"The Burglar in the Rye" - читать интересную книгу автора (Block Lawrence)

CHAPTER Two

The business is Barnegat Books, an antiquarian bookstore on East Eleventh Street between University Place and Broadway. The Paddington is fourteen blocks north of my shop, and north-south blocks in Manhattan run twenty to the mile, and I’ll leave it to you to do the mathematics. I wanted to open up by two, as the sign on my door promised, but a few minutes one way or the other wouldn’t matter, and it was too nice a day for a cab or a subway. I’d come up by taxi, suitcase in tow, but I could walk back, and did.

I cut through Madison Square, paying my respects to the statue of Chester Alan Arthur, twenty-first President of the United States and a man with even more first names than Jeffrey Peters. I walked down Broadway, trying to remember what I knew about Chester Alan Arthur, and once I got the store open and dragged the bargain table (“Your Choice 3 for $5”) out front, I browsed through my own stock until I found The Lives of the Presidents, by William Fortescue. It had been published in 1925, and only went as far as Warren Gamaliel Harding (one first name, one last name, and one that was essentially a toss-up). The book was evidently written with a teenage audience in mind, though I couldn’t think of too many teenagers who’d rush to turn off MTV and check out what Fortescue had to say about Franklin Pierce and Rutherford Birchard Hayes (who could boast, you’ll notice, not a single first name between them).

Fortescue’s volume had had a long shelf life at Barnegat Books, having been part of the original stock when I bought the place from old Mr. Litzauer some years ago. I didn’t expect to sell it anytime soon either, but that didn’t mean it was destined for the bargain table. It was a worthy volume, the sort of book you liked to have around a bookshop, and this wasn’t the first time I had consulted it. I’d let Fortescue fill me in a few months ago on Zachary Taylor, although I can’t remember much of what I read, or why I’d been interested in the first place. Still, he’d come in handy then-Fortescue, I mean, not Taylor-and he was handy now.

I kept the book on the counter and dipped into it during slow periods, of which there are an abundance in the life of an antiquarian bookman. I did have some traffic that afternoon, and I did do some buying and selling. A regular customer found some mysteries she hadn’t read, along with an out-of-print Fredric Brown she figured she must have read, but wouldn’t mind reading again. I’d had the same thought myself, and was sorry to see the book go before I had another crack at it, but that’s part of the game.

A stout gentleman with a droopy mustache spent a lot of time browsing a six-volume half-leather edition of Oman ’s History of Britain Before the Norman Conquest. I had it tagged at $125, and allowed I would probably take a little less than sticker price for the set, but not a great deal less.

“I’ll be back,” he said finally, and left. And perhaps he would, but I wasn’t counting on it. Customers (or more accurately, noncustomers) use that as an exit line, handing it out to tradesmen the way men tell women, “I’ll call you.” Maybe they will, and then again maybe they won’t, and there’s no point sitting by the phone waiting.

My next customer brought in a book from the bargain table, paid his two bucks for it, and asked if he could browse a bit. I told him to feel free, but that it was a dangerous pastime. You never knew when you’d find something you felt compelled to buy.

“I’ll risk it,” he said, and disappeared into the stacks. He’d been around a couple of times in the course of the past week, looking quite presentable if the slightest bit down at the heels and smelling faintly and not disagreeably of whiskey. He was somewhere around sixty, about the same age as the man I’d seen at the Paddington, with a deep suntan and a carefully trimmed little beard and mustache. The beard was V-shaped and came to a precise point, and it was silver in hue, as were his eyebrows and the hair on his head, or at least as much of it as showed out from under his tan beret.

This was the first time he’d bought anything, and I had a hunch he thought of the two dollars as an admission charge. Some people just like to hang out in bookstores-I did, before I bought one of my own-and Mr. Silver Beard struck me as a fellow who didn’t have anything much to do or anyplace to do it. He wasn’t homeless, he was too well groomed for that, but he looked to be biding his time.

If he’d gone on biding it until six o’clock I’d have gotten him to give me a hand closing up. But he was long gone by then. The phone rang around five-thirty, and it was Alice Cottrell. “I’ve got a room,” I said. I didn’t mention the bear.

“And tonight?”

“If all goes well,” I said. “If not, the room’s mine for two more nights. But I figure the sooner the better.”

And then we said the things a man and a woman will say when they’ve been rather more to each other than bookseller and customer. I dropped my voice to say them, and I kept it low even after Mr. Silver Beard had given me a wave and departed. She said goodbye after we’d done a reasonable amount of billing and cooing, and not too long after that I brought in the bargain table all by myself. That done, I put fresh water in Raffles’s water bowl, replenished the dry food in his dish, and made sure the bathroom door was open in case he needed to use the toilet. Then I locked up for the night and went over to the Bum Rap.

