Lawrence Block - The Burglar on the Prowl

"Close to Ploughman's Bush," I said, "if that helps. They call it a close because it's closed at one end."

"You mean like a dead-end street? Why not come out and say so?"

"I suppose they could have," I said, "but I guess the developers felt it would be harder to sell houses on Devonshire Dead End."

"Either way, it's a Roach Motel for cars. They get in but they can't get out. I don't know if that's good or bad."

"I don't either, Ray. I'm starting to have third thoughts about the whole business."

"You mean second thoughts, don't you?"

"I already had those. I've taken it to the next level. The whole thing could fizzle."

"You mean you might not come up with a rabbit?"

"I'm not even sure I've got a hat."

He looked troubled, perhaps imagining how he'd come out of it if my magic act fell flat. Then he brightened. "Aw, you'll pull it off, Bernie. You always do. An' if you don't, well, hell, there's names on this list we could just arrest on general principles."

I made some more phone calls during the rest of Tuesday afternoon, and even went out to issue a couple of invitations in person. I met Carolyn at the Bum Rap, talked some more about the following day's agenda, and went straight home. I was in bed by 7:45, and asleep by 7:46. I slept the clock around, waking up a few minutes after eight.

I showered and shaved. I broke some eggs in a bowl, swirled them with a whisk, tossed in some shredded cheese and a pinch of celery salt, added a soupçon of curry powder, and made better scrambled eggs than I could have gotten around the corner. I made coffee, too, and there was nothing wrong with that, either.

Washing up, I caught myself whistling, and was amused to realize the melody was that of "Put on a Happy Face." I checked the mirror, and damned if I hadn't followed the song's advice. If my face looked any happier I could get a job as a village idiot.

I felt, I realized, uncommonly good-rested, of course, but also energized and optimistic. I was in high gear, and I felt as though nothing could stop me.

Of course I hadn't left the house yet.

There was a bell, of course, but I used the lion's head door knocker and gave it a couple of good thumps. I heard footsteps, and then the door opened, and the man who'd opened it must have whistled a different tune at the breakfast table, because the face he was wearing didn't look much like a smile button. I could only hope he didn't have a gun in his pocket, because he didn't appear at all glad to see me.

"Mr. Rothenberg," he said.

Well, a lot of people get it wrong. Aside from relatives, I've never come across another Rhodenbarr. I suspect the name was the gift of an overworked immigration officer at Ellis Island, but what it may have been before then is anybody's guess. People who hear it are apt to turn it into something else, while people who encounter it in print tend to mispronounce it. I don't know why, it's simple enough, ROAD-in-bar, but for some folks it turns into a tongue-twister.

"It's Rhodenbarr," I said. "And you're Dr. Mapes."

He was, but my saying so didn't make him visibly happier. Aside from the downcast expression, I'd have to say he looked pretty good. I knew he was around Marty's age, but his face was younger than his years, with no pouches under the eyes, no loose skin hanging like crepe on his neck, and a minimum of the little lines that life etches into people's faces.

His hair was dark, too, and he had a full head of it. Younger than his years, I thought, but they showed in the stoop of his shoulders and the liver spots on the backs of his hands. He might have sipped from the fountain of youth, and even splashed some of its waters on his face, but he hadn't gone for full-body immersion.

He led me inside to the living room, where his wife was waiting. She'd set out a plate of sandwiches with their crusts cut off, along with a thermos of coffee and a pair of bone china cups and saucers. She invited me to make myself at home, and said she'd just leave us men alone, as she had to be off right away if she was going to be on time for her afternoon bridge game.

I decided that Mrs. Mapes, like her husband, looked young for her age, and then I wondered how I could know that, since I had no way of knowing how old she was. Then I worked it out that her face, firm and unlined, looked younger than the rest of her. She had a dumpy figure and an old lady's walk, but if you just looked at her face…

And then, of course, the penny dropped. The man was a plastic surgeon, for God's sake. You'd expect him to give his wife the most youthful face his craft could furnish. And, while he would hardly operate on himself, surely he'd avail himself of the services of a skilled colleague. It wouldn't inspire confidence in a prospective patient to confront a plastic surgeon with his face sagging halfway to his waist, with a wart here and a wart there and deep wrinkles all around. It would be as disconcerting as a visit to a snaggle-toothed dentist. But the occasional nip and tuck, along with periodic injections of Botox, could make the years go away. Mapes's own face was his own best advertisement.

And as for the hair, dark and abundant…well, damned if the old goat wasn't wearing a rug. It was a very good one, but once I looked for it I could spot it for what it was, and right away I felt a lot more in control of the situation. Nothing gives you the upper hand like knowing the other guy is wearing somebody else's hair.

We stood around until Mrs. Mapes had backed out of the driveway and driven off. Then he pointed to the spread on the coffee table. "My wife insisted on this," he said. "She believes in applying a veneer of sociability to an essentially commercial transaction, and in this instance a distasteful one at that. But help yourself to sandwiches and coffee, if you like."

"That's awfully gracious of you," I said, "but I've got a better idea. Why don't you clear all that out of here. There isn't nearly enough to go around, and I'd hate for any of the others to feel left out."

"Others?"

"I guess I forgot to tell you," I said. "Company's coming. Let's see, we've got the sofa and the love seat and those chairs. We're going to need more chairs. Why don't you give me a hand, and for starters we'll bring in the six ladderbacks from the dining room."

"What are you talking about? I don't want any other people coming here."

"You didn't even want me," I said, "but that's the way it goes. They're on their way, and I couldn't stop them now even if I wanted to. Come on, Doc. Don't just stand there looking young. Grab a chair."

I'd come up on the subway arriving right on schedule at one o'clock. It took a while to fill the living room with chairs, and we'd barely finished before the early birds began to show up for their worms. They kept coming, by ones or twos or threes, and I took over the duties of our reluctant host, meeting them at the door and ushering them to their seats. Most of them just went where I pointed them and waited in patient silence, but now and then somebody wanted to know just what the hell was going on. I told them more would be revealed.

Barbara Creeley was there, and so was Lacey Kavinoky, and neither knew what to make of the other's presence. GurlyGurl turned out to be every bit as attractive as Carolyn had said, and closer to Laura Ashley than L. L. Bean. She sat next to Carolyn on the love seat, but had drawn a few inches away from her when Barbara arrived.

Ray showed up with a trio in tow, including William Johnson (the date-rape artist, not the safe-deposit boxholder) and a pair of police officers, out of uniform but unmistakable all the same. One was a woman, and you could still tell she was a cop. I don't know what it is that gives them away. Maybe it's the way they stare at people without the least embarrassment.