The Burglar Who Counted the Spoons (Bernie Rhodenbarr) (26 page)

“Janine Miller?”

“Whatever. She still lives there, and works there, and polishes the silver. And can come and go as she wishes.”

“With a spoon in her bag. Did you call her yet?”

“I was just about to,” I said. “I wanted to wait until I had a chance to brush my teeth.”

“Ewww,” she said. “You’re talking to me and you haven’t brushed your teeth yet? That’s gross, Bern. I’m hanging up.”

“Chloe?”

Her pause was confirmation enough. When she didn’t tell me I had the wrong number, I knew I had the right one.

“My name’s Bernie Rhodenbarr,” I told the silence. “We met recently.”

“We did?”

“In my bookstore. I have a store on East Eleventh Street, and you came in looking for Frank Norris.”

“I don’t think I know a Frank Morris.”

“Uh—”

“Wait a minute. Frank
Norris?
The writer? Now I remember. What did you say your name was?”

“Bernie Rhodenbarr.”

“No,” she said. “I mean, I’m not saying it’s not your name. You’d know that better than I would, wouldn’t you?”

“Uh—”

“But I don’t think I ever
got
your name. The store had an unusual name. Book Barn? No, but it had barn in it.”

“Barnegat Books.”

“Right.”

“The previous owner had a summer place at Barnegat Light, in New Jersey.”

“So?”

“So that’s how the store got its name.”

“Oh,” she said. “How did
you
get
my
name?”

“From a friend of yours.”

“A friend of mine? You want to narrow it down a little?”

“Her name’s Janine.”

“It is, huh? And who’s she supposed to be, Frank Morris’s sister? I don’t know anybody named Janine.”

This was not going well. “That’s the name she gave me,” I said, “after she realized I wasn’t husband material. I had a feeling it wasn’t her real name, but what was I supposed to do, go through her purse?”

“Wait a minute.”

“Okay.”

“Her name’s not Janine.”

“There’s a shock.”

“Look, if you’re trying to get in touch with her, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“I’m not.”

“Because if she wanted to hear from you she would have given you her number, and—you’re not?”

“No. You’re the one I’m trying to get in touch with.”

“Me? You mind telling me why?”

“Well, to thank you, for one thing. Your friend and I spent a few very enjoyable hours together, whatever her name might be.”

Her voice softened. “So she said.”

“And all because you told her I was cute.”

“Yeah. As a matter of fact—”

“What?”

“Well, she had some nice things to say about you.”

“Oh?”

“And I sort of thought I’d come say hello if I was in the neighborhood. But the one time I got down there you were closed, and—”

“I got your note.”

“What note?”

“On my bargain table.”

“I didn’t leave a note. Why would I leave you a note?”

“It must have been somebody else,” I said. “Look, Chloe, I think we should meet. I can’t go into this over the phone, but there’s an opportunity that you don’t want to miss.”

“An opportunity?”

“With the prospect of considerable financial reward.”

A pause. “How did you get this number?”

“I told you, your friend said—”

“The only number she could have given you is my cell. She doesn’t even
have
this number.”

“Ten minutes,” I said. “That’s all it’ll take.”

“You’re way downtown. I can’t—”

“Your neighborhood is fine. You give me ten minutes and I’ll give you five thousand dollars.”

“For what?”

“For listening. Pick a place that’s convenient for you, set a time, and I’ll be there.”

“Oh, God, I can’t think. And he just got off the treadmill. Five minutes in the shower and he’s going to want his massage. I have to get off.”

“I guess you’re not the only one.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Say where and when.”

“Five thousand dollars? Just for listening?”

“That’s right.”

“Two-thirty this afternoon. Is that okay?”

“It’s fine. Where?”

“The only place I can think of is Three Guys.”

“I think you mean Two Guys.”

“Jesus, don’t you think I can count? It’s Three Guys, it’s a coffee shop on Madison Avenue.”

“I’m sorry, I thought—”

“Three Guys at half past two,” she said. “And if you show up at Two Guys at half past three, the hell with you.”

It was a gecko, all right, and a dead ringer for the TV gecko with the Australian accent. She was wearing a denim jacket over a sleeveless pink blouse, and she’d slipped off the jacket even as she’d slipped into the booth opposite me.

I’d been there for almost ten minutes when she showed up right on time. “Well, you’re here,” she said. “Just like you said. That’s not all you said.”

“Oh, right.” I handed her an envelope. It was the last one my client had handed me, the one I’d put away unopened. This morning when I fetched it from the store I checked its contents, and she did the same now, holding the bills in her lap and giving them a careful count, while I kept one eye on the little lizard on her arm and the other on the coffee shop entrance.

