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

ought to look at books, since here we were in a bookshop. I left her to it, and tried to return to my own book, but Harry Bosch’s Los Angeles suddenly seemed flat and drab compared to the New York I shared with this lovely creature.
    It was about time for me to close for the evening, but how could I possibly ask her to leave? So I stayed where I was, trying to interest myself in Bosch’s troubles, and raising my eyes from the page now and then to catch a glimpse of my visitor.
    “Is it okay if I make a phone call?”
    “Sure,” I said, grateful for the interruption. The phone’s on the counter, but she shook her head when I pointed to it.
    “I have my iPhone,” she said. “But I figured a bookstore might be like the quiet car on Amtrak. If you’d rather, I can step outside.”
    “You and I,” I pointed out, “are this train’s only passengers today.”
    She placed her call. “Hi, it’s Janine,” she said to whoever answered. Then there were some exchanges I didn’t catch, and the next thing she said was, “Oh, I see. Well, sure. Another time, then.”
    She ended the call, dropped the phone into her bag, and said, “Rats.”
    “A disappointment?”
    “Well, a minor one,” she said. “Somebody just broke a dinner date with me.”
    “Someone with a screw loose,” I said. “Nobody in his right mind would miss a chance to take you to dinner. Still, it’s a pretty remarkable coincidence.”
    “It is?”
    “Less than an hour ago,” I said, “someone broke a dinner date with me. He’s my accountant, so in a sense it’s as if my dentist called to bump my appointment to next Friday.”
    “Would it be safe to conclude that you’re not exactly crushed?”
    “Not even rumpled. But I do face the unsettling prospect of dining alone.”
    “I see.”
    “Do you? Because we would seem to have that in common, and it looks to me for all the world like two problems with a single solution.” I drew a breath. “Will you have dinner with me?”
    “I’d love to,” she said.

    I called the Bum Rap and got Maxine to let Carolyn know she’d be drinking alone this evening. I brought my bargain table inside, then ducked into my back room, where I put on a clean shirt and the same blazer I’d worn to the Galtonbrook.
    Outside, a bright June afternoon was turning into a perfect June evening. I asked Janine if she liked Italian food, and she unsurprisingly said she did. Have you ever heard of anybody who doesn’t?
    The place I picked was on East Tenth a few doors from Fifth Avenue. I’d been there once with Carolyn when we had something to celebrate. It was upscale, which meant that the table linen was white, the tables were spaced well apart, the candles were in little silver holders instead of Chianti bottles, and the prices made you glad they took credit cards.
    The food was terrific, too, but that’s just as true in the joints with the checkered red tablecloths.
    We started with the antipasto. Then she had the branzino and I had the veal, and we shared a plate of pasta. Fusilli, I think it was, but I may have gotten that wrong; it’s the one shaped like little bedsprings, and the sauce was rich and flavorful.
    She said she preferred red wine to white, fish or no fish, so I ordered us a bottle of Bardolino, and another of the same when the first ran dry. The food and the wine would have been good enough to hold our interest, but the conversation flowed easily. We talked about books, we talked about art, we talked about music, we talked about New York, and mostly we talked about things I don’t remember. They were terribly interesting at the time, but not nearly as interesting as her company.
    It was around the time I poured us each a second glass of wine that she emphasized a conversational point by resting her hand on mine. It was wonderfully casual, but I’ve learned over the years that, when a woman touches your hand, it’s generally a Good Sign.
    She did it again a little later, and left her hand on