Burglar on the Prowl

  "We picked each other up."

  "-and we came back here. Then Saturday you came back to return the money, and-I just thought of something, Bernie. He took the money from my wallet, didn't he?"

  "Yeah, but fortunately he left the credit cards."

  "That's not the point. He took the money, and I didn't think it was more than eighty dollars or so, but there was more than that in there the next day. You replaced it, didn't you?"

  "Well, yes. Out of the twelve-sixty from the fridge."

  "And then you replaced the twelve-sixty. You lost money on the deal."

  "I'm a pretty good burglar," I said, "but not a great businessman."

  She had a curious expression on her face. I'd seen something similar on Mindy's face, ofMork & Mindy, when she would look at Robin Williams.You're from outer space , she seemed to be saying,but you're kinda cute.

  She drew a breath and said, "And now it's Sunday, and you've entered my apartment twice tonight. The first time I let you in, and the second time you let me in. And in the meantime you've been running a bookstore? Where do you find the time?"

  "Barbara," I said, "you don't know the half of it."

  I guess I felt like talking, because I went pretty much nonstop for the next half hour or so. By the time I was finished, she knew it all.

  Thirty-One

  Monday morning Carolyn and I counted money. We went straight to her bank, where she sat down with an officer and did what you have to do to rent a safe-deposit box. They only had the smallest size available, but that was all she needed to hold the $65,000 in large bills she'd brought along. That wasn't the full amount of her share, she had another two grand and change, but the rest was in small bills and she'd keep it around the house and spend it.

  She left to open her salon, while I caught a cab uptown. The subway would have been faster, but not with what I was carrying. The Number One train stops at Broadway and 79th, and for years now I've had a safe-deposit box at a Citibank branch on that very corner. I could have been there in ten minutes on the train, but I'd worked too hard stealing the money I was carrying to risk letting some common thief take it away from me. While the cab ride took longer, I got out of the cab only ten dollars poorer than I got into it, and that was fine with me.

  I went into the bank, sat at the appropriate desk, and signedWilliam Johnson on the signature card. That was the name I'd taken the box under, purposely picking something eminently forgettable, although I didn't have to worry about forgetting it myself. Bill Johnson was my scoutmaster when I was in Troop Seven, and I always liked the man. I was as surprised as anyone when those stories got around.

  The bank officer had never seen me before, but she compared my signature to the others on the card, and led me into the vault and used my key and hers to get my box out. It was a large one, at least ten times the size of Carolyn's, but it was easy for Ms. Chang to carry because it was empty. I never keep anything in it for any length of time, because it's only safe from other thieves, not from the cops or the IRS, who can get a court order to open it with no trouble at all. The only reason they've never opened my box is that they don't know about it, but sooner or later they'll find out, and I want it to be empty when that happens. So I only use it as a temporary cache, where I can stow something while I figure out a better place for it. If I'd had my hidey-hole it would have gone there, but for now it could sit in the vault.

  Ms. Chang led me to the little room where I locked myself in and transferred an even $125,000 to it from the Ultrasuede attach‚ case I was carrying. My full share had come to just under $135,000, but I'd already spent some of that, and the rest of it was in Carolyn's tub, hiding out under the Kitty Litter.

  That left Marty's share, which was still in the attach‚ case when I left the bank. It came to just over $35,000, enough to justify another cab down to the bookstore. I opened up, but didn't bother with the bargain table, as it was getting on for eleven by then and I'd only be dragging it inside in another hour. Carolyn had already fed Raffles, though that didn't stop him from rubbing against my ankles, trying to hustle me out of an extra can of Nine Lives. It works more often than not, but this time I didn't fall for it.

  I opened the attach‚ case and got out the material Carolyn had downloaded from a few different Internet sites and printed out for me. I'd scanned it earlier, but I gave the several sheets of paper a closer reading this time around, while the world of readers and book collectors failed to beat a path to my door. I was going through the material a second time when the bell above the door announced a customer.

  "Welcome," I said, without looking up. "Have a look around, and let me know if there's anything I can help you with."

  "Not much chance of that, Bernie. Far as I can see, there's nothin' here but books. Whatcha lookin' at?"

  "Nothing interesting, Ray. Just printed matter, like a book but without the binding." I folded what I was reading and moved it out of harm's way. He tried to get a look at it without being too obvious about it, failing in both respects, but did notice my attach‚ case on the floor behind the counter.

  "Nice briefcase," he said. "I think I seen it before."

  "Well, it's possible. I've had it for years."

  "Got any bunnies in there, Bernie?"

  "Bunnies? In an attach‚ case?"

  "Like I said, I seen it before, an' more'n once you've been known to yank a rabbit out of it. If you're gonna do it again, I want to be around when it happens."

  "It seems unlikely," I said, "but if any rabbits are yanked, you'll have a front row seat."

