Funny You Should Ask
Lawrence Block
Copyright © 2013, Lawrence Block
All Rights Reserved
A Lawrence Block Production
ON WHAT A less original writer might deign to describe as a fateful day, young Robert Tillinghast approached the proprietor of a shop called Earth Forms. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t think I can buy anything today, but there’s a question I’d like to ask you. It’s been on my mind for the longest time. I was looking at those recycled jeans over by the far wall.”
“I’ll be getting a hundred pair in Monday afternoon,” the proprietor said.
“Is that right?”
“It certainly is.”
“A hundred pair,” Robert marveled. “That’s certainly quite a lot.”
“It’s the minimum order.”
“Is that a fact? And they’ll all be the same quality and condition as the ones you have on display over on the far wall?”
“Absolutely. Of course, I won’t know what sizes I’ll be getting.”
“I guess that’s just a matter of chance.”
“It is. But they’ll all be first-quality name brands, and they’ll all be in good condition, broken in but not broken to bits. That’s a sort of an expression I made up to describe them.”
“I like it,” said Robert, not too sincerely. “You know, there’s a question that’s been nagging at my mind for the longest time. Now you get six dollars a pair for the recycled jeans, is that right?” It was. “And it probably wouldn’t be out of line to guess that they cost you about half that amount?” The proprietor, after a moment’s reflection, agreed that it wouldn’t be far out of line to make that estimate.
“Well, that’s the whole thing,” Robert said. “You notice the jeans I’m wearing?”
The proprietor glanced at them. They were nothing remarkable, a pair of oft-washed Lee Riders that were just beginning to go thin at the knees. “Very nice,” the man said. “I’d get six dollars for them without a whole lot of trouble.”
“But I wouldn’t want to sell them.”
“And of course not. Why should you? They’re just getting to the comfortable stage.”
“Exactly!” Robert grew intense, and his eyes bulged slightly. This was apt to happen when he grew intense, although he didn’t know it, never having seen himself at such times. “Exactly,” he repeated. “The recycled jeans you see in the shops, this shop and other shops, are just at the point where they’re breaking in right. They’re never really worn out. Unless you only put the better pairs on display?”
“No, they’re all like that.”
“That’s what everybody says.” Robert had had much the same conversation before in the course of his travels. “All top quality, all in excellent condition, and all in the same stage of wear.”
“So?”
“So,” Robert said in triumph, “who throws them out?”
“Oh.”
“The company that sells them. Where do they get them from?”
“You know,” the proprietor said, “it’s funny you should ask. The same question’s occurred to me. People buy these jeans because this is the way they want ’em. But who in the world sells them?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. Not that it would do me any good to have the answer, but the question preys on my mind.”
“Who sells them? I could understand about young children’s jeans that kids would outgrow them, but what about the adult sizes? Unless kids grow up and don’t want to wear jeans anymore.”
“I’ll be wearing jeans as long as I live,” Robert said recklessly. “I’ll never get too old for jeans.”
The proprietor seemed not to have heard. “Now maybe it’s different out in the farm country,” he said. “I buy these jeans from a firm in Rockford, Illinois—”
“I’ve heard of the firm,” Robert said. “They seem to be the only people supplying recycled jeans.”
“Only one I know of. Now maybe things are different in their area and people like brand-new jeans and once they break in somewhat they think of them as worn out. That’s possible, don’t you suppose?”
“I guess it’s possible.”
“Because it’s the only explanation I can think of. After all, what could they afford to pay for the jeans? A dollar a pair? A dollar and a half at the outside? Who would sell ’em good-condition jeans for that amount of money?” The man shook his head. “Funny you should ask a question that I’ve asked myself so many times and never put into words.”
“That Rockford firm,” Robert said. “That’s another thing I don’t understand. Why would they develop a sideline business like recycled jeans?”
“I suppose there are,” said Robert.
An obsession of the sort that gripped Robert is a curious thing. After a certain amount of time it is either metamorphosized into neurosis or it is tamed, surfacing periodically as a vehicle for casual conversation. Young Robert Tillinghast, neurotic enough in other respects, suppressed his curiosity on the subject of recycled jeans and only raised the question at times when it seemed particularly apropos.
And it did seem apropos often enough. Robert was touring the country, depending for his locomotion upon the kindness of passing motorists. As charitable as his hosts were, they were apt to insist upon a quid pro quo of conversation, and Robert had learned to converse extemporaneously upon a variety of subjects. One of these was that of recycled blue jeans, a subject close at once to his heart and his skin, and Robert’s own jeans often served as the lead-in to this line of conversation, being either funky and mellow or altogether disreputable, depending upon one’s point of view, which in turn largely depended (it must be said) upon one’s age.
One day in West Virginia, on that stretch of Interstate 79 leading from Morgantown down to Charleston, Robert thumbed a ride with a man who, though not many years older than himself, drove a late-model Cadillac. Robert, his backpack in the backseat and his body in the front, could not have been more pleased. He had come to feel that hitching a ride in an expensive car endowed one with all the privileges of ownership without the nuisance of making the payments.