The Bum Rap, where Carolyn Kaiser and I meet almost every evening for a Thank God It’s Over drink, is a neighborhood saloon with an eclectic juke box and a bartender who can’t make a gin and tonic without looking it up first in his Old Mr. Boston manual. We have our usual table, although it’s no big deal if it’s taken and we have to sit somewhere else. It was taken this evening, I noticed. There were two women sitting there. Then I looked again and saw that one of them was Carolyn.

The other was Erica Darby, who’d come into Carolyn’s life recently in a big way. Erica did something at a cable TV company. I wasn’t too clear on what it was, but I was sure it was important, and probably glamorous. You sensed that about Erica. She was smart and polished and great-looking, with long chestnut hair and bright blue eyes and a figure I had the good sense not to notice.

“Hey, Bernie,” she said. “How’s the book biz?”

“Leisurely,” I said.

“That’s great,” she said. “When my business is leisurely, that means we’re about to be driven out of it.” She pushed back her chair, got to her feet. “Gotta run, kiddies.” She leaned over, kissed Carolyn on the mouth. “See ya.”

She swept out. I sat down. Carolyn had a tall glass of ruby liquid in front of her, and I asked if it was cranberry juice.

“Campari and soda. You wanna taste it, Bern?”

“It seems to me I had it once,” I said, “and it seems to me once was enough. Anyway, it has alcohol in it, doesn’t it?”

“They claim it does,” she said, “but you couldn’t prove it by me.”

“Well, I’ll take their word for it,” I said, and motioned for Maxine. When she came over I ordered a Perrier.

“You’re working tonight,” Carolyn said.

“I checked in this afternoon.”

“How’s your room?”

“Small, but who cares? It’s just a place to put my bear.”

“Huh?”

I explained about the loaner bears the hotel furnished, and Carolyn raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure why I took the bear,” I went on. “Maybe I didn’t want it to feel rejected.”

“That’s a good reason.”

“Anyway, I get the deposit back when I check out.”

“Unless you keep the bear.”

“Why would I keep the bear?”

“To keep it from feeling rejected,” she said, “and it would be a more serious rejection now, after all the two of you have been to each other. Bern, I know what your problem is.”

“You do?”

“Uh-huh. You’re too tense. You need to loosen up. I’d tell Maxine to bring you a scotch, but you wouldn’t drink it, would you?”

I shook my head. “I’m not positive I’ll pull it off tonight,” I said, “but I’ve got a shot. I paid cash at the Paddington for three nights-”

“Not to mention a bear, Bern.”

“So don’t mention it. Anyway, if I can get in and out in one night I won’t complain. And I know the room number, so that’s taken care of.”

“You’re staying in a room and you know the number? I guess you’re not losing your edge after all, Bern.”

“I know Anthea Landau’s room number,” I said. “You knew that’s what I meant, didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah.” She picked up her glass of Campari, made the face people don’t usually make until they’ve had a sip of the stuff, and put it down untasted. “So you’re sticking to Perrier,” she said.

“Right.”

“That’s what I figured,” she said, and waved a hand for the waitress’s attention. “Hey, Max,” she called out, “bring Bernie here a drink, will you? Rye whiskey, and you might as well make it a double.”

“I just said…”

“I heard you, Bern. And I get the message. Tonight’s a working night, and you don’t drink when you work. Aside from soda water and fruit juice and coffee and other things that don’t count. I know all that.”

“Then why…”

“I understand your no-alcohol policy,” she went on, “even if it does strike me as the least bit extreme. And I certainly wouldn’t do anything to sabotage it.”

“But you just ordered me a drink.”

“I did,” she said, “and I made it rye whiskey, because you seemed to enjoy it the other night. What do you know, here it comes. Thanks, Maxine, and why don’t you take this and pour it back in the Lavoris bottle?” She handed Maxine the unfinished Campari. “Here’s mud in your eye, Bern.”

And she picked up my drink and drank it down. “It’s this deal I’ve got with Erica,” she explained. “She’s not much of a drinker herself, and she doesn’t really get it, you know? She ordered the Campari for me because it’s real easy to stop at one.”

“There’s a recommendation. ‘Order a Campari-you’ll never want another.’”

“The point is, she’s concerned about how much I drink.”

“You don’t drink all that much.”

“I know,” she said, “and if I ordered girly-girly drinks with fruit salad and little umbrellas, or if I put away a couple of bottles of chardonnay with dinner, why, she wouldn’t think twice about it. But because I happen to drink like a man, she’s all set to race off to an Al-Anon meeting and tell them all what a raging drunk I am.”

