Free The Burglar Who Traded Ted Williams by Lawrence Block

toxic chemicals all over the place? Bern, you don’t have to call an exterminator. You’ve got a live-in exterminator, your own personal organic rodent control division. He’s had all his shots, he’s free of fleas and ticks, and if he ever needs grooming you’ve got a friend in the business. What more could you ask for?”
    I felt myself weakening, and I hated that. “He seems to like it here,” I admitted. “He acts as though he’s right at home.”
    “And why not? What could be more natural than a cat in a bookstore?”
    “He’s not bad-looking,” I said. “Once you get used to the absence of a tail. And that shouldn’t be too hard, given that I was already perfectly accustomed to the absence of an entire cat. What color would you say he was?”
    “Gray tabby.”
    “It’s a nice functional look,” I decided. “Nothing flashy about it, but it goes with everything, doesn’t it? Has he got a name?”
    “Bern, you can always change it.”
    “Oh, I bet it’s a pip.”
    “Well, it’s not horrendous, at least I don’t think it is, but he’s like most cats I’ve known. He doesn’t respond to his name. You know how Archie and Ubi are. Calling them by name is a waste of time. If I want them to come, I just run the electric can opener.”
    “What’s his name, Carolyn?”
    “Raffles,” she said. “But you can change it to anything you want. Feel free.”
    “Raffles,” I said.
    “If you hate it—”
    “Hate it?” I stared at her. “Are you kidding? It’s got to be the perfect name for him.”
    “How do you figure that, Bern?”
    “Don’t you know who Raffles was? In the books by E. W. Hornung back around the turn of the century, and in the stories Barry Perowne’s been doing recently? Raffles the amateur cracksman? World-class cricket player and gentleman burglar? I can’t believe you never heard of the celebrated A. J. Raffles.”
    Her mouth fell open. “I never made the connection,” she said. “All I could think of was like raffling off a car to raise funds for a church. But now that you mention it—”
    “Raffles,” I said. “The quintessential burglar of fiction. And here he is, a cat in a bookstore, and the bookstore’s owned by a former burglar. I’ll tell you, if I were looking for a name for the cat I couldn’t possibly do better than the one he came with.”
    Her eyes met mine. “Bernie,” she said solemnly, “it was meant to be.”
    “Miaow,” said Raffles.
     
    At noon the following day it was my turn to pick up lunch. I stopped at the falafel stand on the way to the Poodle Factory. Carolyn asked how Raffles was doing.
    “He’s doing fine,” I said. “He drinks from his water bowl and eats out of his new blue cat dish, and I’ll be damned if he doesn’t use the toilet just the way you said he did. Of course I have to remember to leave the door ajar, but when I forget he reminds me by standing in front of it and yowling.”
    “It sounds as though it’s working out.”
    “Oh, it’s working out marvelously,” I said. “Tell me something. What was his name before it was Raffles?”
    “I don’t follow you, Bern.”
    “ ‘I don’t follow you, Bern.’ That was the crowning touch, wasn’t it? You waited until you had me pretty well softened up, and then you tossed in the name as a sort of coup de foie gras. ‘His name’s Raffles, but you can always change it.’ Where did the cat come from?”
    “Didn’t I tell you? A customer of mine, he’s a fashion photographer, he has a really gorgeous Irish water spaniel, and he told me about a friend of his who developed asthma and was heartbroken because his allergist insisted he had to get rid of his cat.”
    “And then what happened?”
    “Then you developed a mouse problem, so I went and picked up the cat, and—”
    “No.”
    “No?”
    I shook my head. “You’re leaving something out. All I had to do was mention the word ‘mouse’ and you were out of here like a cat out of hell. You didn’t