Then, as the car cruised southward, Robert noticed that the driver was glancing repeatedly at his, which is to say Robert’s, legs. Covert glances at that, sidelong and meaningful. Robert sighed inwardly. This, too, was part of the game, and had ceased to shock him. But he had so been looking forward to riding in this car and now he would have to get out.
The driver said, “Just admiring your jeans.”
“I guess they’re just beginning to break in,” Robert said, relaxing now. “I’ve certainly had them a while.”
“Well, they look just right now. Got a lot of wear left in them.”
“I guess they’ll last for years,” Robert said. “With the proper treatment. You know, that brings up something I’ve been wondering about for a long time.” And he went into his routine, which had become rather a little set piece by this time, ending with the question that had plagued him from the start. “So where on earth does that Rockford company get all these jeans? Who provides them?”
“Funny you should ask,” the young man said. “I don’t suppose you noticed my license plates before you got in?” Robert admitted he hadn’t. “Few people do,” the young man said. “Land of Lincoln is the slogan on them, and they’re from Illinois. And I’m from Rockford. As a matter of fact, I’m with that very company.”
“But that’s incredible! For the longest time I’ve wanted to know the answers to my questions, and now at long last—” He broke off. “Why are we leaving the Interstate?”
“Bypass some traffic approaching Charleston. There’s construction ahead and it can be a real bottleneck. Yes, I’m with the co
mpany.”
“In sales, I suppose? Servicing accounts? You certainly have enough accounts. Why, it seems every store in the country buys recycled jeans from you people.”
“Our distribution is rather good,” the young man said, “and our sales force does a good job. But I’m in Acquisitions, myself. I go out and round up the jeans. Then in Rockford they’re washed to clean and sterilize them, patched if they need it and—”
“You’re actually in Acquisitions?”
“That’s a fact.”
“Well, this is my lucky day,” Robert exclaimed. “You’re just the man to give me all the answers. Where do you get the jeans? Who sells them to you? What do you pay for them? What sort of person sells perfectly good jeans?”
“That’s a whole lot of questions at once.”
Robert laughed, happy with himself, his host, and the world. “I just don’t know where to start and it’s got me rattled. Say, this bypass is a small road, isn’t it? I guess not many people know about it and that’s why there’s no other traffic on it. Poor saps’ll all get tangled in traffic going into Charleston.”
“We’ll miss all that.”
“That’s good luck. Let’s see, where can I begin? All right, here’s the big question and I’ve always been puzzled by this one. What’s a company like yours doing in the recycled jeans business?”
“Well,” said the young man, “diversification is the keynote of American business these days.”
“But a company like yours,” Robert said. “Rockford Dog Food, Inc. How did you ever think to get into the business in the first place?”
“Funny you should ask,” said the young man, braking the car smoothly to a stop.
The End
The Burglar Who Counted the Spoons
Chapter One
Excerpt Copyright © 2013, Lawrence Block
AROUND 11:15 ON a Tuesday morning in May, I was perched on my stool behind the counter at Barnegat Books. I was reading Jubilate Agno, by Christopher Smart, even as I was keeping a lazy eye on a slender young woman in jeans and sandals. Her khaki shirt had those little tabs to secure the sleeves when you rolled them up, and a scant inch of tattoo peeked out from under one rolled-up sleeve. I couldn’t make out the image, there wasn’t enough showing, and I didn’t bother to guess, or to speculate on what hidden parts of her anatomy might sport further tattoos. I was paying more attention to the capacious tote bag hanging from her shoulder, and the Frank Norris novel that had engaged her interest.
For I shall consider my cat, Geoffrey, I read, and looked over to the window to consider my own cat, Raffles. There’s a portion of the window ledge that the sun manages to find on clear days, and that’s his favorite spot, rain or shine. Sometimes he stretches, in the manner of his tribe, and sometimes his paws move as he dreams of mice. At the moment he was doing nothing, as far as I could tell.
My customer, on the other hand, had fetched a cell phone from her tote bag. She’d put the book down, and her thumbs were busy. At length she returned the phone to her bag and, beaming, brought Frank Norris to the counter.
“I’ve been looking all over for this,” she said, triumphantly. “And I’ve had a terrible time, because I couldn’t remember the title or the author.”
“I can see how that might complicate things for you.”
“But when I saw the book,” she said, brandishing the object in question, “it, like, rang a bell.”
“Ah.”
“And I looked through it, and this is it.”
“The very volume you’ve been seeking.”
“Yeah, isn’t that awesome? And you know what’s even better?”
“What?”
“It’s on Kindle. Isn’t that fantastic? I mean, here’s a book more than a hundred years old, and it’s not like it was Huckleberry Finn or Moby-Dick, you know?”
Eat your heart out, Frank Norris.
“Like, they’re popular, so you’d expect to be able to get them in eBooks. But The Pit? Frank Norris? And yet I Googled it and there it was, and a couple of clicks and I own it.”