“You’re occasionally drunk,” I allowed, “but you hardly ever rage.”

“My point exactly. Anyway, she’s concerned that I celebrate a little too enthusiastically every time I get through one more day of dog washing. She wanted me to quit coming to the Bum Rap altogether. I told her that wasn’t negotiable. ‘Bernie’s my best friend in all the world, and I’m not going to force the man to drink alone. So get that right out of your pretty little head.’ And she really is pretty, Bern. Don’t you think?”

“Very pretty.”

“And what’s neat,” she said, tossing her head, “is she thinks I’m pretty. Isn’t that a hoot?”

I think so, too, though it’s not something I tend to dwell on. Carolyn Kaiser is a couple of inches shorter than the five-two she claims to be, which leaves her not much taller than some of the dogs she grooms at the Poodle Factory just two doors down the street (or up the street, depending which way you’re headed) from Barnegat Books. We lunch together during the week, at her place or mine, and we unwind after work at the Bum Rap, and she is my best friend and occasional henchperson. If she didn’t happen to be a lesbian (or, by the same token, if I didn’t happen to be a guy) we’d probably have a romance, as people do, and it would run its course, as romances do, and that would be that. But this way we can be best friends forever, and I honestly think we will. (It got a little complicated once when we were both sleeping with the same girl, but we got over that with no damage done.)

So yes, she’s pretty, with dark hair and a round face and big eyes, and sometimes I’ll compliment her on what she’s wearing, the way I might say something nice about a male friend’s necktie. But it doesn’t happen very often, because I don’t notice very often.

“She’s right,” I said now. “In fact, there’s something different about you. You’re letting your hair grow, aren’t you?”

“Everybody does, Bern. Between haircuts. It’s not like shaving. You don’t have to do it every day.”

“It looks longer than usual,” I said. As long as I’ve known Carolyn she’s worn her hair Dutch-boy style, perhaps in unconscious tribute to the resourceful lad who saved Holland from flooding by putting his finger where it would do the most good. “The bangs are the same as always, but it’s longer in back.”

“So I’m trying something a little different,” she said, “just to see how it looks.”

“Well, it looks nice.”

“That’s what Erica said. In fact it was her idea.”

“It’s becoming,” I said. “It’s sort of…”

“Finish the thought, Bern.”

“It’s just different, that’s all.”

“‘Softer, more feminine.’ That’s what you were gonna say, Bern. Right?”

“Well…”

“Pretty soon guys’ll be holding doors open for me, and I’ll be sipping Sambucca instead of Johnnie Walker Red, and I’ll lose my edge and turn into Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. Is that what you were going to say?”

“Actually, I was going to say something about Chester Alan Arthur.”

“Why, for God’s sake?”

“To change the subject,” I said, “and because I saw his statue in Madison Square and spent the afternoon reading about him. He got the Vice-Presidential nomination in 1880 as a sop to Roscoe Conkling, the Republican boss of New York State. He was Garfield ’s running mate, and-”

“You don’t mean John Garfield, do you?”

“No, or Brian, either. James Abram Garfield, and the ticket won, and Garfield was inaugurated in March, and-”

“Not in January?”

“No, it took them longer in those days. Garfield was inaugurated in March, and in June he met up with Charles Guiteau. ‘My name is Charles Guiteau, my name I’ll never deny.’ Remember that song?”

“No, Bern, but I don’t remember a whole lot of songs from 1881.”

“Some folksinger recorded it a few years ago. I thought you might have heard it.”

“I must have been too busy listening to Anita O’Day and Billie Holiday. They didn’t play songs about Charles Guiteau in Paula’s or the Duchess. They might have in Swing Rendezvous, but that was before my time. Who was Charles Guiteau and why sing a song about him?”

“He was a disappointed office-seeker. He shot Garfield because he couldn’t get a job, and a month later Garfield died.”

“I guess dying took longer then, too.”

“It didn’t take long for Guiteau. They hanged him, and Chester Alan Arthur was President of the United States of America. And Roscoe Conkling thought he had the keys to Fort Knox, but it didn’t work out that way. Arthur wound up pushing for the Civil Service System, which eliminated most of the federal patronage and left the bosses with fewer jobs to hand out.”

“I guess that’s one way to cut down on disappointed office-seekers,” she said, “but you can’t win, can you? This way you’re up to your neck in disgruntled postal employees. What happened to Arthur? Was he considered a hero?”

I shook my head. “Conkling was pissed off, and the party didn’t nominate him in ’84. They ran James G. Blaine instead, and Grover Cleveland beat him, and Chester Alan Arthur returned to the obscurity most people figure he richly deserved.”

