The Burglar Who Liked to Quote Kipling - By Lawrence Block Page 0,18
up in the White Pages, but I’d earned a fortune the night before and I felt like sharing the wealth.
The attendant at the Martingale Club said he didn’t believe Mr. Whelkin was on the premises but that he’d page him all the same. Time scuttled by. The attendant reported mournfully that Mr. Whelkin had not responded to the page, and would I care to leave a message? I decided not to.
A couple of browsers filtered into the store. One of them looked potentially larcenous and I kept an eye on him as he worked his way through Biography and Belles-Lettres. He surprised me in the end by spending a few dollars on a volume of Macaulay’s historical essays.
Carolyn popped in a few minutes after noon and deposited a paper bag on the counter. “Felafel sandwiches on pita bread,” she announced. “I decided I was in the mood for something different. You like felafel?”
“Sure.”
“I went to that place at the corner of Broadway and Twelfth. I can’t figure out whether the owner’s an Arab or an Israeli.”
“Does it matter?”
“Well, I’d hate to say the wrong thing. I was going to wish him a happy Rosh Hashanah, but suppose that’s the last thing he wants to hear? So I just took my change and split.”
“That’s always safe.”
“Uh-huh. You missed a terrific meal last night. I ate half the stew and froze the rest and started watching the new sitcom about the three cheerleaders. I turned the sound off and it wasn’t half bad. But I got to bed early and I got a ton of sleep and I feel great.”
“You look it.”
“You, on the other hand, look terrible. Is that what a night on club soda does to a person?”
“Evidently.”
“Maybe you got too much sleep. That happens sometimes.”
“So they tell me.”
The phone rang. I went and took it in the little office in back, figuring it was Whelkin. Instead it was a slightly breathless woman who wanted to know if the new Rosemary Rogers book had come in yet. I told her I handled used books exclusively and suggested she call Brentano’s. She asked what their number was and I was reaching for the phone book to look it up when I came to my senses and hung up on her.
I went back to my felafel. Carolyn said, “Something wrong?”
“No. Why?”
“You jumped three feet when the phone rang. The coffee okay?”
“Fine.”
“The felafel?”
“Delicious.”
Mondays and Wednesdays I buy lunch and we eat at the Poodle Factory. Tuesdays and Thursdays Carolyn brings lunch to the bookshop. Fridays we go out somewhere and toss a coin for the check. All of this is subject to last-minute cancellation, of course, in the event of a business luncheon, such as my earlier date with Whelkin.
“Oh,” I said, and finished swallowing a mouthful of felafel. “I haven’t squandered the morning.”
“I never said you had.”
“I did some research. On patron saints.”
“Oh yeah? Who’s my patron saint?”
“I don’t think you’ve got one.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I don’t know. I checked a lot of different books and kept finding partial lists. I don’t know if there’s an official all-inclusive list anywhere.” I groped around, found the notepad I’d been scribbling on earlier. “I told you about St. John of God, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, but I forget what. The store?”
“Patron saint of booksellers. He was born in Portugal in 1495. He worked as a shepherd, then became a drunkard and gambler.”
“Good for him. Then he switched to club soda and became a saint.”
“The books don’t say anything about club soda. At forty he went through a mid-life crisis and moved to Granada. In 1538 he opened a shop—”
“To sell books?”
“I suppose so, but did they have bookstores then? They barely had movable type. Anyway, two years later he founded the Brothers Hospitalers, and ten years later he died, and his picture’s hanging over my desk, if you’d care to see it.”
“Not especially. That’s all you found out?”
“Not at all.” I consulted my notes. “You asked if there was a patron saint of burglars. Well, Dismas is the patron saint of thieves. He was the Good Thief.”
“Yeah, I remember him.”
“He’s also one of the patron saints of prisoners, along with St. Joseph Cafasso. Thieves and prisoners do overlap, although not as thoroughly as you might think.”
“And prisoners need an extra patron saint because they’re in real trouble.”
“Makes sense. A burglar’s a thief, when all is said and done, and there doesn’t seem to be a special burglar’s saint, but there’s always St. Dunstan.”