“Just like that,” I said.
“Isn’t it great? And you know what it cost?”
“Probably less than the book you’re holding.”
She checked the penciled price on the inside cover. “Fifteen dollars. Which is fair enough, I mean it’s like a hundred years old and a hardcover book and all. But you want to know what I just paid?”
“I’d love to.”
“Two ninety-nine.”
“Awesome,” I said.
CAROLYN KAISER, WHO washes dogs two doors down the street at the Poodle Factory, is my best friend and, more often than not, my lunch companion. Whoever’s turn it is picks up food at a nearby restaurant and brings it to the other’s place of business. It was her turn, and an hour after the girl with the peekaboo tattoo left poor old Frank Norris on my counter, Carolyn breezed in and began dishing out dejeuner a deux.
“Juneau Lock?”
“Juneau Lock,” she agreed.
“I wonder what it is.”
She took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and considered the matter. “I couldn’t even guess the animal,” she said. “Let alone what part of the animal.”
“It could be almost anything.”
“I know.”
“Whatever this dish is,” I said, “I don’t think we’ve had it before.”
“It’s always different,” she said, “and it’s always sensational.”
“Or even awesome,” I said, and told her about Frank Norris and the girl with the tattoo.
“Maybe it was a dragon.”
“The tattoo? Or our lunch?”
“Either one. She used your bookshop to figure out what book she wanted, and then she bought the eBook from Amazon and bragged about what a deal she got.”
“It didn’t come off like bragging,” I said. “She was letting me be a part of her triumph.”
“And rubbing your nose in it, Bern. And you don’t even seem all that upset.”
“I don’t?” I thought about it. “Well,” I said, “I guess I’m not. She was so innocent about it, you know? ‘Isn’t it great how I saved myself twelve bucks?’ ” I shrugged. “At least I got the book back. I was afraid she was going to steal it.”
“In a manner of speaking,” she said, “she did. But if you’re cool with it, I don’t see why I should be pissed off on your behalf. This is great food, Bern.”
“The best.”
“Two Guys From Taichung. I wonder if I’m pronouncing it correctly.”
“I’m pretty sure you got the first three words right.”
“The first three words,” she said, “never change.”
The restaurant, on the corner of Broadway and East Eleventh Street, across the street from the Bum Rap, has had the same sign for almost as long as I’ve had the bookshop. But it’s changed owners and ethnicities repeatedly over the years, and each new owner (or pair of owners) has painted over the last word on the sign. Two Guys From Tashkent gave way to Two Guys From Guayaquil, which in turn yielded to Two Guys From Phnom Penh. And so on.
We began to take the closings for granted—it was evidently a hard-luck location—and whenever we started to lose our taste for the current cuisine, we could look forward to whatever would take its place. And, while we rarely went more than a few days without a lunch from Two Guys, there were plenty of alternatives—the deli, the pizza place, the diner.
Then Two Guys From Kandahar threw in the towel, and Two Guys From Taichung opened up shop, and everything changed.
“I’LL BE CLOSING early,” I told Carolyn.
“Today’s the day, huh?”
“And tonight’s the night. I thought I might get back downtown in time to meet you at the Bum Rap, but where’s the sense in that?”
“Especially since you’d be drinking Perrier. Bern? You want me to tag along?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure? Because it’d be no problem for me to clos
e early. I’ve got a Borzoi to blow dry, and his owner’s picking him up at three, and even if she runs late I can be out of there by three-thirty. I could keep you company.”
“You were with me on the reconnaissance mission.”
“Casing the joint,” she said with relish. “Nothing to it. Piece of cake.”
“I think it’s better if I solo this time around.”
“I could watch your back.”
“I don’t want to give their security cameras a second look at you. Once is fine but twice is suspicious.”
“I could wear a disguise.”
“No, I’ll be disguised,” I said. “And a key part of my disguise is that this time around I won’t be accompanied by a diminutive woman with a lesbian haircut.”
“I guess diminutive sounds better than short,” she said. “And it’s not exactly a lesbian haircut, but I take your point. So how about if I hang out down the block? No? Okay, Bern, but I’ll have my cell with me. If you need me—”
“I’ll call. But that’s not likely. I’ll just steal the book and go home.”
“Check Amazon first,” she said. “See if it’s on Kindle. Maybe you can save yourself a trip.”
* * *
The Burglar Who Counted the Spoons
About the Author
Lawrence Block has been writing award-winning mystery and suspense fiction for half a century. His most recent novels are Hit Me, featuring Keller, and A Drop of the Hard Stuff, featuring Matthew Scudder, who will be played by Liam Neeson in the forthcoming film, A Walk Among the Tombstones. Several of his other books have been filmed, although not terribly well. He’s well known for his books for writers, including the classic Telling Lies for Fun & Profit, and The Liar’s Bible. In addition to prose works, he has written episodic television (Tilt!) and the Wong Kar-wai film, My Blueberry Nights. He is a modest and humble fellow, although you would never guess as much from this biographical note.
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Website: LB’s Blog