“But at least he got a statue in the park.”

“So did Conkling,” I said. “The same park, but the other end of it. The two of them stare across Madison Square at each other. It seems to me they both look disappointed.”

“That’s a sad story,” she said. “It shows what happens when a person tries to do the right thing.” She waved a hand. “Maxine,” she called out, “Bernie just told me a sad story. You better bring the poor guy another double.”

She drank my drink, and I had another Perrier to keep her company. We raised our glasses to Chester Alan Arthur, and I wondered how long it had been since anyone had drunk the man’s health. Probably a long time, I decided. Possibly forever.

“That’s better,” Carolyn said, setting her glass down empty. “I’ll tell you, it’s no hardship limiting myself to a glass of that mouthwash as long as I’ve got you across the table from me. I’ll be seeing Erica later, and she probably won’t say anything, but if she does I can just tell the truth. ‘I just had the one Campari,’ I’ll say, ‘while I kept Bernie company.’”

“I suppose there are people who would call that a lie of omission,” I said.

“I suppose there are, Bern, and I say the hell with them.” She peered at me. “I know what you’re thinking. You’d like to order one more for the road, but I’m not going to let you do it. I’m going to show a little restraint, even if you don’t.”

“If it weren’t for you,” I said, “I’d probably be rolling in the gutter.”

“Instead of heading off to commit a felony.” She signaled for the check, then waved me off when I reached for my wallet. “Get out of here,” she said. “You didn’t have anything but H₂O and CO₂. The least I can do is pick up the tab.”

“If I get it,” I said, “I can call it a business expense. It’s a small price to pay for a clear head on a working night.”

“You figure tonight’s the night, Bern?”

“Well, the sooner the better.”

“Haste makes waste,” she said sagely, “and you’ve got to look before you leap.” She frowned. “On the other hand, you’ve got to strike while the iron is hot, and he who hesitates is lost.”

“That’s helpful,” I said.

“I hope so,” she said, “because it’s confusing the hell out of me. Maybe you shouldn’t have had that last drink. It went right to my head.”

“I’ll try to restrain myself next time.”

“Anyway,” she said, “this is on me. You’ve already got a lot invested in this business, haven’t you?”

“Six hundred and change.”

“All to get into the hotel.”

“In and out whenever I want,” I said, “just like a legitimate guest, which is what I am. It’s the one foolproof way to get past hotel security. Take a room, pay for it, and you’ve got the run of the place. Of course, you’re not entitled to break into the other guests’ rooms, but how are they going to stop you?”

“Your whole face glows when you talk about it, Bern. It’s something to see.”

“Well, it’s exciting,” I said. “A hotel is like a cafeteria for a thief, or a smorgasbord table. But instead of seeing everything all laid out for you, it’s all tucked away behind closed doors. And you never know what you’ll find.” I smiled at a memory. “One time,” I said, “I checked into the old Hotel Astor. It was early in my career and late in the life of the hotel, but we had that one brief moment together.”

“You make it sound like a romance.”

“I got my key,” I said, “and it took me an hour or two to do this, but I filed it and buffed it until I’d turned it into a master key for every lock in the hotel. I’m pretty quick picking a lock, but I’m even faster when I’ve got the key. I must have hit fifty rooms that night. I came up empty in a lot of them, but it still added up to a profitable night’s work.”

“You won’t hit fifty rooms at the Paddington, will you, Bern?”

“One should be plenty.”

“And you really think you’ll find what you’re looking for?”

“I don’t know.”

“If you do, the six hundred dollars is a good investment. If not, it’s a lot of money down the drain.”

“I’ll get fifty bucks back,” I said, “when I return the bear. And there’s a deposit for the phone, and I don’t expect to be making any calls, so I’ll get that back too.”

“You really think you’ll be able to get the bear deposit back, Bern?”

“Not if I have to leave in a hurry. But otherwise, sure, they’ll give me the money back. As long as I return old Paddy in good condition.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s not?”

“Not exactly. What I meant was, will you be able to part with him? I used to have a Paddington Bear when I was a kid, and I never would have given him up for fifty dollars, or even five hundred. He was my little buddy.”

“Mine’s a perfectly good bear,” I said, “but I don’t foresee a whole lot of separation anxiety. We haven’t had enough time to bond, and if all goes well I’ll be out of there before we’re all that deeply attached to one another.”

“Maybe.”

“You sound dubious.”

“Well, it took me about ten seconds to fall in love with my own Paddington Bear, Bern. Of course I was younger then. I don’t commit that quickly these days.”

“You’re older.”

“Right.”

