Lawrence Block: The Burglar Who Traded Ted Williams

“Tonight’s the night?”

“It is,” I agreed, and held up a hand to get Maxine’s attention, and made that circular motion you make to order another round. “Tonight’s the night. When the curtain goes up at eight this evening at the Cort Theatre, the audience will include Martin and Edna Gilmartin, currently residing in Apartment 6-L at 1416 York Avenue.”

“They make you give your apartment number when you buy theater tickets?”

“Not as of ten days ago. But I picked up some information from her conversation with her friend, and then I did a little research later on my own.”

“You were planning to burgle the place.”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?”

“I was thinking about it,” I said. “That’s all. I was keeping my options open. That’s why Stoppelgard gave me such a turn at the beginning, mentioning burglars and alibis before I even realized he was talking about books.” I stopped talking while Maxine brought our drinks, then took a sip of mine and said, “It would be stupid to go back to burglary, and it wouldn’t work anyway. I can’t steal myself solvent.”

“Can you relocate?”

“Not unless I want to leave the neighborhood altogether. I checked on some vacancies around here, and the best I could do was a place way east on Ninth Street with half my present square footage and a base rental three times what I’m paying now, with escalators that will double that figure by the end of five years.”

“That’s no good.”

“No kidding. I looked at lofts, too, but I need ground-floor space for the kind of store I have. I need the passerby trade, the people who start out browsing the bargain table and wind up coming inside. To duplicate what I’ve got I’d have to move clear out of Manhattan, and what’s the point? No one would ever walk into the store. Including me, because I wouldn’t want to go there either. I want to stay right where I am, Carolyn. I want to be two doors away from the Poodle Factory so we can always have lunch together, and I want to be a block from the Bum Rap so we can come here after work and get snockered.”

“Are you getting snockered?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Well, you’re entitled,” she said. “And it’s good insurance against visiting the Gilhooleys tonight.”

“The Gilmartins.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“The Martin Gilmartins. If your name was Gilmartin, would you name your son Marty?”

“Probably not.”

“I should hope not. What a thing to do to a kid.”

“Well, at least you won’t be picking their locks.”

“Are you kidding? I never have so much as a beer before I go out. And I’ve had what, three drinks?”

“Three and a half, actually. You’ve been drinking mine.”

“Sorry.”

“No, that’s okay.”

“Three and a half scotches,” I said. “And you think I could pick locks in this condition?”

“Bern—”

“I couldn’t pick bagels,” I said.

“Bern, not so loud.”

“That was a joke, Carolyn. ‘I couldn’t pick locks, I couldn’t even pick bagels.’ Get it?”

“I got it.”

“You didn’t laugh.”

“I figured I’d laugh later,” she said, “when I have more time. Bern, the thing is you’re talking kind of loud to be talking about picking locks.”

“Or bagels.”

“Or bagels,” she agreed. “Either way, the volume control needs adjusting.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize I was shouting.”

“Well, not shouting exactly, but—”

“But loud.”

“Kind of.”

“I didn’t realize it,” I said. “Am I talking loud now?”

“No, this is fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“It’s funny how you can talk loud without even knowing it. It never happens on Perrier, I can tell you that.”

“I know.”

“Do you have any quarters?”

“Quarters?”

“Round things,” I said. “George Washington on one side, a bird on the other. They still call them quarters, don’t they?”

“I think so,” she said. “Here’s one, here’s another. Is that enough, Bern? What do you want them for?”

“I’m going to play the jukebox,” I said. “You wait right here. I’ll be right back.”

The jukebox at the Bum Rap is eclectic, which is to say that there’s something on it to offend every taste. It leans more toward country and western than anything else, but there’s some jazz and some rock and a single Bing Crosby record, with “Mother Machree” on the flip side of “Galway Bay.” In the midst of all this are the two best records ever made—“I Can’t Get Started With You” with a vocal and trumpet solo by Bunny Berrigan, and “Faded Love,” sung by The Late Great Patsy Cline. They are wonderful recordings, and you do not by any means have to be drunk to enjoy them, but I’ll tell you something. It doesn’t hurt.

I finished Carolyn’s drink while the records played, and I was chewing ice cubes by the time the second one was done. “How lucky we are,” I told Carolyn. “How incredibly lucky we are.”

“How so, Bern?”

“It could as easily have gone the other way around,” I said. “We could have had Bunny Berrigan singing ‘Faded Love’ and The Late Great Patsy Cline singing ‘I Can’t Get Started.’ Then where would we be?”

“You’re right.”

“No, you’re right,” I said. “You’re right when you say that I’m right. You know what that means, don’t you?

“We’re both right.”

“We’re both right,” I said. “God, what a world. What an absolutely incredible world.”

She laid a hand on top of mine. “Bern,” she said gently, “I think we should think about getting something to eat.”

“Here? At the Bum Rap?”

“No, of course not. I thought—”

“Good, because we tried that once, remember? Maxine popped a couple of burritos in the microwave for us. It took forever before they were cool enough to eat, and by then they were stale.”

“I remember.”

“For days,” I said, “all I did was fart.” I frowned. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize now, Bern. That was a year and a half ago.”

“I’m not sorry I farted. I’m sorry I mentioned it. It’s not terribly elegant, is it? Talking about farting. Damn, I just did it again.”

“Bern.”

“I don’t mean I farted again. I mentioned it again, that’s all. Isn’t it amazing that I’ll ordinarily go weeks on end without using the word ‘fart,’ and all of a sudden I can’t seem to get through a sentence without it?”

“Bern, what I was thinking—”

“So I’d better not have any burritos tonight. I mean, if I can’t even handle the whole concept verbally—”

“I thought Indian food.”

“Hmmm.”

“Or maybe Italian.”

“Maybe.”

“Or Thai.”

“Always a possibility,” I said. A thought started to slip past me on the right, and I extended a mental foot and sent it sprawling. “But I’m afraid tonight’s out of the question,” I said. “I must plead a previous engagement.”

“You were going to cancel the Gilmartins,” she said. “Remember?”

“Not the Gilmartins. My date’s with Patience. Isn’t that a great name?”

“It is, Bern.”

“Deliriously old-fashioned, you might say.”

“You might,” she agreed. “She’s the poet, right?”

“She’s a poetry therapist,” I said. “She has an MSW from NYU. Or is it an MSU from NYW?”

“I think you were right the first time.”

“Maybe it’s a BMW,” I said, “from PDQ. Anyway, what she does is work with emotionally disturbed people, teaching them to express their innermost feelings through poetry. That way nobody will realize they’re crazy. They’ll just think they’re poets.”