Free The Burglar Who Counted the Spoons (Bernie Rhodenbarr) by Lawrence Block

mine a little longer this time.
    Neither of us wanted dessert. Both of us wanted espresso. And our waiter, who certainly gave the impression that he found us charming, poured out two complimentary glasses of anisette. I topped the check with two of Mr. Smith’s portraits of Benjamin Franklin and waved away change, which could only have increased our charm.
    Outside she said, “I live in Prospect Heights, and it’s nice there, but try to find a cab willing to go there. You said you’re on West End Avenue.”
    “And cabdrivers are happy to go there.”
    “Well then,” she said, and I stepped to the curb just in time to hail a taxi.

 

    ∗    ∗    ∗
    That’s old-fashioned, isn’t it? Three asterisks, for God’s sake, in this day and age.
    If I’m discreet enough to draw the curtain on what took place in the bedroom of my fourth-floor apartment (and on the living room couch, for that matter, and let’s not forget the shower), well, all I have to do is skip over it, or sum up the proceedings in a sentence or two. Why the asterisks?
    I have to say they’re there for a reason. They serve to indicate that I’ve taken time to remember the evening, and to savor the memory in full detail.
    Even though I don’t intend to share it with you.
    ∗    ∗    ∗
    “Bernie, I have to go.”
    “You do? Why?”
    I opened an eye—both of them, actually—and saw she was halfway dressed. Her clingy blouse covered her to a couple of inches below her waist, and she was holding her sky-colored jeans and preparing to step into them.
    “It’s late,” I said. “Why don’t you stay over?”
    “No, I can’t.”
    That didn’t really answer my question, but she made it sound conclusive enough.
    I sat up myself. “Well,” I said. “That was—”
    “I know. For me too.”
    “I make it a point to avoid the word awesome, but that’s what it was, by God. Do you have plans for the weekend?”
    “Oh, Bernie . . .”
    “Because I was thinking I could rent a car and we could sneak off to somewhere an hour or two away. Some old stone inn along the Delaware, say, one of those places that run ads in the New Yorker telling you how charming they are. The weather’s supposed to stay like this, which would certainly be conducive to long walks in the moonlight, but if it crosses us up and pours, well, I think we could spend time in our room without finding it terribly confining, and—”
    The expression on her face stopped me in mid-sentence.
    “Oh, Bernie,” she said again. “I suppose I should have waited for you to doze off and then just slipped out without a word.”
    “Why would you want to do that?”
    “To avoid this conversation,” she said. “Bernie, I’m not going to be able to see you again.”
    “That’s ridiculous.”
    “No, I’m afraid it makes perfect sense.”
    “You’re married.”
    “Not yet.”
    “Not yet? What does that mean? You’re engaged?”
    She shook her head. “I’m planning to get married. It’s a very real plan, even though I haven’t yet met my future husband. Bernie, I’m twenty-eight years old.”
    “So?”
    “So I want to be married before I turn thirty, and I want to have two children by the time I’m thirty-five.”
    “Just two?”
    “Maybe three. I figure after I’ve had the second, I’ll be in a better position to judge whether or not I want a third.”
    “That makes sense,” I allowed, “but—”
    “If I’m going to find a husband,” she said, “I can’t afford to waste time in an affair that’s not going to go anywhere.”
    Things were moving faster than I might have wanted, but if I didn’t do something she’d be doing the moving, out the door and out of my life.
    “Who said it can’t go somewhere?”
    “Bernie, the last thing you want to do is get married.”
    “That’s not necessarily true,” I said.
    “Have you ever been married?”
    “No, but—”
    “Of course you haven’t. And why should you? You’re already leading