The Burglar on the Prowl - By Lawrence Block Page 0,33
when I have the most urgent need for an attorney. I’d called Klein, who’d served me in that capacity for many years, only to learn that, in the time since I’d last had the need for him, the man had died. You don’t figure your lawyer’s going to do that, and it threw me, but I wound up with Wally, who was training for the New York marathon. And I have to say I was glad of that, because I figured it would keep the weight off and the cardiovascular system in tiptop shape. It takes a while for an habitual felon to bond with his lawyer, so you want to pick a guy who’s going to be around for the long haul.
Wally went on training for marathons, and running them, until he blew out a knee. Then he met a nice girl and got married, and they had a kid, and then either he found out she wasn’t so nice after all, or she found out he wasn’t, or the discovery was mutual. They got a divorce and she packed up the kid and moved to Arizona, where she’d apprenticed herself to a potter. “She’s throwing clay pots,” Wally said, “and as long as she’s not throwing them at me, I say the best of luck to her.”
After the divorce he’d taken up martial arts, and you can make of that what you will. It didn’t stress his bum knee, and the skills he developed gave him increased self-confidence when dealing with some of his less savory clients, but the chief benefit, he assured me, was spiritual. “You’ve got to try it,” he told me. “It’ll change your life.”
I’d tried running, though I never got to the marathon level, and I have to say it had changed my life. It made me feel better, and I stuck with it for a few years, and then I stopped, and that made me feel better all over again. When I’ve got more time, I told Wally, and he gave me the knowing smile of the spiritually advanced human being. “When you’re ready, Bernie,” he said gently. “You just let me know.”
He showed up downtown at One Police Plaza, which is where Ray had taken me, and by late afternoon he had me out of there, and took me around the corner to a teahouse one flight up from a store that sold lacquered Chinese furniture. We sat at one of those low tables with a recess in the floor for your feet, and a little slip of a girl came over and taught us how to make tea. I’d never needed instructions in the past, I just dropped the tea bag in the cup and poured hot water on top of it, but this was a more elaborate procedure involving a pot full of water with a can of Sterno under it to keep it at the boiling point, and a whole system for making the tea in small batches which we were supposed to drink from these tiny china eyecups.
“This is the real stuff,” Wally said, knocking back a quarter of an ounce of liquid the approximate color of tears. “Drink up, Bernie.”
I did, and noted the extreme subtlety of the flavor. It tasted, I have to say, an awful lot like water.
“Amazing, right? And there’s no place like it this side of Hong Kong.”
“Really? You’d think there’d be a line halfway around the block.”
“That’s the thing,” he said. “Nobody knows about it. Bernie, they’ve got nothing. That’s why they cut you loose without putting up much of a fight. I mean, what have they got? They can prove you were within a few blocks of the place around the time those people were being robbed and murdered. Well, so were several thousand other people. They can’t establish that you were in the building, let alone the penthouse apartment where the crime took place. I’ve got to wonder what Kirschmann was thinking of, hauling you in when he knew they couldn’t hold you. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Well, unless they turn something up searching your apartment.”
“They’re searching my apartment?”
“’Fraid so, Bernie. The fact that they had you in custody persuaded some tame judge they had grounds for a warrant, and they’re over there right now. You don’t look happy. Want to tell me what they’re likely to find?”
“Nothing illegal,” I said. There’s a Mondrian on the wall, and it happens to be an original, but everyone assumes it’s a copy, and it’s been