I was fairly sure the gecko would stay put, and more anxious about who might walk through the door. It wouldn’t be Leopold, not unless someone had come up with an instant cure for agoraphobia, but a woman like Chloe could probably count on more than a tattoo for protection.

“It’s five thousand dollars,” she said.

“I’m a man of my word.”

“Well, have you got any more words? You said this was for listening. I guess you’ve got my attention.”

While I talked, she held the money in her hand and kept her hand in her lap, making a fan of the bills, then gathering them together. When the waiter brought more iced tea, she shifted her bag to block his view of the cash. When he withdrew, her hands resumed their play.

When I stopped, she returned the bills to the envelope. She said, “Suppose I say no. Then what?”

“Then I’ll be disappointed, but it won’t be the first time.”

“And?”

“And my client will be disappointed, but he’ll have to learn to live with it.”

“Do I have to give back the money?”

I shook my head. “You earned it when you showed up.”

“But I could have a lot more. Just for one spoon.”

“That’s right. But not just any spoon. I’m not sure if you know the one I mean, but—”

“There are four of them,” she said patiently, “in the cabinet with the rest of Whatsisname’s stuff.”

“Myer Myers.”

“Uh-huh. Caesar Rodney from Delaware with the horse he rode in on. Benjamin Franklin from Pennsylvania with a key, because of that experiment with the kite. And John Hart from New Jersey, with a deer’s head, antlers and all. I don’t know who he was or what the deer’s about.”

“I don’t know who he was either, but I think it’s a pun. A hart is another name for a male deer.”

“I bet that’s it,” she said, “because the fourth spoon’s a play on the name, too. Button Gwinnett of Georgia, and it’s got, duh, this little button. That’s the only one you want? You don’t care about the others?”

“Just that one.”

“And I bring it to you, and then what happens?”

“You get twenty thousand dollars.”

“And that’s not counting what you just gave me. That’s twenty more, for a total of twenty-five.”

“I see you’re good at math, too.”

She gave me a look. “Look,” she said, “what I am basically is this slacker drifting through life and not amounting to anything, okay? I keep taking college courses, one or two a year, but I’ll never get a degree, and I don’t want one because it would just make me overqualified.”

“For what?”

“For anything. I could teach yoga, except I hate teaching, and I’m a massage therapist qualified in Swedish and shiatsu and Coblenz reflexology, but I found out I hate touching strangers. You saw what I was doing with the money you gave me?”

“After you counted the bills? Shuffling them, it looked like.”

“I was playing with them,” she said. “I never had anywhere near that much cash before. So if I played with it then it was play money and I didn’t have to be scared of it. What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Like put it in the bank?”

“You could.”

“But you wouldn’t.”

“Well, somebody someday might want to know where it came from.”

“Got it. So I should keep it in cash, but someplace safe.”

“That’s what I always do.”

Her eyes narrowed, and I could see her mind working. “That was you last night,” she said. “When I got home he was all excited about the book he’d bought. But last night you were using a different name.”

“I was.”

“An alias, I guess they call it.”

“That’s if you use it with some frequency,” I said. “In this instance it was just a name I assumed for the occasion.”

“She thought you were this nebbishy low-rent guy with a store and a cat.”

“Janine.”

“Yeah, alias Janine. ‘You’d have fun with him,’ she said. Like she’s going places, and I’m not, so I could afford to waste my time with a loser.”

“Like me.”

“Uh-huh. Like you, Joe Loser. Meanwhile you’ve got all this cash that you know enough not to keep in a bank.”

“I’m not exactly rolling in it.”

“But when you want some, you find a way to get some.”

“Well, it tends to work out that way.”

“You make money the old-fashioned way. You steal it.” She took a deep breath, let it out. “Okay,” she said.

“Okay? You mean you’ll do it?”

She nodded. “How long am I supposed to think about it? I’ll get it out of the cabinet tonight and bring it to your store tomorrow afternoon. Twenty thousand dollars?”

“I’ll have it ready.”

“Great.” She stood up, hesitated. “Uh, my iced tea . . .”

Joe Loser told her he’d take care of it.

I’d held off as long as I could, but eventually I’d had to ask.

“Why does anyone collect anything, Mr. Rhodenbarr? I’m familiar with all the theories, as I trust are you. To create the illusion of order in an unordered universe. To accumulate objects which will in some way reflect a flattering image of oneself. To present oneself with a challenge, and rise to it; to get hold of every different kind of stamp or coin or book or widget, to possess the finest specimen, or the rarest sub-variety, or otherwise outdo one’s fellow collectors.