Read Online The Burglar Who Counted the Spoons (Bernie Rhodenbarr) by Lawrence Block - Free Book Online Page A

go , for example. Like Stay here and we’ll get married. Like I’ve always wanted to try living in London.
    But what I said was, “Well, it sounds like a great opportunity. I’ll miss you, Carole.”
    “And I’ll miss you, Bernie. And, you know, if you’re ever in London . . .”
    “I’ll be sure to knock you up.”
    She looked at me, baffled, and I explained that that’s English-English for call you on the phone. And the fact that I’d needed to explain, I have to tell you, eased some of the pain of her departure.
    I took my things from her apartment, and the following evening she came to my place to retrieve the stuff she’d stowed there. And we looked at each other, and for a moment either of us could have led the other into the bedroom, but neither of us did.
    And that was that.
    I’d never quite seen Carole as Ms. Right, but had liked her well enough as Ms. Right Now. Even while we were keeping company, I’d entertained stray thoughts about other women who’d come into view, although I’d never taken the step of acting on them.
    So you might have thought I’d get right back in the game when she left, but that’s not what happened. It didn’t seem worth the trouble. There were women who looked good to me, and there were women whose conversation suggested they might be worth getting to know. She’s cute, I’d say to myself. She’s bright and interesting, I’d note.
    And I’d let it go at that.
    And then, late in the day on a deceptively bright June afternoon, a woman named Janine walked into my shop.

 

    There’s a little bell attached to the top of my door, and while it’s not as high-tech as security cameras and motion detectors, it lets me know when I have a visitor. I looked up when it announced her arrival, and then I took a second look, because she was worth it.
    She was stunning, in fact. She wore sky blue designer jeans and a clingy green silk blouse, and a writer of country songs would have told you her hair was the color of tupelo honey, but he might not have pointed out that it had been treated to an expensive haircut. Her only flaws were a little too much plumpness in the lips and fullness in the chest, and I was prepared to overlook them.
    A couple of months earlier I’d have started a conversation with her, but that was then and this was now, and I stayed on my perch behind the counter and returned to my current book, which was one of Michael Connelly’s that I’d missed the first time around. It’s the one where Harry Bosch has left the LAPD under a cloud and set up shop as a private detective, and in that capacity he evidently feels compelled to tell his story in the first person instead of letting Connelly tell it for him. I was enjoying it, but I sensed that Bosch wasn’t, and that it would be a relief for him to get back to the comforting embrace of the police department, and of the third person.
    So she started a conversation with me.
    “What an adorable cat!”
    I looked up, and a third glance revealed no additional flaws. “He’s a hard worker,” I said, “and a fine companion.”
    “But he doesn’t have a tail, does he? Is he a Manx?”
    “He’d prefer that you think so. But he doesn’t seem to have that rabbity hopping gait that’s a characteristic of the breed. So he may be nothing more than an alley cat who sat too close to a rocking chair.”
    “Well, he’s still adorable. What’s his name?”
    “Raffles.”
    “Hi, Raffles. I’m Janine.”
    “I’m Bernie.”
    She turned to face me, brightened the room with a smile. “Hi, Bernie,” she said.

    We got to talking. I don’t remember the conversation, or what it was about, and I’m not even sure that it was about anything. What I was saying, irrespective of the words I was uttering, was You’re cute, and I bet you smell nice, and I’d like to know you better . And the subtext of her now-forgotten remarks was Okay, keep talking, ’cause maybe I’m interested.
    Eventually she said she really