The Burglar Who Thought He Was Bogart - By Lawrence Block Page 0,64

and fifty pounds.”

I made a sound by snicking the tip of my tongue back from my teeth. “Tssss,” I said.

“As in Tsarnoff. That would be my guess, Bern.”

“You had a busy day,” I said. “You did great, Carolyn.”

“Thanks.”

“It was a good idea to open the store, and I’d say it was productive. I don’t know what they all want from me or what I’m going to give them, but it’s good to know they’re looking for me. At least I think it is. I’ll know more when I make some calls in the morning.”

“I don’t know what Ray wants,” she said. “I guess everybody else wants the documents.”

“Whatever they are.”

“And wherever they are.”

“Oh, I think I know where they are,” I said.

“You do?”

“Well, I’ve got an inkling. Put it that way.”

“That’s great. And you’ve got a partner, too. I don’t mean me, I mean the mouse.”

“The mouse? Oh, Charlie Weeks. I guess we’re partners. In that case I hope he takes care of himself.”

“Why’s that? Oh, if he gets killed you’ll have to do something about it.”

“You got it,” I said, and leaned back and yawned. “I’m beat,” I said. “Ray can wait until morning, and so can everybody else. I’m going to bed. Or to couch, if I can persuade you to—”

“Let’s not have that argument again. You’re not going out? You could have been drinking Scotch after all.”

“Somehow,” I said, “I don’t think I’m going to wake up tomorrow morning and regret that I didn’t have anything stronger than Evian this evening.”

“Maybe not,” she said, “but you can’t miss days and expect to stay in shape. That’s my theory. You want me to mind the store tomorrow?”

“I’m never open Sundays.”

“Is that carved in stone somewhere? It wouldn’t hurt anything if I opened up, would it?”

“No, but—”

“Because I found a book there that I was reading, and I might as well finish it before I start something else. And you never know who’ll pop in looking for you.”

“Well, that’s true. What did you find to read?”

“Reread, actually, but it’s one I haven’t looked at since it came out. It’s an early one of Sue Grafton’s.”

“I didn’t think I had anything of hers in stock. Oh, I remember. It’s a book club edition, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “It’s the one about the jazz musician who kills his unfaithful wife by throwing her onto the subway tracks.”

“I don’t think I ever read that one. What’s the title?”

“‘A’ Is for Train,” she said. “You can borrow it when I’m done with it.”

“Borrow it? It’s my book.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “You can still borrow it, but you’ll have to wait until I’m finished.”

CHAPTER

Seventeen

I slept soundly and woke up early, managing to get dressed and out the door without waking Carolyn, who looked so blissful curled up on the couch that I couldn’t feel too guilty for taking her bed. I walked across town, pausing at my bookshop only long enough to feed Raffles and give him fresh water, then catching the IRT at Union Square and riding to the Hunter College stop at Sixty-eighth and Lex. I walked six blocks up and two blocks over, stopping en route at a deli for a container of coffee and a bagel. When I got to where I was going I found a good doorway and lurked in it, passing the time by sipping the coffee and gnawing at the bagel. I kept my eyes open, and when I finally saw what I’d come there to see I retraced my steps, but this time I passed up the deli and went straight to the subway station.

I caught another train, this one headed downtown, and got off at Wall Street. There’s no more peaceful place in the city on a Sunday morning, when the engines of commerce have ground to a halt. It’s never entirely deserted. I saw joggers on training runs, chugging away, and folks wandering around singly and in pairs, intent on enjoying the stillness.

I’d come to use the phone.

There were more convenient phones, including one in the bookstore and another in Carolyn’s apartment, but you can never be sure you’re not calling someone with one of those gadgets on his phone that displays the number you’re calling from. I was reasonably certain Ray Kirschmann wouldn’t have anything like that at his home in Sunnyside, if only because he wouldn’t want to spend the extra $1.98 a month, or whatever they charge for the service. But he’d have the resources of the New York Police Department,