“Seasoned. More mature.”

“You bet.”

“How long did it take you to flip over Erica?”

“About ten seconds,” she said, “but that’s different. All I had to do was look at her. She’s beautiful, isn’t she, Bern?”

“She’s very good-looking.”

“You could go for her yourself, right?”

“I wouldn’t,” I said, “for all the usual reasons. But as a hypothetical question, well, sure. She’s an attractive woman.”

“Beauty’s only skin deep,” she said, “but unless you’re a radiologist, I figure that’s plenty. Bern, you’re staring at me. You’ve been sneaking stares all night and you’re doing it again.”

“Sorry.”

“Maybe you need another drink. But I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“Neither am I. Carolyn, you look different. That’s why I’ve been staring.”

“I guess it’s the hair.”

“That’s what I thought, but there’s something else, isn’t there? What is it?”

“You’re seeing things, Bern.”

“It’s lipstick,” I said. “Carolyn, you’re wearing lipstick!”

“Not so loud! What’s the matter with you, Bern?”

“Sorry, but-”

“How would you like it? ‘Hey, Bern, what’s with the blusher and mascara?’ And next thing you know the whole room’s gawking at you.”

“I said I was sorry. You took me by surprise, that’s all.”

“Yeah, it was a real sneak attack. We’ve been sitting here for close to an hour, and I just now snuck up and ambushed you.”

“Lipstick,” I said.

“Cut it out, Bern. It’s not such a big deal.”

“Long hair and lipstick.”

“Not long hair. Longer, that’s all. And the lipstick’s just to add a little color.”

“Why else would anyone wear it? That’s all it ever does, it adds color.”

“Right. So don’t make a federal case out of it, okay?”

“Lipstick,” I marveled. “My best friend is turning into a lipstick lesbian.”

“ Bern…”

“So long, L. L. Bean,” I said. “Hello, Victoria ’s Secret.”

“Some secret. You know how many of those catalogs they mail out every month? They don’t make money on me, Bern. All I like to do is look at the pictures.”

“If you say so.”

“It’s not like I’ve got a closet full of flannel shirts, you know. I’ve never dressed all that butch. A blazer and slacks doesn’t make me a diesel dyke, does it?”

“Far from it.”

“And it’s just a touch of lipstick. You sat across the table from me for a whole hour without noticing it.”

“I noticed it,” I said. “I just didn’t know what I was noticing.”

“My point exactly. It’s not blatant. Just a subtle touch.”

“Of femininity.”

“Of youth,” she said. “If I were a teenager I wouldn’t need it, but I’m old enough so nature can use a little help. Don’t look at me like that, Bern.”

“Like what?”

“Like that. All right, dammit. It was Erica’s idea. Are you happy now?”

“I was already happy.”

“She’s a genuine lipstick lesbian,” she said, “and that’s something I’ve never objected to, Bern, philosophically or aesthetically. I like lipstick lesbians. I think they’re hot.” She shrugged. “I just never thought I was going to be one, that’s all. I didn’t think I was cut out for it.”

“But now you’ve changed your mind?”

“Erica thinks it’s low self-esteem, and not feeling confident about my looks. And she thinks a softer hairstyle and a little lipstick will change my self-image, and I have to say I think she’s right. Anyway, she likes me this way.”

“Can’t argue with results.”

“That’s what I figure.”

“And you look nice,” I said. “I’ll tell you, I can’t wait to see how you look in a dress.”

“Cut it out, Bern.”

“Something low-cut, with lace trimming. That’s always nice. Or one of those scoop-necked peasant blouses, the gypsy look. That might work for you.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Or a dirndl,” I went on. “What’s a dirndl, anyway? What does it look like?”

“To me,” she said, “it always looks like a typographical error. Beyond that I don’t know what it is, and I don’t plan on knowing. Could we talk about something else, Bern?”

“Earrings,” I suggested. “Gold hoops would be good with the peasant blouse, but how will they look with the dirndl?”

“Keep going, Bern. What are we gonna talk about next? Panty hose? High heels?”

“And perfume,” I said, and sat up and sniffed the air. “You’re wearing perfume!”

“It’s a cologne,” she said, “and I’ve been keeping a bottle at the Poodle Factory for years. I splash on a little after work sometimes to counteract the doggie smell.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t look so disappointed. Listen, I can’t tell you how much I’m enjoying this conversation, and I’m glad you let me buy you those drinks. They really loosened you up, even if I was the one who drank them.”

“Well…”

“But all good things have to end,” she went on, “including this sparkling conversation. It’s time we got out of here. I’ve got a late date with a beautiful woman. And you’ve got a date with a bear.”