Lawrence Block - The Burglar on the Prowl

I went into the bank, sat at the appropriate desk, and signed William Johnson on the signature card. That was the name I'd taken the box under, purposely picking something eminently forgettable, although I didn't have to worry about forgetting it myself. Bill Johnson was my scoutmaster when I was in Troop Seven, and I always liked the man. I was as surprised as anyone when those stories got around.

The bank officer had never seen me before, but she compared my signature to the others on the card, and led me into the vault and used my key and hers to get my box out. It was a large one, at least ten times the size of Carolyn's, but it was easy for Ms. Chang to carry because it was empty. I never keep anything in it for any length of time, because it's only safe from other thieves, not from the cops or the IRS, who can get a court order to open it with no trouble at all. The only reason they've never opened my box is that they don't know about it, but sooner or later they'll find out, and I want it to be empty when that happens. So I only use it as a temporary cache, where I can stow something while I figure out a better place for it. If I'd had my hidey-hole it would have gone there, but for now it could sit in the vault.

Ms. Chang led me to the little room where I locked myself in and transferred an even $125,000 to it from the Ultrasuede attaché case I was carrying. My full share had come to just under $135,000, but I'd already spent some of that, and the rest of it was in Carolyn's tub, hiding out under the Kitty Litter.

That left Marty's share, which was still in the attaché case when I left the bank. It came to just over $35,000, enough to justify another cab down to the bookstore. I opened up, but didn't bother with the bargain table, as it was getting on for eleven by then and I'd only be dragging it inside in another hour. Carolyn had already fed Raffles, though that didn't stop him from rubbing against my ankles, trying to hustle me out of an extra can of Nine Lives. It works more often than not, but this time I didn't fall for it.

I opened the attaché case and got out the material Carolyn had downloaded from a few different Internet sites and printed out for me. I'd scanned it earlier, but I gave the several sheets of paper a closer reading this time around, while the world of readers and book collectors failed to beat a path to my door. I was going through the material a second time when the bell above the door announced a customer.

"Welcome," I said, without looking up. "Have a look around, and let me know if there's anything I can help you with."

"Not much chance of that, Bernie. Far as I can see, there's nothin' here but books. Whatcha lookin' at?"

"Nothing interesting, Ray. Just printed matter, like a book but without the binding." I folded what I was reading and moved it out of harm's way. He tried to get a look at it without being too obvious about it, failing in both respects, but did notice my attaché case on the floor behind the counter.

"Nice briefcase," he said. "I think I seen it before."

"Well, it's possible. I've had it for years."

"Got any bunnies in there, Bernie?"

"Bunnies? In an attaché case?"

"Like I said, I seen it before, an' more'n once you've been known to yank a rabbit out of it. If you're gonna do it again, I want to be around when it happens."

"It seems unlikely," I said, "but if any rabbits are yanked, you'll have a front row seat."

"Back row's better, Bernie. So's I can block the doors." He leaned in, dropped his voice. There were no customers in the store, but maybe he didn't want Raffles listening in. "I ran the prints on that shaver. You can have it back, but I'd get a new one if I was you. The case is cracked an' it don't work."

"I know. Did you get an ID on the prints? That was fast."

"Computers," he said. "They speed up everything, even the response time from Washington. Course it's even faster when you don't have to go to Washington, which is the case if the prints match up with somebody local that we already got a sheet on."

"I thought they might."

"There were some partials, probably a woman's from the size of 'em. They didn't ring a bell, an' I didn't send ' em to DC on account of I figured the others were what you were interested in. They were the ones on top, an' they were nice an' clear, an' they damn well did ring a bell. The name William Johnson mean anythin' to you?"

"Not a thing."

"Yeah, right. You better not play poker, Bernie. The other players'll know what you got before you do. Well, this Johnson's the last person to handle the damn thing. Is that what you figured?"

I should have expected something like this, given the run of coincidence I'd had all along. And it was a common name, which was why I'd picked it for my safe-deposit box. Even so, I hadn't expected it to come up less than an hour after my first visit to the box in ages.

"It couldn't be the same William Johnson," I said. "The reason I reacted-"

"I'll say you reacted. You looked like you swallowed a bad clam."

"That was my scoutmaster's name when I was in the Boy Scouts, Ray. William Johnson. I was just thinking of him not an hour ago."

"Yeah?"

"And he got in trouble, so he could have had a sheet. But it wasn't in New York, so I don't think it could be the same man. How old is the one who left his prints on the shaver?"

"Thirty-four."

"Different person. The man I knew, well, he'd have to be in his sixties by now. This one has a record? I can't say I'm surprised."

"What do you know about him, Bernie?"

"Until a minute ago," I said, "I didn't even know his name."

He looked at me for a moment, then shrugged. "Okay," he said. "I ain't sayin' I believe you, but you found that book about the quarterback, so maybe you know what you're doin'. This Johnson's been arrested half a dozen times, charged with assault an' menacin' an' a few counts of disorderly conduct. What he is, he's a pain in the ass."

"Has he done time?"

"You only do time if you're convicted. He never even went to trial. His uncle's Michael Quattrone, an' I think you probably heard of him."

"Investments," I said.

"That's what he calls it. He's been associated with some boiler-room operations over the years, where they got a bunch of guys workin' the phones, lettin' you in on the ground floor for some stock they're pushin'. Soon as you bite it goes straight to the basement. Guy's mobbed up, an' we think he's runnin' a laundry for his friends."

"Laundering money, you mean."

"You want to get your shirts washed, take 'em to the Chinaman down the street. You want to make some drug money look like you came by it honest, maybe Quattrone can help you out. No indication this Johnson's a part of it, beyond takin' a desk an' phone in the boiler room now an' then. He's Quattrone's sister's kid, an' that means anytime we pick him up he gets a lawyer who's real good at makin' charges go away. Mostly he picks up jobs when he needs 'em, workin' for a truckin' company, or as a bouncer at a nightclub."

"A mover and shaker," I said. "You happen to know where he lives?"

"Last address we got's in the West Fifties. You want it?"

When Ray had left, after reminding me that he wanted to be there at rabbit-pulling time, I hauled out the phone book and had a look. There was no shortage of Johnsons, and a fair number of them were Johnson William or Johnson W, but none showed the West 53rd Street address Ray had supplied. I wasn't hugely surprised. Johnson's last address was almost three years ago, and somehow I didn't see him as the type to stay in one place long enough to put down roots.

I picked up the John Sandford novel, found my place, and stepped right back into the more logical world of Lucas Davenport. But I had to leave after a couple of pages, because it was time for my lunch with Marty.