The Burglar on the Prowl - By Lawrence Block Page 0,49
too much of a coincidence.”
“What it’d have to be,” he said thoughtfully, “is somethin’ that they don’t know exactly what it is, or else when you handed him that particular book he’da handed it right back to you.”
“Or thrown it at me.”
“Or at the cat. Though you’d think he’d have smelled a rat when all you wanted for it was thirteen bucks.”
Quite so, which explained why he’d assumed I meant thirteen hundred. And even that was evidently a low price for the McGuffin, which explained the enigmatic smile, and the way he hadn’t wanted me to see how much money he’d brought along to the bargaining table. God only knows what I could have asked for.
“Maybe he thought I just wanted to get rid of it, and the thirteen dollars was just to save face.”
“You couldn’t save much face for thirteen bucks. Not much more’n a couple of whiskers. There’s got to be two sets of players, Bernie. The ones who hit the Rogovins and the others. My guess is Fat Boy was one of the others, and the ones who hit the Rogovins are the ones who hit him, too.”
And who kicked my door in, I thought, since their MO was the same as in the Rogovin home invasion, down to the duct tape on the doorman. But I hadn’t mentioned my own break-in to Ray, probably because I’d promised Edgar to keep the INS away from him. I could mention it now, but then I’d have to explain why I’d held off mentioning it for so long, and it was easier just to avoid the subject altogether.
“Two sets of bad guys,” he said, “an’ one of them’s killed four times already. An’ where’s Mrs. Rhodenbarr’s son Bernie? Right smack dab in the middle.”
“Well, I shouldn’t be,” I said. “I’m only there because you picked me up. They found out I’d been arrested, and they didn’t spot it for the police incompetence it was.”
“Easy there, Bernie.”
“They actually thought you jokers knew what you were doing,” I said. “You know what I ought to do? I ought to demand around-the-clock police protection.”
“You want it? Easiest thing in the world, Bernie. Come on over to the precinct an’ I’ll toss you in a cell.”
“Very funny.”
“Seriously, do you want me to get a plainclothes guy to follow you around? I’d have to clear it with the captain, but it could be done.”
That would be peachy, I thought. The guy could tag along when we went up to Riverdale to knock off the Mapes house. He could watch the car, make sure no one ticketed it for parking in a No Burglars zone.
“Thanks,” I said, “but I think I’ll pass.”
I actually did some business while Ray was there. Customers drifted in and out of the store, doing more browsing than buying, but occasionally one brought a book to the counter and I interrupted Ray and rang the sale. Now and then someone asked about the shooting outside, and I agreed it was a terrible thing and let it go at that.
When Ray finally left (though not without promising to return) I had an actual breathing spell and went back to John Sandford. The book was getting exciting, although the main plotline struck me as a little more far-fetched than others in the series. As usual, the point of view shifted back and forth, from Lucas Davenport, Sandford’s macho hero cop, to the villain, who was in this case a disillusioned ex-vegetarian Congregationalist minister making his brutal way around Minnesota, slaughtering prominent vegans and organic farmers, butchering them, and eating their livers. Pretty wild, but somehow he made you believe it, and I was starting to get caught up in it when, dammit, somebody else came in the door and headed straight for the counter.
He was a tall man with a neatly trimmed beard, thin as a pipe cleaner, and wearing a three-piece brown tweed suit. His name was Colby Riddle and he was a professor at the New School. I forget what field he was in, but I’m pretty sure it ends in -ology.
“Well,” he said, “and how are you today?”
And, of course, it was the voice I’d heard on the phone that morning, heard and recognized but failed to place. “Oh, hell,” I said. “You’ve come for the book.”
“Is this a bad time, Bernie?”
“No, not at all,” I said. “Or at least no more so than any other time. Colby, somebody else walked off with your book.”