The Burglar Who Thought He Was Bogart - By Lawrence Block Page 0,61
you mean, ‘Oh, come on’? The AHDA is leading the fight against the worst canine crippler around. They’re sponsoring some of the most important research going on in veterinary medicine.”
“You’re serious,” I said.
“Of course I’m serious. Look, Bern, I’m in the business, I don’t take dog diseases lightly. And I give an annual donation to the fight against hip dysplasia, not a whole lot but as much as I can afford. I mean, there are a lot of worthy causes out there. Look at feline leukemia.” She heaved a sigh, while I wondered where I was supposed to look for feline leukemia. “I was just surprised that you know about the AHDA, Bern, seeing that you’re not a dog person. But now it turns out you don’t know about it after all.”
“Well,” I said, “I do now.”
“You do, and you can give me twenty dollars right now and I’ll send it in for you. Unless you want to write a check so you can take it off your taxes.”
I found a twenty and handed it over.
“Thanks, Bern. I bet you feel better already, don’t you?”
“How much do you want to bet?”
“Well, you will,” she said, and tucked the twenty away. “So tell me,” she said. “How were the movies?”
“The movies?” I said. “The movies were great. Virginia City and Sabrina. What’s not to like?”
“Virginia City,” she said. “It sounds like a western. Actually, it sounds like a southern western, if you stop and think about it. What is it?”
“A western.”
“Humphrey Bogart in a western?”
“Errol Flynn’s the hero,” I said. “Bogart’s a half-breed bandit.”
“Give me a break, Bern.”
“With a mustache and sideburns, and it is a sort of a southern western, because it’s during the Civil War and Confederate sympathizers in this Nevada mining town are planning to ship a load of gold bullion to Dixie.”
“But Errol Flynn saves the day?”
“And Bogie’s killed, of course. Flynn won’t say where the gold is because he hopes it’ll be used to rebuild the South after the war. That’s his story, anyway. I figure he wanted a retirement fund for himself. Anyway, Miriam Hopkins pleads for his life and Abraham Lincoln commutes his sentence.”
“Who played Lincoln?”
“I missed the credit. Not Raymond Massey, though.”
“And Sabrina’s with Audrey Hepburn, right? She’s in love with Alan Ladd and winds up with Bogart.”
“William Holden.”
“She winds up with William Holden?”
“Holden’s the brother she starts out with, and Bogart gets her in the end.”
“Yeah? What happened to Alan Ladd?”
“He must have been off making another picture,” I said, “because he sure wasn’t in this one.”
We were in her apartment on Arbor Court, where I’d gone, flight bag in hand, after the credit crawl at the end of Sabrina. No one was home when I got there, unless you want to count Archie and Ubi. I let myself in and played with them and made a pot of coffee, and before I’d drunk half a cup of it she’d come in, relieved to see me.
We were sitting at the kitchen tub-table now, and I’d switched from coffee to Evian water while Carolyn sipped Scotch. “I don’t particularly feel like a drink,” she said, “but it’s not a good idea to miss a day. It’s like exercise. If you want to stay in shape, you should make sure you get out there and do something every day. Even if it’s just a slow jog around the block or two laps in the swimming pool, at least you’re hanging in there.”
“I’d join you,” I said, “but I might work tonight.”
“It’s kind of late for it, Bern.”
“I know, and I don’t think I will, but I might. It’s called keeping my options open. While you’re hanging in there, I’m keeping my options open.”
“I think it’s great the way it looks as though we’re just sitting here with glasses in our hands,” she said, “when we’ve each actually got a sound philosophical basis for what we’re doing. I was glad to find you here when I got in, Bern. I was a little worried when I didn’t hear from you all day.”
“I called,” I said.
“And we talked? Better bring on the ginkgo biloba, because I don’t remember a thing.”
“I couldn’t reach you,” I said. “I tried you here and at the store. Two, three times minimum. You were never at either place.”
“Which store, Bern?”
“The Poodle Factory, of course. How many stores do you have?”
“Just one,” she said, “but you’ve got one, too, and that’s where I was.”