The Burglar Who Counted the Spoons (Bernie Rhodenbarr)

Table of Contents

Chapters

About the Author

THE BURGLAR WHO COUNTED THE SPOONS

Copyright © 2013, Lawrence Block

All rights reserved.
Except for the use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means is forbidden without the express permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and settings are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, names, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-9910684-0-1

Cover Art by Emanuel Schongut:

The Watercolour Illustrations of Emanual Schongut

Cover and Interior Design by
JW Manus

A Lawrence Block Production

Lawrence Block

A Lawrence Block Production

BOSWELL:
I added that
[this]
person maintained that there was no distinction between virtue and vice.

JOHNSON:
Why, Sir, if the fellow does not think as he speaks, he is lying; and I see not what honour he can propose to himself from having the character of a liar. But if he does really think that there is no distinction between virtue and vice, why, Sir, when he leaves our houses let us count our spoons.

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.”