  "Back row's better, Bernie. So's I can block the doors." He leaned in, dropped his voice. There were no customers in the store, but maybe he didn't want Raffles listening in. "I ran the prints on that shaver. You can have it back, but I'd get a new one if I was you. The case is cracked an' it don't work."

  "I know. Did you get an ID on the prints? That was fast."

  "Computers," he said. "They speed up everything, even the response time from Washington. Course it's even faster when you don't have to go to Washington, which is the case if the prints match up with somebody local that we already got a sheet on."

  "I thought they might."

  "There were some partials, probably a woman's from the size of 'em. They didn't ring a bell, an' I didn't send 'em to DC on account of I figured the others were what you were interested in. They were the ones on top, an' they were nice an' clear, an' they damn well did ring a bell. The name William Johnson mean anythin' to you?"

  "Not a thing."

  "Yeah, right. You better not play poker, Bernie. The other players'll know what you got before you do. Well, this Johnson's the last person to handle the damn thing. Is that what you figured?"

  I should have expected something like this, given the run of coincidence I'd had all along. And it was a common name, which was why I'd picked it for my safe-deposit box. Even so, I hadn't expected it to come up less than an hour after my first visit to the box in ages.

  "It couldn't be the same William Johnson," I said. "The reason I reacted-"

  "I'll say you reacted. You looked like you swallowed a bad clam."

  "That was my scoutmaster's name when I was in the Boy Scouts, Ray. William Johnson. I was just thinking of him not an hour ago."

  "Yeah?"

  "And he got in trouble, so he could have had a sheet. But it wasn't in New York, so I don't think it could be the same man. How old is the one who left his prints on the shaver?"

  "Thirty-four."

  "Different person. The man I knew, well, he'd have to be in his sixties by now. This one has a record? I can't say I'm surprised."

  "What do you know about him, Bernie?"

  "Until a minute ago," I said, "I didn't even know his name."

  He looked at me for a moment, then shrugged. "Okay," he said. "I ain't sayin' I believe you, but you found that book about the quarterback, so maybe you know what you're doin'. This Johnson's been arrested half a dozen times, charged with assault an' menacin'
an' a few counts of disorderly conduct. What he is, he's a pain in the ass."

  "Has he done time?"

  "You only do time if you're convicted. He never even went to trial. His uncle's Michael Quattrone, an' I think you probably heard of him."

  "Investments," I said.

  "That's what he calls it. He's been associated with some boiler-room operations over the years, where they got a bunch of guys workin' the phones, lettin' you in on the ground floor for some stock they're pushin'. Soon as you bite it goes straight to the basement. Guy's mobbed up, an' we think he's runnin' a laundry for his friends."

  "Laundering money, you mean."

  "You want to get your shirts washed, take 'em to the Chinaman down the street. You want to make some drug money look like you came by it honest, maybe Quattrone can help you out. No indication this Johnson's a part of it, beyond takin' a desk an' phone in the boiler room now an' then. He's Quattrone's sister's kid, an' that means anytime we pick him up he gets a lawyer who's real good at makin' charges go away. Mostly he picks up jobs when he needs 'em, workin' for a truckin' company, or as a bouncer at a nightclub."

  "A mover and shaker," I said. "You happen to know where he lives?"

  "Last address we got's in the West Fifties. You want it?"

  When Ray had left, after reminding me that he wanted to be there at rabbit-pulling time, I hauled out the phone book and had a look. There was no shortage of Johnsons, and a fair number of them were Johnson William or Johnson W, but none showed the West 53rd Street address Ray had supplied. I wasn't hugely surprised. Johnson's last address was almost three years ago, and somehow I didn't see him as the type to stay in one place long enough to put down roots.

  I picked up the John Sandford novel, found my place, and stepped right back into the more logical world of Lucas Davenport. But I had to leave after a couple of pages, because it was time for my lunch with Marty.

  Thirty-Two

  The Pretenders have a rule against conducting business on club premises. Obviously they don't monitor conversations at the bar or around the billiard table to make sure no one's talking about auditions or offering a look at a script. What they want to avoid is the appearance that business is being done, and toward that end they make you check your briefcase at the door. Accordingly, I'd left the attach‚ case at the shop, having transferred Marty's share to a pair of plain white envelopes. I handed them to him once we were settled in with our drinks.

  "These are yours," I said, and he lifted the flap on one just enough to see that it was full of currency. His eyes widened the slightest bit, and he put the envelopes in his pockets and patted them through the fabric of his suit jacket.

  "Now there's a surprise," he said. "I hadn't even known you'd, uh, taken up the good fight."

  "Friday night."

  "Extraordinary. And I gather you were successful. Highly successful, judging from the girth of those envelopes."

  "They could be all singles," I said, "but they're not. Yes, I'd call it a great success." I told him how much he'd find in the envelopes, and that it represented fifteen percent of the total sum.

