Lawrence Block - The Burglar in the Rye

“Absolutely. I haven’t got a clue.”

“But you might come up with somethin’,” he said. “It wouldn’t be the first time. If you do, you know where to bring it.”

“Sure, Ray. We’re partners.”

“You bet we are, Bernie. We generally do all right together, don’t we? An’ I got a good feelin’ about this one. I think we’re gonna come out of it lookin’ real good.” He paused at the door. “Been a pleasure, Carolyn. You hardly said a word.”

“I never had a chance, Ray.”

“Maybe that’s the answer. You’re a lot less of a pain in the neck when you don’t open your mouth.”

“Gee,” she said, “I wonder if it’d work for you?”

“See? The minute you got that mouth runnin’ you’re as bad as ever. But when you zip it up you’re okay. You know what? You look different.”

“Huh?”

“You look different,” he said. “Most of the time you look like a dog gettin’ ready to bite somebody.”

“And now I look like a poodle that’s just had a wash and set.”

“More like a fluffy little cocker spaniel,” he said. “Softer an’ gentler, you know?” He opened the door. “Whatever you’re doin’, keep doin’ it. That’s my advice.”

“W hatever you’re doin’,” she growled, “ keep doin’ it. Words of advice from the founder of the Raymond Kirschmann Charm School.”

“You know Ray.”

“I do,” she said, “and I never cease to regret it. Daffodils don’t have any odor, Bern, so how are you gonna come out smelling like one? That rat.”

“Because of what he said about daffodils?”

“Because of what he said about me. He noticed, Bern. He doesn’t know what he noticed, but he noticed it all the same.”

“It’s the longer hair,” I said.

“That’s just part of it. It’s the clothes, too. Look at this blouse.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Could you wear it?”

“Well,” I said, “no, not really. But I’m a guy, Carolyn.”

“And it’s too feminine, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“It’s happening, Bern. I’m turning femme. Look at my nails, will you?”

“What’s the matter with them?”

“Just look at them.”

“So?”

“They look the same to you?”

“They’re trimmed short,” I said, “and there’s no polish on them, at least as far as I can see. Unless you’ve got some of that colorless polish on to protect them.” She shook her head. “Then as far as I can tell,” I said, “they’re the same.”

“Right.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” she said, “is inside.”

“Under the nails?”

“Under the skin, Bern. They’re the same as ever, but for the first time ever they don’t look right. To me, I mean. They look short.”

“They are short. Same as always.”

“Up to now,” she said, “they didn’t look short to me. They just looked right. Now I look at them, and they look too short. Unattractively short.”

“Oh.”

“Like they ought to be longer.”

“Oh.”

“Like my hair.”

“Oh.”

“You see what’s happening, Bern?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“It’s Erica,” she said. “She’s turning me into a Barbie Doll. What’s next, will you tell me that? Painted toenails? Pierced ears? Bern, you’ll be sleeping with a teddy and I’ll be sleeping in one. Rats.”

“Well, you still use strong language.”

“For now. Next thing you know I’ll be saying ‘Mice.’ Bern, I thought you didn’t take the letters.”

“I didn’t.”

“How’d you get your prints on the envelope?”

“That’s how I found out Landau’s room number. Remember? I pretended to find an envelope with her name on it…”

“And the clerk put it in her box. You just happened to pick a purple envelope?”

“I wanted something distinctive. I knew Fairborn always used purple envelopes, and, well…”

“What was in the envelope?”

“Just a piece of blank paper.”

“Purple paper?”

“What else?”

“What were you trying to do, give her a heart attack? She gets the letter, she thinks it’s from him, and then it’s blank. If I were her, I’d figure I just got a death threat from a man of few words.”

“What I sort of figured,” I said, “is she wouldn’t get the envelope until I’d gotten away with the letters, and then she’d think Fairborn was going nyah nyah nyah at her.”

“That’s what you figured, huh?”

“Well, sort of.”

“And this was on Perrier, right?”

“Carolyn…”

“So you really don’t know where they are?”

“Haven’t a clue.”

“Did you talk to the woman who started the whole thing?”

“Alice Cottrell?” I reached for the phone. “I tried her earlier, but she didn’t answer… Still no answer.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to reach you.”

“So am I, now that you mention it. I’ll try her again later.”

“And your partnership with Ray…”

“Is a fifty-fifty deal,” I said. “Every bit as even as Steven. But we don’t have anything to sell, and the best offer so far is from a guy who’ll reimburse me for the cost of making photocopies. So there’s not going to be anything to divide. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless I’m wrong,” I said. “We’ll see. I wonder what Marty wants.”

I was still wondering after she headed back to the Poodle Factory, but I had a stream of visitors to keep me distracted. First through the door was Mary Mason, who I swear buys books from me as an excuse to visit my cat. She made her usual fuss over him, and as usual he took it as his due. Then he hopped onto a high shelf and curled up next to a boxed volume of the letters of Thomas Love Peacock, which I’m afraid I’ll own as long as I own the store. I sold Miss Mason reading copies of two or three mysteries-cozies, you’ll be astonished to learn-and while I was ringing the sale a man came in on crutches and wanted to know how to find Grace Church.

It’s just around the corner on Broadway, and a lot easier to get to than Lourdes. I pointed him in the right direction. He hobbled off, and in came my friend with the long face and the tan beret and the silver beard, smiling wistfully and smelling pleasantly of whiskey. He found his way to the poetry section and got down to the serious business of browsing.

A young woman in bib overalls wanted to know what time it was, and I told her, and a Senegalese, very tall and impossibly thin, wanted to sell me some Rolex watches and Prada handbags. They were, he assured me, genuine fakes, and represented an excellent business opportunity for me. I explained that I was running a bookshop, and consequently dealt exclusively in printed matter, and he went off shaking his head at my lack of enterprise and business acumen. I shook my own head, though I’m not sure what at, and tried Alice Cottrell’s number again. No answer.

I made another call, this one to Mowgli. He’s a Columbia dropout, a former druggie with just enough brain cells left to make a living as a book scout. I’ve bought quite a few books from him, and he’s bought a few from me, when he’s spotted something badly under-priced on my shelves. When he’s not otherwise occupied he’ll fill in for me behind the counter, and I was hoping he could do that today, while I met with Marty Gilmartin. But he didn’t answer, either.

I went back to Redmond O’Hanlon, hoping to be reminded that there were worse jungles than the one I lived in, and the next person to interrupt me was a fat fellow with an underslung jaw and a head of tightly curled brown hair. He looked like a bulldog with a permanent.