The Burglar on the Prowl - By Lawrence Block Page 0,8
felonious as a monk. I’d had a slice of pizza on my way from the Bum Rap to the subway, and I suppose that had a sobering effect, but why not make assurance doubly sure? Why not stop home, and even make myself a cup of coffee while I was at it?
As it turned out, it didn’t cool off that much, but I couldn’t know that ahead of time, when I stopped at my apartment for my windbreaker. It was tan, a shade or two deeper than my slacks, and completed the costume of an ordinary guy, Mr. Middle of the Road, leading a blameless and certainly law-abiding existence.
My apartment’s in a prewar building on West End and 70th. Much of my life centers in the Village—the bookstore’s there, of course, on East 11th, and Carolyn’s apartment on Arbor Court is less than a mile south and west of our two stores, in the West Village. She walks to work every day, and it’s often occurred to me that it would be nice to be able to do the same. I suppose I could as things stand, but I’d have to allocate two hours to the process, and so far it’s never seemed like a good idea.
Moving to the Village hasn’t seemed like a good idea, either, because it’s just not feasible. My apartment’s rent-stabilized, which means that it costs me around a third of what it would otherwise. If I gave it up I’d have to pay at least three or four times as much for an equivalent apartment downtown. Or, if my nighttime activities brought me a really big score, I could buy a co-op or condo downtown—and then shell out in monthly maintenance about as much as I pay now for rent.
Besides, I’m used to the place. It’s not much, a skimpy one-bedroom with a view of another apartment on the other side of the airshaft, and I’ve never taken the trouble to improve its furnishings or décor.
Well, wait a minute. That’s not entirely true. First thing I did when I moved in was build in bookshelves on either side of the fireplace. (On the rare occasions when I actually have someone over, she invariably asks if the fireplace works. No, I explain, it’s retired.) And the second change I made, a few years later, was to construct a hidden compartment at the rear of the bedroom closet. That’s where stolen goods go, until I manage to figure out how to unload them. It’s also where I keep my Get Out of Dodge kit, which consists of five to ten thousand dollars in cash and a pair of passports, one of them genuine, the other a very decent facsimile.
Plus, of course, the little collection of picks and probes and thingamajigs and whatchamacallits that come under the general heading of burglar’s tools. Unless you’re a licensed locksmith, the mere possession of such implements is enough to earn you a stretch upstate as the guest of the governor. It’s occasionally occurred to me to pick up a locksmith’s license, just to keep from getting nailed for possession of burglar’s tools, but they’d laugh themselves silly if they saw my name on an application. Or at least I think they would; maybe the people who give out the licenses don’t check the names against a master list of convicted burglars. If not then I’d have to say the system’s flawed, and wouldn’t that be a shock?
I made a cup of coffee and drank it, and I went to the closet for my windbreaker, and somewhere around eight o’clock I went downstairs and walked over to 72nd and Broadway to catch the West Side IRT. I had my hands in the pockets of my windbreaker, and in a trouser pocket I had my burglar’s tools.
And for the life of me I couldn’t tell you why.
I suppose it must have been automatic. I was going to work, even though I knew my work would be strictly limited to reconnaissance. But a man on his way to work takes the tools of his trade along with him, and that was precisely what I did.
Halfway to the subway station, I realized what I’d done. I thought about going home and putting the tools back where they belonged, and I decided it was a fool’s errand. No one was going to put his hand in my pocket, with the possible exception of myself. I wouldn’t be doing anything illegal, so no cop would have a