, I’m all right. It’s better when I sit up. It’ll pass. It’s passing already.”
    Sitting at his window, watching not marathoners but cars streaming over the Queensboro Bridge, Keller thought about names. What was particularly annoying, he thought, was that he didn’t need to be under the care of a board-certified metaphysician to acknowledge the implications of the name Peter Stone. He had very obviously chosen it, and not in the manner of a soul deciding