The Burglar Who Liked to Quote Kipling - By Lawrence Block Page 0,50
hate to get it home and find out it doesn’t work. What do we need a camera for, anyway?”
“To take some pictures.”
“I never would have thought of that. It’s a shame Randy walked in when she did. She’s got one of those new Polaroids, you take the picture and it’s developed before you can let go of the shutter.”
“Randy’s got a Polaroid?”
“That’s what I just said. Didn’t I show you pictures of the cats last week?”
“Probably.”
“Well, she took them. But I can’t ask her to borrow it, because she’s convinced we’re having an affair and she’d probably think I wanted us to take obscene pictures of each other or something. And she’s probably not home, anyway.”
“Call her and see.”
“Are you kidding? I don’t want to talk to her.”
“Hang up if she answers.”
“Then why call in the first place?”
“Because if she’s not home,” I said, “we can go pick up the camera.”
“Beautiful.” She reached for the phone, then sighed and let her hand drop. “You’re forgetting something. Remember last night? I gave her keys back.”
“So?”
“Huh?”
“Who needs keys?”
She looked at me, laughed, shook her head, “Far out,” she said, and reached for the phone.
Randy lived in a tiny studio on the fifth floor of a squat brick apartment house on Morton Street between Seventh Avenue and Hudson. There’s an article in the New York building code requiring an elevator in every structure of seven or more stories. This one was six stories tall, and up the stairs we went.
The locks were candy. They wouldn’t have been much trouble if I’d been limited to my drugstore tools. Now that I had my pro gear, I went through them like the Wehrmacht through Luxembourg. When the penny dropped and the final lock snicked open, I looked up at Carolyn. Her mouth was wide open and her blue eyes were larger than I’d ever seen them.
“God,” she said. “It takes me longer than that when I’ve got the keys.”
“Well, they’re cheap locks. And I was showing off a little. Trying to impress you.”
“It worked. I’m impressed.”
We were in and out quicker than Speedy Gonzales. The camera was where Carolyn thought it would be, in the bottom drawer of Randy’s dresser. It nestled in a carrying case with a shoulder strap, and an ample supply of film reposed in the case’s zippered film compartment. Carolyn hung the thing over her shoulder, I locked the locks, and we were on our way home.
I’d told Ray I would call him in half an hour and I didn’t miss by more than a few minutes. He answered the phone himself this time. “Your friend moves around,” he said.
“Huh?”
“The guy with the three phone numbers. He covers a lot of ground. The Rhinelander number’s a sidewalk pay phone on the corner of Seventy-fifth and Madison. The Chelsea number’s also a pay phone. It’s located in the lobby of the Gresham Hotel. That’s on Twenty-third between Fifth and Sixth.”
“Hold on,” I said, scribbling furiously. “All right. How about the Worth number?”
“Downtown. I mean way downtown, in the Wall Street area. Twelve Pine Street.”
“Another lobby phone?”
“Nope. An office on the fourteenth floor. A firm called Tontine Trading Corp. Bern, let’s get back to the coat, huh? You said ranch mink, didn’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“What did you say the color was?”
“Silver-blue.”
“And it’s full-fashioned? You’re sure of that?”
“Positive. You can’t go wrong with this one, Ray. It’s carrying an Arvin Tannenbaum label, and that’s strictly carriage trade.”
“When can I have it?”
“In plenty of time for Christmas, Ray. No problem.”
“You son of a bitch. What are you givin’ me? You haven’t got the coat.”
“Of course not. I retired, Ray. I gave up burglary. What would I be doing with a hot coat?”
“Then where’d the coat come from?”
“I’m going to get it for you, Ray. After I get myself out of the jam I’m in.”
“Suppose you don’t get out of it, Bern? Then what?”
“Well, you better hope I do,” I said, “or else the coat’s down the same chute as your twenty-buck bet on Wake Forest.”
CHAPTER
Sixteen
I cabbed uptown for the Pontiac. By the time I brought it downtown again Carolyn had familiarized herself with the intricacies of the Polaroid camera. She proved this by clicking the shutter at me as I came through the door. The picture popped out and commenced developing before my eyes. I looked startled, and guilty of something or other. I told Carolyn I wasn’t going to order any enlargements.
“You’re a better model than the cats,” she said. “Ubi wouldn’t sit still and