The Burglar Who Thought He Was Bogart - By Lawrence Block Page 0,17
a good choice on a first date. What are you going to see?”
“A double feature. Chain Lightning and Tokyo Joe.”
“Did they just open?”
“Not exactly.”
“Because I never heard of them. Chain Lightning and Tokyo Joe? Who’s in them? Anybody I ever heard of?”
“Humphrey Bogart.”
“Humphrey Bogart? The Humphrey Bogart?”
“It’s a film festival,” I explained. “It’s at the Musette Theater two blocks from Lincoln Center. Tonight’s the first night, and I’m meeting her at the box office at a quarter to seven.”
“The program starts at seven?”
“Seven-thirty. But she wants to make sure we get good seats. She’s never seen either of these films.”
“Have you, Bern?”
“No, but—”
“Because neither have I, and what’s the big deal? I never even heard of them.”
“She’s a major Bogart fan,” I said. “She learned English by watching his films over and over again.”
“I bet every other word out of her mouth is ‘You dirty rat.’”
“That’s Jimmy Cagney.”
“‘Play it again, Sam.’ That’s Humphrey Bogart, right?”
“It’s close.”
“‘You played it for her, you can play it for me. I can take it if she can.’ Right?”
“Right.”
“That’s what I thought. What do you mean, she learned to speak English? Where did she grow up?”
“Europe.”
“Where in Europe?”
“Just Europe,” I said.
“Just Europe? I mean, France or Spain or Czechoslovakia or Sweden or, uh—”
“Of the four you mentioned,” I said, “my vote would go to Czechoslovakia. But I can’t really narrow it down because we didn’t get into that.” I recapped our conversation, leaving out the dietary excesses of the Tierra del Fuegans. “There was a lot that went unspoken,” I explained, “a lot of significant glances, a lot of nuance, a lot of, uh—”
“Heat,” she suggested.
“I was going to say romance.”
“Even better, Bern. I’m a sucker for romance. So you’re meeting her at the Musette and you’re going to see two old movies back to back. I don’t suppose they’ll be colorized, will they?”
“Bite your tongue.”
“And then what? Dinner?”
“I suppose so.”
“Unless you both pig out on popcorn. So you’ll be getting out of the theater around ten-thirty or eleven and you’ll grab something in the neighborhood. Then what? Her place or yours?”
“Carolyn—”
“If the Musette’s just a couple of blocks from Lincoln Center,” she said, “then it’s not much more than a couple of blocks from your place, because your place is just a couple of blocks from Lincoln Center. But maybe her place is just as convenient. Where does she live, Bern?”
“I didn’t ask her.”
“So you’re saying she lives in New York, right? She comes from Europe and she lives in New York, and you haven’t managed to narrow down either of the parameters any more than that.”
“Carolyn, we only just met.”
“You’re right, Bern. I’m being silly. I’m probably just jealous, because God knows I could use a mystery woman in my life. Anyway, if she’s a mystery woman, it’s more interesting if there are things you don’t know about her.”
“I guess so.”
“And you know the important things. She’s beautiful and she likes Humphrey Bogart.”
“Right.”
“And she comes from Europe, and she lives here now. What’s her name, Bern?”
“Uh,” I said.
There was a pause. “Hey, what’s a name, anyway, Bern? You know what they say about a rose. Hey, maybe that’s it.”
“Huh?”
“Rose. Lots of European women are named Rose, and they’d smell as sweet even if they weren’t. Bernie, have a great time, you hear? And I want a full report at lunch tomorrow. Or call me tonight, if it’s not too late. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said. “Sure.”
CHAPTER
Five
Two weeks later it was Wednesday again, and it was still May, and a little before one o’clock I hung the clock sign on my door to let the world of book lovers know I’d be back at two. Ten minutes later I was at the Poodle Factory with lunch for two.
I opened containers and dished out the food while Carolyn locked up and hung her own CLOSED sign in the window. She sat down opposite me and studied her plate. “Looks good,” she said, and sniffed. “Smells okay, too. What have we got here, Bern?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“It’s the daily special,” I said.
“And you didn’t even ask what it was?”
“I asked,” I said, “and the guy answered, and I have no idea what he said.”
“So you ordered it.”
I nodded. “‘Give me two of them,’ I said, ‘with brown rice.’”
“This is white rice, Bern.”
“I guess they only had white rice,” I said. “Or maybe he didn’t understand me. I didn’t understand a word he said, so why should I expect him to understand everything I said?”