Lawrence Block - The Burglar Who Thought He Was Bogart

At a quarter after ten on the last Wednesday in

Now, thirty-two hours later, I rang one of four bells

And so, minutes later, was I. If there was any

Of all the bookstores in all the towns in all

Two weeks later it was Wednesday again, and it was

I woke up surprisingly clear-headed, if not entirely thrilled about

In Dead End, Bogart plays Baby Face Martin, a gangster

Around ten-thirty the next morning I was reading Hop To

When I first saw him on his way through the

Ray dropped me at the subway and I was in

The furniture was still there. The narrow bed nestled against

Over breakfast she said, I dont know if you remember

Mr. Thompson, Charles Weeks said. I remember you now. I didnt

This man Candlemas, Charles Weeks said. It would seem obvious

I feel good about this, Charlie Weeks said. A man

I think its so romantic, Carolyn said. I think its

I slept soundly and woke up early, managing to get

That left me with a couple more phone calls to

Charlie Weeks was waiting in his doorway when the elevator

I figured I had an hour before he was likely

Of course she remembered the line. Her eyes brightened with

I guess were all suckers for royalty. Half the house

It was unquestionably an accident, he explained. He had never

It doesnt seem right, Carolyn said. Tiggy murdered both of

It was a full week before I got around to

A t a quarter after ten on the last Wednesday in May, I put a beautiful woman in a taxi and watched her ride out of my life, or at least out of my neighborhood. Then I stepped off the curb and flagged a cab of my own.

Seventy-first and West End, I told the driver.

He was one of a vanishing breed, a crusty old bird with English for a native language. Thats five blocks, four up and one over. A beautiful night, a young fella like yourself, what are you doing in a cab?

Trying to be on time, I thought. The two films had run a little longer than Id figured, and I had to stop at my own apartment before I rushed off to someone elses.

Ive got a bum leg, I said. Dont ask me why.

Yeah? What happened? Didnt get hit by a car, did you? All I can say is I hope it wasnt a cab, and if it was I hope it wasnt me.

Arthritis.

Go on, arthritis? He craned his neck and looked at me. Youre too young for arthritis. Thats for old farts, you go down to Florida and sit in the sun. Live in a trailer, play shuffleboard, vote Republican. A fellow your age, you tell me you broke your leg skiing, pulled a muscle running the marathon, that I can understand. But arthritis! Where do you get off having arthritis?

Seventy-first and West End, I said. The northwest corner.

I know where you get off, as in get out of the cab, but why arthritis? You got it in your family?

How had I gotten into this? Its posttraumatic, I said. I sustained injuries in a fall, and Ive had arthritic complications ever since. Its usually not too bad, but sometimes it acts up.

Terrible, at your age. What are you doing for it?

Theres not too much I can do, I said. According to my doctor.

Doctors! he cried, and spent the rest of the ride telling me what was wrong with the medical profession, which was almost everything. They didnt know anything, they didnt care about you, they caused more troubles than they cured, they charged the earth, and when you didnt get better they blamed you for it. And after they blind you and cripple you, so that you got no choice but to sue them, where do you have to go? To a lawyer! And thats worse!

That carried us clear to the northwest corner of Seventy-first and West End. Id had it in mind to ask him to wait, since it wouldnt take me long upstairs and Id need another cab across town, but Id had enough ofI squinted at the license posted on the right-hand side of the dashof Max Fiddler.

I paid the meter, added a buck for the tip, and, like a couple of smile buttons, Max and I told each other to have a nice evening. I thought of limping, for the sake of verisimilitude, and decided the hell with it. Then I hurried past my own doorman and into my lobby.

Upstairs in my apartment I did a quick change, shucking the khakis, the polo shirt, the inspirational athletic shoes (Just Do It!) and putting on a shirt and tie, gray slacks, crepe-soled black shoes, and a double-breasted blue blazer with an anchor embossed on each of its innumerable brass buttons. The buttonsthered been matching cuff links, too, but I havent seen them in yearswere a gift from a woman Id been keeping company with awhile back. She had met a guy and married him and moved to a suburb of Chicago, where the last Id heard she was expecting their second child. My blazer had outlasted our relationship, and the buttons outlasted the blazer; when I replaced it Id gotten a tailor to transfer the buttons. Theyll probably survive this blazer, too, and may well be in fine shape when Im gone, although thats something I try not to dwell on.

I got my attach case from the front closet. In another closet, the one in the bedroom, there is a false compartment built into the rear wall. My apartment has been searched by professionals, and no one has yet found my little hidey-hole. Aside from me and the drug-crazed young carpenter who built it for me, only Carolyn Kaiser knows where it is and how to get into it. Otherwise, should I leave the country or the planet abruptly, whatever I have hidden away would probably remain there until the building comes down.

I pressed the two spots you have to press, then slid the panel you have to slide, and the compartment revealed its secrets. They werent many. The space runs to about three cubic feet, so its large enough to stow just about anything I steal until such time as Im able to dispose of it. But I hadnt stolen anything in months, and what Id last lifted had long since been distributed to a couple of chaps whod had more use for it than I.

What can I say? I steal things. Cash, ideally, but thats harder and harder to find in this age of credit cards and twenty-four-hour automatic teller machines. There are still people who keep large quantities of real money around, but they typically keep other things on hand as well, such as wholesale quantities of illegal drugs, not to mention assault rifles and attack-trained pit bulls. They lead their lives and I lead mine, and if the twain never get around to meeting, thats fine with me.

The articles I take tend to be the proverbial good things that come in small packages. Jewelry, naturally. Objets dartjade carvings, pre-Columbian effigies, Lalique glass. Collectiblesstamps, coins, and once, in recent memory, baseball cards. Now and then a painting. Onceand never again, please Goda fur coat.

I steal from the rich, and for no better reason than Robin Hood did: the poor, God love em, have nothing worth taking. And the valuable little items I carry off are, you will note, not the sort of thing anybody needs in order to keep body and soul together. I dont steal pacemakers or iron lungs. No family is left homeless after a visit of mine. I dont take the furniture or the TV set (although I have been known to roll up a small rug and take it for a walk). In short, I lift the things you can live without, and which you have very likely insured, like as not for more than theyre worth.

So what? What I do is still rotten and reprehensible, and I know it. Ive tried to give it up, and I cant, and deep down inside I dont want to. Because its who I am and what I do.

Its not the only thing I am or do. Im also a bookseller, the sole proprietor of Barnegat Books, an antiquarian bookstore on East Eleventh Street, between Broadway and University Place. On my passport, which youll find in the back of my sock drawer (which is stupid, because, trust me, thats the first place a burglar would look), my occupation is listed as bookseller. The passport has my name, Bernard Grimes Rhodenbarr, and my address on West End Avenue, and a photo which can be safely described as unflattering.