The Burglar Who Counted the Spoons (Bernie Rhodenbarr) (10 page)

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 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 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 the life you’re cut out for, and it suits you perfectly. Your bookstore, your cat, your charming little apartment—”

“Bernie Rhodenbarr, this is your life.”

“Well, isn’t it?”

“It’s the one I’ve been living,” I said, “taking it a day at a time. And for the most part I like things the way they are. But it’s not as though marriage is something I absolutely rule out, and with the right person—”

“Stop right there, Bernie.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not the right person. More to the point, you’re not the right person.”

“I’m not?”

“Oh, for some woman, maybe, but not for me. I went to your bookshop because my friend Chloe said she thought I might like you.”

“I don’t think I know anybody named Chloe.”

“She wandered into your store sometime last month. She didn’t buy anything.”

“That really narrows it down.”

“She’s pretty, she’s got dark hair, she’s about my height but thinner. She said you didn’t get upset when she put a book back and bought it on Kindle.”