Lawrence Block - The Burglar on the Prowl

"So I volunteered to take the collection, and I got in touch with everybody, and people gave what they wanted, and the average gift was a hundred dollars, and by the time everybody was present and accounted for, the honeymoon fund came to almost nine thousand dollars."

"That's impressive."

"Most people gave me checks," she said, "but more people than I would have guessed gave me cash, and the cash amounted to over twelve hundred. I put the checks in the bank, and I don't know why I didn't do the same with the cash, but there's something about cash, do you know what I mean?"

"Definitely."

"It's like having a secret, or a concealed weapon, or something. It fit neatly into this brown envelope, and I tucked it away in the freezer, and I liked having it there."

"It beats Pop Tarts."

"And it's less of a temptation in the middle of the night than a pint of Häagen-Dazs. I suppose I would have put it in the bank eventually, but for the time being I figured it was fine where it was. And I sort of forgot about it. When I first started checking things to see what was missing, when I checked my wallet and counted the cash in it, I didn't even think of the money in the freezer. Maybe that's a sign all by itself that there was something wrong with me."

"Doesn't sound alarming to me. It slipped your mind, that's all."

"Or maybe it was my mind that was doing the slipping. Anyway, yesterday after I checked my jewelry drawer I thought about the wedding. The way we worked it, I was supposed to write one big check to cover everybody's contribution, and I'd done that, and mailed it in plenty of time so that they'd have it in the bank before the wedding and honeymoon. But getting packed for the wedding made me think about the check, and that made me think of the cash, and I got this sinking feeling in my stomach and went to the freezer."

"I guess it wasn't there, or you wouldn't be telling me about it."

"I took everything out of the freezer, including a beef brisket I never get around to cooking, and it's probably like frozen mastodon meat, it's been in there so long. I really searched, because I so much wanted the money to be there. I mean, I was probably ready for a new electric shaver anyway, and when am I ever going to wear a class ring from Bennett High? But twelve hundred dollars is a lot of money."

"Sure it is."

"And I felt really stupid for keeping it there in the first place. I'd put the checks in the bank right away, and it would have been the easiest thing in the world to do the same with the cash. But no, I had to hang on to it. Cold cash, frozen assets-God, I was so damn stupid."

"Cut it out," I said. "You know what you're doing? You're blaming the victim. You didn't do anything wrong. Some unprincipled son of a bitch"-Bernie by name, I thought-"stole something from you, and you think it's your fault. It's not. It's his."

"If the money hadn't been there-"

"But it was, and it had every right to be, and he had no right to take it. If you'd left it in plain sight on the kitchen table you could blame yourself, maybe, but you didn't. You put it in the freezer where he had no business looking, and he poked around and found it and took it. Barbara, it's really not your fault, and it certainly doesn't mean you're losing your grip on reality."

"I know," she said, and swallowed. "There's more."

"Oh?"

"When I got home this afternoon," she said, "I opened the freezer. Don't ask me why."

"Okay."

"No, I know why. I had the harebrained thought that maybe it would be there this time. So I opened the freezer."

"And?"

"And there it was."

Right where I'd left it the previous afternoon, while she was out on Long Island. "You're kidding," I said. "So it had been there all along, huh?"

"Bernie, I swear I took everything out of the freezer. Everything."

"Even the mastodon meat."

"Everything. I stood there looking into this completely empty compartment, and it even crossed my mind that it would be a good time to defrost it, but instead I put everything back. That money wasn't there, Bernie."

"Okay."

"Do you believe me?"

"Sure."

"And it's there now. Do you want to see it?"

"No, why would I want to see it?"

"So you'll know I'm not crazy. Except you'll know the opposite, that I am crazy. Here, I want to show you. See? Do you want to count it?"

I put a hand on her arm to steady her. "Put it away," I urged.

"It comes to exactly twelve hundred and forty dollars. Are you sure you don't want to count it?"

"I'm positive."

"It must have been there all along. It couldn't go away and come back. But how could I have missed it?"

There were, I told her, any number of logical explanations. She challenged me to name one.

"The money could have dematerialized," I said. "Then it reappeared."

"Something like that could happen?"

"Who's to say it couldn't? Look at it this way, Barbara. If you hadn't checked yesterday, it could have dematerialized and reappeared without your knowing anything had happened."

"But things don't dematerialize. Nothing ever dematerialized before."

"I had a pint of Häagen-Dazs do just that once. It was gone, and I swear I didn't touch it."

"I'm serious."

"Well, don't be," I said. "I'll tell you what most likely happened. You were preoccupied and panicky when you looked for the money yesterday. It was there, and you took it out of the freezer along with the rest of the food, and it just didn't register that that's what it was. And when you put everything back, it was still just another Stouffer's TV dinner for all the notice you gave it. It was right in front of your eyes, but you didn't see it, and that happens all the time."

"And it's not a sign of Alzheimer's? Or a brain tumor?"

"Afraid not."

"I know you're right," she said. "That must be what happened. Although I sort of like your first theory, about dematerialization and all. Poof! It's gone. Poof! Poof! It's back."

"Ricky Jay does stuff like that all the time. It's just magic."

"Well, that explains it. You know what? I feel better now. Where should we eat?"

We ate at a French place, where she put away a big dish of cassoulet while I had the steak frites. We each had a dry Rob Roy first-I ordered one, and she thought it sounded like a good idea. We decided our dishes called for a robust red, and agreed on a Nuits St.-Georges that turned out to be a splendid choice. It may not have been the meal I'd envisioned in the imaginary weekend in Paris I'd suggested to Carolyn, but there was nothing wrong with it.

I grabbed the check, but she insisted we split it, and sounded as though she really meant it. She got out a credit card. I had plenty of cash, so I let her charge the whole thing and gave her my half in green.

She brandished the bills before putting them away. "I'm a little nervous," she said. "Are you sure they're not going to dematerialize on me?"

"Always a risk."

Back on 36th Street, she led the way up the two flights of stairs and had a little trouble getting the key into the uppermost lock. Let me, I might have said, and taken the keys from her, and unlocked the locks for her. But of course I didn't do that, and the key slipped in and the lock turned.

And she had no trouble at all getting the second key into the bottom lock. It went right in as if drawn by a magnet, or an irresistible impulse. But then it wouldn't turn.

"Damn," she said, and forced it, and of course it snapped in the lock.

"Oh, hell," she said. "Look what I did? Shit piss fuck. Pardon my Latvian, but what a stupid thing to do." She looked at the lock, looked at what was left of the key. "I don't believe this. We'll have to call a fucking locksmith. God fucking dammit."

A curious calm settled over me, though I'll be damned if I know why. I took hold of her shoulders, said "Easy, easy" with the certitude of a horse whisperer, and moved her gently to one side. I drew my tools from my pocket, selected a small pair of needlenose pliers of the finest German steel, and extracted the broken-off bit of key from where it was lodged. I presented it for inspection like a dentist with a drawn molar, dropped it into my outside breast pocket, and bent to the all too familiar task of opening her lock.