  "How marvelous," he said. "All of it a total loss for the shitheel, that's the best part of it."

  "For me," I admitted, "the best part is the money."

  "You had every right to keep all of it, Bernie. I'm quite certain I offered to waive my own interest."

  "You did, but why should you? It wouldn't have happened without you."

  "I'm glad you feel that way." He patted an envelope. "It's not as though I'll have trouble finding a use for it."

  We worked on our drinks-a martini for him, white wine for me-and chose our lunch selections, which Marty wrote down on a check for the waiter. I'm not sure why they do it that way, the waiters can hear as well as anybody else, and could presumably either remember the orders or write them down themselves. I think they like to have things they do differently just so the members will be in no danger of forgetting that they're in a private club, not just another restaurant.

  After the waiter had left, slip of paper in hand, I asked Marty if he'd had any further contact with Marisol.

  "No," he said, "nor do I expect to. That's a closed chapter, Bernie. She chose another man, and it's a choice she was entirely free to make. I emerged from the experience with a strong desire to punish him, which I have to say we've done, but no desire to chastise her, or to get her back. As I said, a closed chapter."

  "I'm glad to hear that," I said, "but I wonder if we could peek at a page or two."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I have a question or two about Marisol. Her mother's from Puerto Rico?"

  "Well, of Puerto Rican descent. I believe she was born in Brooklyn."

  "And the father's from northern Europe."

  "One of the Baltic republics. Quite a mixture, wouldn't you say? Fire and ice."

  "You don't remember which Baltic republic, do you?"

  "There are three, aren't there? Two of them start withL, and it's one of those, which is just as well as I can't recall the name of the third. Eritrea? No, that can't be right."

  "Estonia."

  "Estonia, of course. Where's Eritrea? No, don't tell me, because wherever it is, her father's not from it, or Estonia either. Does that help?"

  "It could. Did you ever tell me her last name? Because I can't seem to recall it."

  "I probably didn't, and you'll understand why. It's Maris."

  "Maris? What's the matter with Maris? I mean, Roger did all right with it." I thought for a moment. "Oh."

  "Oh indeed. Marisol Maris. I thought she might change it, but she wouldn't hear of it. She thought it would look distinctive on a marquee or in a list of credits without striking one as absurd. And I suppose she's right. Now that her name's no longer going to be coupled with mine, I can view it more objectively."

  I could see his point. There was something almost irresistibly awful about the conjunction of Marisol Maris and Martin Gilmartin.

  "She wanted to honor both parts of her heritage, the Puerto Rican and the Lithuanian. Or is it Latvian?"

  "It would almost have to be."

  "It would?" He frowned, then shrugged it off. "She told me she was lucky, that her mother had wanted to name her Imaculata Concepci¢n, but her father drew the line at that. Good for him, I'd say."

  "And how old is she, Marty?"

  "Unsuitably young," he said, and smiled. I asked him what that came to in human years, and he said she was somewhere in her mid-twenties. I did the math and put her date of birth somewhere in the late Seventies, which ruled out a conclusion I'd been about to jump to. Unless-

  How, I asked, had her parents met? In this country? Or, uh, somewhere else?

  "In Brooklyn," he said, too polite to ask why the hell I wanted to know. "He came over in the late Sixties or early Seventies. He was in Toronto for a chess tournament and defected, and then managed to immigrate to the States. He was living in Bay Ridge, and she was in Sunset Park, just a few blocks away, and they met and fell in love." He cocked his head and looked at me. "If you want to know more," he said, "you'd have to ask her. I assume she's kept the apartment, although it'll be up to the shitheel to send in the check each month. Would you like me to give you the address?"

  That was the second conversation in a row to end the same way, with someone offering to furnish an address. One more and I'd be willing to add it to the list of coincidences, but for now it didn't seem all that remarkable. But I did take down Marisol Maris's address, and her phone number, too.

  I went straight back to the store, and the most interesting thing that happened all afternoon took place between the covers ofLettuce Prey. I marked my place and closed the book with fifty pages to go, stopping only because I was late for my standing rendezvous at the Bum Rap. When I got there Carolyn was already at our regular table. She wasn't alone, but looked as though she wanted to be.

  I said, "Hi, Carolyn. Hi Ray," and took a seat with her on my left and him on my right, perfectly plac
ed to be the umpire if they decided to have a tennis match.

  "It's good you're here," Ray said. "Short Stuff an' I was just beginnin' to get on each other's nerves."

  "It must be the weather," I said. "The barometric pressure or something. You normally get along so well."

  "The more small talk you make," she said, "the longer he's gonna stick around."

  "I'm about to tear myself away," he said. "Bernie, you remember those newspaper clippin's in the fat guy's wallet? Well, they translated the Russian ones, an' they were all about the Black Scourge of Ringo."