The Burglar Who Thought He Was Bogart - By Lawrence Block Page 0,18
up her plastic fork, then changed her mind and chose the chopsticks instead. “Whatever it is, it tastes okay. Where’d you go, Bern?”
“Two Guys.”
“Two Guys From Abidjan? Since when do you get chopsticks with African food? And this doesn’t taste African to me.” She picked up another morsel of food, then paused with it halfway to her mouth. “Besides,” she said, “they closed, didn’t they?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“And just reopened yesterday, under new management. It’s not Two Guys From Abidjan anymore. Now it’s Two Guys From Phnom Penh.”
“Say that again, Bern.” I did. “Phnom Penh,” she said. “Where’s that?”
“Cambodia.”
“What did they do, keep the old sign?”
“Uh-huh. Painted out Abidjan, painted in Phnom Penh.”
“Must have been a tight fit.”
Indeed it was; Two Guys From Phnom Penh was what it looked like. “Cheaper than getting a new sign,” I said.
“I guess. Remember when it was Two Guys From Yemen? And before that it was Two Guys From Someplace Else, but don’t ask me where. It’s got to be a hard-luck location, don’t you think?”
“Must be.”
“I bet there was a restaurant there back when the Dutch owned Manhattan. Two Guys From Rotterdam.” She popped a cube of meat into her mouth and chewed it thoughtfully, then chased it with a swig of Dr. Brown’s Celery Tonic. “Not bad,” she announced. “That was Cambodian food we had up near Columbia, wasn’t it?”
“Angkor Wok,” I said. “Broadway and a Hundred and twenty-third, a Hundred and twenty-fourth, somewhere around there.”
“I think this is better, and God knows it’s handier. I hope they stay in business.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. A few months from now it’ll probably be Two Guys From Kabul.”
“Be a shame, but at least that would fit on the sign. Did you get the celery tonic at Two Guys?”
“No, I stopped at the deli.”
“Because it goes really great with Cambodian food, doesn’t it?”
“Like it was made for it.”
We ate some more of the daily special, sipped some more celery tonic. Then she said, “Bern? What did you see last night?”
“The Roaring Twenties,” I said.
“Again? Didn’t you see that Monday night?”
“You’re absolutely right,” I said. “They tend to run together in my mind.” I closed my eyes for a moment. “Conflict,” I said.
“Conflict?”
“And Brother Orchid.”
“I never heard of either of them.”
“Actually, I may have seen Conflict years ago on late-night TV. It was vaguely familiar. Bogart’s in love with Alexis Smith, who’s his wife’s younger sister. He hurts his legs in a car crash, but then he hides the fact that he’s recovered so that he can kill his wife.”
“Bernie—”
“Sydney Greenstreet’s the psychiatrist who sets a trap for him. See, the way he does it…You don’t care, do you?”
“Not hugely.”
“Brother Orchid was pretty interesting. Edward G. Robinson was the star. He’s a gangster, and Bogart takes over the mob while Robinson’s in Europe. He comes back and Bogart’s men try to rub him out, and he escapes and takes shelter in a monastery, where he takes the name Brother Orchid and spends his time growing flowers.”
“What did you do after the movie, Bern? Take shelter in a monastery?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You went out for coffee, right? Espresso for two at the little place down the block from the movie house.”
“Right.”
“And then you went home to your place, and Ilona went wherever Ilona goes. I’ve never met anybody named Ilona before. In fact the only Ilona I’ve ever heard of is Ilona Massey, and I wouldn’t know her if it weren’t for crossword puzzles. ‘Miss Massey, five letters.’ She’s right up there with Uta Hagen and Una Merkel and Ina Balin.”
“Don’t forget Ima Hogg.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. The two of you went your separate ways after the movie. Right?”
I sighed. “Right.”
“What’s going on, Bern?”
“For God’s sake,” I said. “It’s the nineties, remember? Dating’s a whole new ballgame. People don’t jump in bed on the first date the way they used to. They take time, they get to know one another, they—”
“Bern, look at me.”
“I wasn’t avoiding your eyes.”
“Of course you were, and I don’t blame you. ‘People don’t jump in bed on the first date.’ How many dates have you had with this woman?”
“A few.”
“Try fourteen.”
“It can’t be that many.”
“You’ve been out with her every night for two weeks. You’ve seen twenty-eight Humphrey Bogart movies. Twenty-eight! And the closest you’ve come to physical intimacy is when your hands bump into each other reaching for the popcorn.”