Free The Burglar Who Studied Spinoza by Lawrence Block Page A
Authors: Lawrence Block
have since seen each other now and again, and if it’s all remained very casual and on the surface, that’s not the worst thing that can be said of what one has learned to call interpersonal relationships.
“What I should have done,” she said now, “is fake it. When you asked if we were set for dinner tonight I should have said yes and let it go at that. It’s a shame I don’t take drugs. Then I could blame this mental sluggishness on the joint I’d just smoked. Would you believe paint fumes?”
“Sure.”
“Because I am free for dinner, and just because I don’t seem to recall our date shouldn’t prevent me from keeping it. Did we make plans to meet someplace?”
“Not yet.”
“Should we?”
“Why don’t I drop by your place around seven-thirty?”
“Why don’t you?”
“I think I will.”
“I think you should. Shall I cook something?”
“We’ll go out.”
“This is sounding better and better. Maybe I’ll have this painting finished and you can look at it. Maybe I won’t and you can’t. ‘Bernie at 7:30.’ I’ve written it down. I can’t possibly forget now.”
“I have faith in you, Denise.”
“Shall I wear anything in particular?”
“Just a smock and a smile.”
“Ta.”
I tried Abel again, twelve rings and out. By then it was one-thirty. I hiked back to the Poodle Factory and caught Carolyn between appointments. “There you are,” she said. “When you didn’t show I went looking for you, and when I saw your store was closed I figured you’d just ducked out to pick up lunch, so I came back here and waited, and when you still didn’t show I said the hell with it and went out and ate.”
“Not at the coffee shop,” I said, “and not at Mamoun’s.”
“I went and had some curry. I figured some really hot food would counteract the sugar from last night. God, what a morning!”
“Bad?”
“My head felt like the soccer ball from Pélé’s last game. You have any idea what it’s like to face a Giant Schnauzer on top of a sugar hangover?”
“No.”
“Count your lucky stars. The coffee shop and Mamoun’s—what did you do, go out looking for me?”
“Sort of.”
“Any particular reason?”
I hated to ruin her day, but what else could I do? “Just wanted to tell you you were missing a glove,” I said. “Of the rubber variety, and with the palm cut out.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“You weren’t going to say that, remember? You were going to switch to ‘child of a dog’ because ‘son of a bitch’ is sexist.”
“Shit. I saw the glove was missing last night when I checked my pockets. I threw away the one but the other was gone. I thought it over and decided not to tell you. How’d you find out? What did you do, go through my garbage?”
“I always go through your garbage. It started out as a perversion and now it’s a hobby.”
“That’s the way it always works.”
“I didn’t go through your garbage. You dropped it in the garden, in case you were wondering.”
“I did? Jesus, they ought to put me away. How do you know this? You didn’t go back there, did you? No, of course you didn’t.”
“No. Somebody showed me the glove.”
“Who would—” Light dawned and her face fell. “Oh, no,” she said. “Cops.”
“Right.”
“You got arrested.”
“Not officially.”
“What happened?”
“They let me go. My hands are bigger than yours. The glove didn’t fit. And Herbert Colcannon didn’t recognize me.”
“Why would he recognize you? He never met you.”
“Right. I’ll bet you didn’t read the paper at lunch.”
“I read the Times this morning. Why?”
“It’s complicated,” I said, “but it’s important. You’d better hear the whole thing.”
Her phone rang a couple of times while I was going through it. She switched on the answering machine and let her callers leave messages if they wanted. We were interrupted once by a sad-eyed man wearing an obvious toupee who wanted to inquire about
“What I should have done,” she said now, “is fake it. When you asked if we were set for dinner tonight I should have said yes and let it go at that. It’s a shame I don’t take drugs. Then I could blame this mental sluggishness on the joint I’d just smoked. Would you believe paint fumes?”
“Sure.”
“Because I am free for dinner, and just because I don’t seem to recall our date shouldn’t prevent me from keeping it. Did we make plans to meet someplace?”
“Not yet.”
“Should we?”
“Why don’t I drop by your place around seven-thirty?”
“Why don’t you?”
“I think I will.”
“I think you should. Shall I cook something?”
“We’ll go out.”
“This is sounding better and better. Maybe I’ll have this painting finished and you can look at it. Maybe I won’t and you can’t. ‘Bernie at 7:30.’ I’ve written it down. I can’t possibly forget now.”
“I have faith in you, Denise.”
“Shall I wear anything in particular?”
“Just a smock and a smile.”
“Ta.”
I tried Abel again, twelve rings and out. By then it was one-thirty. I hiked back to the Poodle Factory and caught Carolyn between appointments. “There you are,” she said. “When you didn’t show I went looking for you, and when I saw your store was closed I figured you’d just ducked out to pick up lunch, so I came back here and waited, and when you still didn’t show I said the hell with it and went out and ate.”
“Not at the coffee shop,” I said, “and not at Mamoun’s.”
“I went and had some curry. I figured some really hot food would counteract the sugar from last night. God, what a morning!”
“Bad?”
“My head felt like the soccer ball from Pélé’s last game. You have any idea what it’s like to face a Giant Schnauzer on top of a sugar hangover?”
“No.”
“Count your lucky stars. The coffee shop and Mamoun’s—what did you do, go out looking for me?”
“Sort of.”
“Any particular reason?”
I hated to ruin her day, but what else could I do? “Just wanted to tell you you were missing a glove,” I said. “Of the rubber variety, and with the palm cut out.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“You weren’t going to say that, remember? You were going to switch to ‘child of a dog’ because ‘son of a bitch’ is sexist.”
“Shit. I saw the glove was missing last night when I checked my pockets. I threw away the one but the other was gone. I thought it over and decided not to tell you. How’d you find out? What did you do, go through my garbage?”
“I always go through your garbage. It started out as a perversion and now it’s a hobby.”
“That’s the way it always works.”
“I didn’t go through your garbage. You dropped it in the garden, in case you were wondering.”
“I did? Jesus, they ought to put me away. How do you know this? You didn’t go back there, did you? No, of course you didn’t.”
“No. Somebody showed me the glove.”
“Who would—” Light dawned and her face fell. “Oh, no,” she said. “Cops.”
“Right.”
“You got arrested.”
“Not officially.”
“What happened?”
“They let me go. My hands are bigger than yours. The glove didn’t fit. And Herbert Colcannon didn’t recognize me.”
“Why would he recognize you? He never met you.”
“Right. I’ll bet you didn’t read the paper at lunch.”
“I read the Times this morning. Why?”
“It’s complicated,” I said, “but it’s important. You’d better hear the whole thing.”
Her phone rang a couple of times while I was going through it. She switched on the answering machine and let her callers leave messages if they wanted. We were interrupted once by a sad-eyed man wearing an obvious toupee who wanted to inquire about