Lawrence Block - The Burglar on the Prowl

"Why would I want to do that?"

"I know his name," I said. "Mine is Bernie Rhodenbarr, and that's all you'd have to know in order to track me down. But his is William Johnson, and he's not the only one in Manhattan."

"You know more about him than I do," she said. "I didn't even know his name until just now. And you still haven't said why I should help you find him."

"He took Barbara home and fed her a couple of Roofies, and when she passed out he raped her."

"Christ in the foothills."

"Then he helped himself to a few souvenirs and went home."

"What a son of a bitch," she said. "I wondered what his game was. I knew there was something creepy about him, but that goes beyond creepy."

"I don't think it's the first time he's used that kind of pharmaceutical assistance," I said, "and I don't think it'll be the last. I'd like to do something about it."

"Jesus, I'll say. Something that involves surgery, I would hope. Hang on a second."

She went down the bar to attend to someone who'd run dry, and I worked on my Laphroaig. "I don't know how you can drink that," she said on her return. "It tastes like medicine to me."

"Strong medicine," I agreed.

"The thing about alcohol," she said, "is it doesn't wear out its welcome. You work in a pizza place, within a couple of months you lose your taste for pizza. You tend bar, you drink as much as ever."

"Have something."

"Not till my shift ends, but thanks. You said you wanted me to help you find God's gift to women. I'm game, but I can't think how. You're not a cop, are you?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. You could be a private eye. I've known six of them, and I swear the only thing they've got in common is the state gave all six of them a license."

"That lets me out," I told her. "They'd never give me one."

"Bad moral fiber?"

"Worse than that. A felony conviction."

"No kidding. It wasn't rape, was it, or something nasty like that? Then I won't ask what for. I still don't know how I can help."

"You could describe the guy. I don't have a clue what he looks like."

"Barbara won't tell you?"

"Barbara doesn't remember a thing."

"Then how in hell do you know his name? And how do I know it's the same guy as the one who hit on me?"

"You saw the two of them leave the bar together, remember?"

"Oh, right. But maybe she ditched him and went somewhere else and picked up some other boy wonder, and he was the one who fed her the Roofies. I just wish you could mention one thing about him so I was sure we were talking about the same person."

"He has a very deep voice."

"Yeah, that's him, the son of a bitch. Now how on earth do you happen to know that?"

"That's confidential."

"Confidential, huh? Hang on." She went away and came back just as I was having another sip of my medicine. "I could describe him," she said. "He's about six-three, very big in the chest and shoulders, with the kind of muscular development you get in the gym, and probably not without anabolic steroids. Biceps like Popeye when he's full of spinach."

"Tall and muscular," I said.

"Dark complexion, as if he goes straight from the gym to the tanning salon. Black hair, and he parts it on the side and slicks it down with mousse or goo or something, so it wouldn't move in a hurricane. Has a big jaw, not enough to remind you of Jay Leno, but it's out there. Eyes are set deep, with a little bit of a slant to them."

"That's a pretty good description."

"You think? It seems to me it would fit a lot of people. You couldn't pick him out of a lineup, could you? Oh, I know!"

She turned around and came back with an order pad and a pencil, tore a sheet from the pad and turned it over on top of the bar. "I took a course," she said. "Drawing on the right side of the brain. The trick is getting into a right-brain mode. Do you mind?" She picked up my glass of Laphroaig and downed it in a single swallow. "Yuck, I don't know how you can stand that stuff. Just give it a minute. Okay, I think I'm shifting into a right-brain frame of mind."

She began sketching, and I watched, fascinated, as Barbara's date-rape date took shape upon the slip of paper. "He's a good-looking guy," I noted. "You wouldn't think he'd have trouble getting girls on his own."

"I suppose so. Not my type, though." She turned the pencil around, erased an area around the mouth, then tried it again. "I like older men."

"He's thirty-four."

"Well, he was born about thirty years too late. 'If you're not gray, please go away.' That's my motto."

"Really."

"Older men know how to treat a woman," she said. "On the one hand they pamper you, and at the same time they see right through your bullshit. They may think it's charming, but they know it's crap. The worst thing about this job is the crowd's too young. I never meet anybody I'm interested in."

"The only older guys I know," I said, "are either married or gay."

"You can keep the gay ones, but married's fine. I'm a lot happier with a man who's got a wife to go home to." She frowned at the drawing, turned it to face me. "It's getting close," she said, "but it's not quite right, and-well, fuck me with a stick." She picked up her drawing, crumpled it in her fist, and flipped it over her shoulder onto the back bar, where it nestled between bottles of Jim Beam and Maker's Mark.

"Hey," I said. "Even if it's not Van Gogh, I could use it."

"You don't need it. Don't turn around, not just yet. You'll never believe who just walked in the door."

Of course I believed it. I should have expected it. With the long arm of coincidence rolling the dice, how could William Johnson fail to make an appearance just as Sigrid was putting the finishing touches on his portrait?

And, granted a look at the original, I have to say she'd turned out an excellent likeness. Up close and in living color, there was a quality of spoiled self-indulgence she hadn't quite captured, a look around the mouth reminiscent of some of the Roman emperors. And not Marcus Aurelius, either. More like Nero, say, or Caligula.

He was wearing a muscle tee, sleeveless to display his delts and triceps and skintight to showcase his pecs, along with tight black jeans to show off his glutes. He had a deep tan already, and it wasn't even summer yet. He surveyed the room purposefully, then headed for the back, where two women were seated together at the bar.

"Here we go," Sigrid said. "He's found his quarry."

"That's if he can split them up."

"If he drugs them," she said, "he may not have to. He can take them both home."

"They've got short hair," I pointed out.

"So? Oh, they might be gay? I don't think so, but once he slips them the Roofies, does it really matter?"

"Good point. What do we do?"

"I don't know. Don't you have a plan?"

"I was going to follow him home," I said, "and find out where he lives. But that won't work if he goes home with them instead."

"And it won't be the evening they're hoping for, either. C'mon."

"C'mon? C'mon and do what?"

"Improvise," she said. "Go help him hit on them while I take care of everybody's drinks."

She was, as I already knew, an actress and a model. She'd also demonstrated an enviable facility for drawing faces. I was willing to believe she had multiple talents, some of the more interesting of which I'd never learn about because I was too young for her. One of them, it turned out, was close-up magic. I don't know how she did it, but after two rounds of drinks Audrey and Claire and I were clearheaded enough to drive an obstacle course, while William Johnson was a coma looking for a place to lie down.

The two women, who'd thought Johnson and I were at least promising, found his sudden lapse into word-slurring eye-rolling idiocy more than a little disconcerting. Sigrid acted as though he pulled this all the time.