Lawrence Block - Burglars Can’t Be Choosers

I kept walking, and a block farther on he ducked into a saloon and that was the end of him. He was just another poor bastard looking for a drink.

I walked to Columbus Circle and took a subway home. Well, to my home away from home, anyway. This time I had less difficulty finding Bethune Street. It was right where I left it. I opened the downstairs door about as quickly as I could have managed if I had a key to it, scampered up the four miserable flights of stairs, and was in Rod’s apartment in no time at all. I had no trouble with the three locks because I hadn’t had a key to lock them with when I left. Only the spring lock was engaged, and I loided it with a strip of flexible steel, an operation that honestly takes less time than opening it with a key.

Then I fastened all the locks and went to bed. I hadn’t accomplished a thing and I’d taken any number of brainless chances, but all the same I lay there in Rod’s bed and felt pleased with myself. I’d gone out on the street instead of hiding, I’d gone through the motions of taking some responsibility for myself.

It felt good.

She didn’t have to knock any plants over the next morning. I was awake and out of bed a few minutes after nine. I took a shower and looked around for something to shave with. Rod had left his second-string razor behind. I found it in the medicine chest hiding behind an empty Band-Aid box. It was an obsolete Gillette that hadn’t been used in at least a year and hadn’t been cleaned in at least a year and a day. The old blade was still in it and so was the crud and whiskers from Rod’s last shave with it. I held it under the faucet stream, but that was like trying to sweep out the Augean stables with a child’s toy broom.

I decided to call Ruth and ask her to bring things like toothpaste and a toothbrush and shaving gear. I looked up Hightower in the Manhattan white pages and found it was a commoner name than I would have guessed, but none of the Hightowers were named Ruth or lived on Bank Street. I called Information and an operator with a Latin accent assured me that there were no listings in that name or on that street. After I’d put the phone down I told myself there was no reason to question the competence of a telephone operator just because English looked to be her second language, but all the same I dialed 411 again and put another operator through the same routine. Her accent was pure dulcet Flatbush and she didn’t do any better at finding Ruth’s number.

I decided she was probably unlisted. What the hell, she wasn’t an actress. Why should she have a listed phone?

I turned on the television set for company, put up a pot of coffee, and went back and looked at the phone some more. I decided to dial my own number to see if there were any cops in the place at the moment. I picked up the phone, then put it down when I realized I wasn’t sure of my number. It was one I never called, since when I was out there was never anybody home. This sort of surprised me; I mean, even if you never call your own number you have to know it to give it out to people. But I guess that doesn’t happen often in my case. Anyway, I looked it up and there it was, and I’m happy to say I recognized it once I saw it. I dialed and nobody answered, which stood to reason, and I put the phone back in its cradle.

I was on my second cup of coffee when I heard footsteps ascending the staircase and approaching the door. She knocked but I let her use her keys. She came in, all bright-eyed and buoyant, carrying a small grocery bag and explaining that she’d brought bacon and eggs. “And you’ve already got coffee made,” she said. “Great. Here’s this morning’s Times. There’s not really anything in it.”

“I didn’t think there would be.”

“I suppose I could have bought the Daily News too but I never do. I figure if anything really important happens the Times will tell me about it. Is this the only frying pan he owns?”

“Unless he took the others on tour with him.”

“He’s not very domestic at all. Well, we’ll have to deal with the material at hand. I’m relatively new at harboring fugitives but I’ll do my best to harbor you in the style to which you are accustomed. Is it called harboring a fugitive if you do it in somebody else’s apartment?”

“It’s called accessory after the fact to homicide,” I said.

“That sounds serious.”

“It ought to.”

“Bernie-”

I took her arm. “I was thinking about that earlier, Ruth. Maybe you ought to bail out.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You could wind up buying a lot of trouble.”

“That’s crazy,” she said. “You’re innocent, aren’t you?”

“The cops don’t think so.”

“They will when we find the real killer for them. Hey, c’mon, Bern! I’ve seen all the old movies, remember? I know the good guys always come through in the end. We’re the good guys, aren’t we?”

“I’d certainly like to think so.”

“Then we’ve got nothing to worry about. Now just tell me how you like your eggs and then get the hell out of here, huh? There’s room for me and the roaches in this kitchen and that’s about all. What are you doing, Bernie?”

“Kissing your neck.”

“Oh. Well, that’s okay, I guess. Actually you could do it some more if you’d like. Hmmmm. You know, that’s sort of nice, Bernie. I could learn to like that.”

We were polishing off the eggs when the phone rang. The service was on the ball and picked up midway through the fourth ring.

Which reminded me. “I tried to call you earlier,” I said, “but your number’s unlisted. Unless you’ve got it listed in your husband’s name or something like that.”

“Oh,” she said. “No, it’s unlisted. Why were you trying to call?”

“Because I need a shave.”

“I noticed. Your face is all scratchy. Actually I sort of like it, but I can see where you’d want to shave.”

I told her about the lack of shaving cream and the state of Rod’s razor. “I thought you could pick them up on your way over here.”

“I’ll go get them now. It’s no trouble.”

“If I’d had your number I could have saved you a trip.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” she said. “I don’t mind. Is there anything else you need?”

I thought of a few things and she made a small list. I took a ten out of my wallet and made her take it. “There’s really no rush,” I said.

“I’d just as soon go now. I was just thinking, Bernie. Maybe it’s not a good idea to use the telephone.”

“Why not?”

“Well, couldn’t the people at the service tell if it was off the hook or if you were talking to someone? I think they could even listen in, couldn’t they?”

“Gee, I don’t know. I’ve never understood just how those things work.”

“And they know Rod’s out of town, and if they knew someone was in his apartment-”

“Ruth, they usually let the phone ring twenty times before they get around to answering it. That’s how efficient they are. The only time they pay attention to a subscriber’s line is when it’s ringing, and even then their attention isn’t too terribly keen.”

“The last time it rang they got it right away.”

“Well, accidents happen, I suppose. But you don’t really think there’s any risk in using the phone, do you?”

“Well-”

“There can’t be.”

But when she went out I found myself standing next to the phone and staring at it as if it were a potential menace. I picked up the receiver and started dialing my own apartment-I remembered the number this time-but halfway through I decided the hell with it and hung up.

While she shopped I did up the breakfast dishes and read the paper. All the Times had to tell me was that I was still at large and I already knew that.