The Burglar Who Thought He Was Bogart - By Lawrence Block Page 0,35
one thing, that part’s a secret; for another, it would simply invite further inquiry. I just tell them all the business is not for sale, and sooner or later they believe me and go away.
But not this fellow. Damned if he didn’t reach into his pocket and come out with a gun.
It was a very small gun, a flat nickel-plated automatic with pearl grips, small enough to carry in his pants pocket, small enough to fit in his very small hand. I don’t know what caliber bullet it held—.22 or .25, I suppose—but either one will kill you if it hits you in the right place, and he was right across the counter from me, close enough to put a bullet wherever he wanted it.
If I’d thought it over I’d have been terrified. He was just the right size to be one of those sawed-off psychopaths you used to see on the screen all the time, those little reptilian hit men who seem to kill without hesitation, and certainly without any change of expression. And here he was in my store and pointing a gun at me.
“You idiot!” I snapped. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Put that away this minute.”
Well, see, it looked like a toy. Like a cap gun, say, or like a cunningly disguised cigarette lighter. I’m not saying that’s what I thought it was, I knew it was a real gun, but I can’t think of anything else that would explain my reaction. Instead of reacting sensibly in fear and trembling, I was pissed off. Where did this, this kid, get off coming into my store and waving a gun around? And didn’t the little punk need a stern talking-to?
“Right this minute!” I said when he hesitated. “Don’t you realize you could get in trouble with that thing? Do you know what time it is?”
“Time?”
“It’s four-thirty,” I said. “And there’s a policeman who’s due here any minute, and how would you feel standing there with that thing in your hand and having a cop walk in on you? How’d you like to try explaining that?”
“But—”
“God damn it, put it away!”
And damned if he didn’t do just that. “I…I am sorry,” he said, the spots of color on his cheeks darkening even as the rest of him seemed to grow paler still. He glanced at the gun as if it were something shameful, hiding it in his hand as he lowered it and tucked it back where it had come from. “I did not mean…I would not wish…I deeply regret…”
“That’s better,” I said graciously. “Much better. Now tell me what I can do for you. Is there a book you’re looking for?”
“A book?” He looked at me, his eyes as wide as they could get. “You know what I am looking for. And please, I regret the gun. I only meant to impress you.”
“There are better ways to make an impression,” I said.
“Yes, of course, of course. You are of course correct.”
He had a foreign inflection to his speech, and he hissed his S’s. I hadn’t noticed this earlier; it was the sort of subtlety that slides right past me when I’m looking down the barrel of a gun.
“I will pay,” he said.
“Oh?”
“I will pay an excellent price.”
“How much?” And for what, I wondered.
“How much do you want?”
“As much as I can get.”
“You must understand that I am not a rich man.”
“Then perhaps you cannot afford it.” Whatever it was.
“But I must have it!”
“Then I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
He thrust his narrow face forward, aimed his sharp chin at me. “You must assure me,” he said, “that he does not have it.”
“Who are we talking about?”
He grimaced. “Must I say his name?”
“It would help,” I said.
“The fat man,” he said. “Tsarnoff.”
“Sarnoff?”
“Tsarnoff!”
“Tsorry,” I said.
“He is dangerous. And you cannot trust him. Whatever he tells you, it is a lie.”
“Really.”
“Yes, really. And I will tell you something else. Whatever he will pay, I will pay more. Tell me he does not already have it!”
“Well,” I said honestly, “I can tell you he didn’t get it from me.”
“Thank God.”
“Just to clear the air,” I said carefully, “and to make sure we’re not at cross-purposes here, suppose you tell me what it is.”
“What it is?”
“That you’re seeking from me. You want it and Tsarnoff wants it. Well, why don’t you come right out and say what it is?”