The Burglar in the Closet - By Lawrence Block Page 0,44
air like smog. I made up a name for myself, something like John Doe but not quite that original, and then I looked at that hair appointment card again as if something on it would inspire me, and he extended a hand.
“Let’s see that,” he said.
It didn’t have any of the information I’d been making up. All it had was Jillian’s address and number on one side and some crap about an appointment with Keith on the other. And there was his great paw, beckoning.
I started to hand him the card. Then I stopped, and let out a horrible groan, and clapped my hand, card and all, to my chest.
“What in—”
“Air!” I croaked. “Air! I’m dying!”
“What the hell is—”
“My heart!”
“Look—”
“My pills!”
“Pills? I don’t—”
“Air!”
He held the door open. I took a step outside, doubled over, coughing, and then I took another step, and then I straightened up and ran like a sonofabitch.
CHAPTER
Thirteen
Happily, Walter Ignatius Grabow wasn’t in the habit of spending his evenings loping around Gramercy Park. If I’d had a long-distance runner chasing after me I wouldn’t have stood a chance. As it was, I don’t think he even made an effort. I had a few steps on him and took him utterly by surprise, and while I didn’t stop to see whether he was pounding the pavement after me, I did hear his yells of “Hey!” and “What the hell?” and “Where you going, damn it?” trailing off behind me. They trailed rather sharply, suggesting that he merely stood in place and hollered while I ran, appropriately enough, like a thief.
Unhappily, I wasn’t a jogger either, and by the time I’d managed a couple of blocks on sheer adrenaline stimulated by rank cowardice, I was clutching my chest in earnest and holding onto a lamppost with my other hand. My heart was hammering in a distinctly unhealthy fashion and I couldn’t catch my breath, but the old master painter was nowhere to be seen, so that meant I was safe. Two cops wanted me for murder and another cop wanted half the jewels I hadn’t stolen, but at least I wasn’t going to get beaten to death by a crazy artist, and that was something.
When I could breathe normally again I found my way to a bar on Spring Street. There was nothing artsy about the place or the old men in cloth caps who sat drinking shots and beers. It had been doing business long before SoHo got a face-lift, and the years had given it a cozy feel and a homey smell that was composed of equal parts of stale beer, imperfect plumbing, and wet dog. I ordered a glass of beer and spent a long time sipping it. Two gentlemen a few stools over were remembering how Bobby Thompson’s home run won the 1951 pennant for the Giants. They were the New York Giants then, and as far as my fellow drinkers were concerned it all happened the day before yesterday.
“It was Ralph Branca threw that pitch. Bobby Thompson, he hit it a ton. What I always wondered is how Ralph Branca felt about it.”
“Made himself immortal,” the other said. “You wouldn’t be remembering Ralph Branca but for that pitch he served up.”
“Oh, go on.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Me forget Ralph Branca? Now go on.”
When my beer was gone I went to the phone at the back and tried Jillian’s number. While it rang I thought of things to say to Craig when he answered, but he didn’t and neither did anybody else. After eight or ten rings I retrieved my dime and got Craig’s home number from Information. It rang three times and he picked it up.
“Hi,” I said. “I got a toothache. Let me talk to Jillian, will you?”
There was a long and thoughtful pause. Pensive, you might say. Then he said, “Sheesh, Bern, you’re really cool.”
“Like a burpless cucumber.”
“You’re something else, Bern. Where are you calling from? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
“You do not want de information?”
“Who are you supposed to be?”
“Peter Lorre. I know it’s not very good. I do a pretty good Bogart, shweetheart, but my Peter Lorre’s strictly Amateur Night. Let me talk to Jillian.”
“She’s not here.”
“Where is she?”
“Home, I suppose. How should I know?”
“You were over there before.”
“How did you—oh, you were the wrong number. Listen, Bernie, I don’t think we should be having this conversation.”
“You figure the line is tapped, eh, shweetheart?”
“Jesus, cut it out.”
“It’s not a bad Bogart impression.”
“Just cut out the whole thing, will you?