The Burglar Who Counted the Spoons (Bernie Rhodenbarr) (37 page)

“Cops, you mean? Two, maybe three. Guys I can work with.”

“Nine, ten, eleven. Plus Carolyn, because I can’t leave her out.”

“Makes twelve, and with you it’s thirteen. I hope you’re not superstitious, Bernie.”

“Not at all,” I said. “Anyway, won’t it be fourteen? Because I can’t believe the man from Willow Street won’t want to have his lawyer present.”

“What’s he need with a lawyer? He knows he’s not a target of the investigation.”

“Oh? How does he see himself?”

“As a public-spirited citizen,” he said, “helpin’ me develop a case against a notorious burglar.”

“I see,” I said. “Well, that sounds about right.”

“Seven o’clock,” I told Carolyn, and ran through the guest list. “So I’m afraid we don’t get to thank God that it’s Friday.”

“If we close at five-thirty—”

“I think I’ll just stay open,” I said. “Ray said we may have a few early birds.”

“In that case,” she said, “there’s an hour’s worth of dusting and cleaning I’ve been putting off, so I might as well get it out of the way. How will it be if I show up around six-thirty?”

“I’ll be here.”

“And we can still express our gratitude for getting through another week, Bern. We just won’t have glasses in our hands when we do it.”

It’s hard to keep Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe books in stock. People keep discovering the series and seeking copies of the titles they haven’t read yet, while long-term fans come in hoping to replace the books their friends have borrowed and failed to return.

I managed to turn up a book club edition of
Might As Well Be Dead
and was using it for reference, noting how Wolfe positioned a roomful of suspects before solving a case, putting various people in various chairs. I didn’t have a red leather chair, or a batch of yellow ones, and in fact just about all of my guests would have to stand, but I made a little chart anyway, trying to work out the order of my presentation.

This took longer than you might think, because a stray comment of Archie’s about one of the participants sent me flipping pages, looking for the scene where she first appeared. I couldn’t find it, but I found other good parts, and realized the only sensible course was to start the book at the beginning. It had been a couple of years since I last read it, and I was clearly ready to read it again.

I suppose I heard the bell when my door opened, and I registered it the way one notes in passing a screech of brakes in the street outside. When it’s followed by the sound of impact, one looks up; otherwise it’s just part of the city’s background music.

“I don’t believe it!”

A woman’s voice, bubbly with surprise and delight. Pleased to find an old-fashioned bookshop, no doubt, or perhaps more specifically pleased to find a book for which she’d long been searching. If what I was reading were a little less compelling, I’d look up and greet her. But as it was—

“I was sure you’d never be open. I had this fantasy that you were keeping tabs on my schedule, so you could make sure to close before I could get over here. But here we both are, and what do you think about that?”

Oh, God, it was the lady who’d been leaving notes for me. I looked up from my book to see a slender young Asian woman in dark slacks and a blue silk blouse. She had a book bag slung over one shoulder and an expression on her face that morphed as I watched from pleased to startled.

I suspect my own face must have been undergoing much the same transformation.

Our eyes locked, and we stared. And then, at the same instant, we both spoke, and we both said the same thing:

“Juneau Lock!”

“And so do you. Who would have guessed?”

“But—”

“God, this is embarrassing. Look, when you’re a Chinese girl in a culture where Asian ethnicity is a male fetish second only to big tits, your life becomes way simpler if the people you deal with don’t know you can speak their language.”

“I can see how that would be true,” I said, and looked closely at her. “But that’s only part of it, isn’t it? You get a kick out of it. You like getting over on people.”

“Oops,” she said. “Busted. Yeah, you’re right. That’s bad, huh?”

“Well, it’s probably a character defect.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“But one of the more endearing ones.”

“You think?” She grinned. “It does pass the time. And I don’t get a lot in the way of recreation.”

“You must work long hours.”

“Long enough to keep me from getting here during your all-too-brief business hours. I’m at the restaurant every day from ten to six. Once in a green moon I beg my uncle for a half hour in the slow part of the afternoon. You’re smiling. What’s so funny?”

“Once in a green moon,” I said.

“I said green? I meant blue. I even know what the expression means. Do you?”

I did. “When the moon’s full twice within a single calendar month, it’s called a blue moon.”

“And it doesn’t happen very often. But why blue? Any idea? Well, we could always Google it. Right or wrong, we’d get an answer. Anyway, blue or green, I’d rush over here, and you’d be closed.”

“And then you started leaving notes.”

“I couldn’t help myself. I was being obnoxious, wasn’t I?”

“More like charming.”

“Really?”

“Intriguing, even.”

“Actually,” she said, “that’s what I was aiming for. It was sort of like an online flirtation, where you have no idea what the person’s like, and if you did you wouldn’t flirt with him in a million years, but it’s online, so who cares?”

Our eyes met, and the abrupt realization that we were now flirting face to face brought a rush of color to her cheeks. “Oh, that reminds me,” she said, spinning away from me. She darted over to a bank of shelves and came back with
Antonin Dvorak: The Man and His Music,
by Dieter Vogelsang.

“You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve been looking for this book,” she said.

“You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve owned it.”

“Really?”

“It was here when I bought the store.”

“I could see it from outside,” she said, “and I could never get inside to buy it. Is this right? Only ten dollars?”

I shook my head. “That’s the old price.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. How much do you want for it?”

“Nothing,” I said. “It’s free.”

“Come on, be serious.”

“This is as serious as I get. I’ve had the book forever, and you’re the first person to express any interest in it whatsoever. And look at all the sensational food I’ve received from your hands, not to mention the hard time you’ve had getting your hands on Mr. Dvorak. Please, just put it in your bag.”

“Well, if you’re sure—”

I said I was, and she added the man and his music to her book bag. “Thank you,” she said. “I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Bernie,” I said. “Bernie Rhodenbarr.”

“I’m Katie Huang.”

“And you’re from Taichung?”

“Taipei.”

“Okay, but your uncle’s one of the two guys from Taichung?”

“He’s both guys,” she said, “because why change the sign? And he’s from Taipei, too, but he thought Taichung sounded more exotic.”

“He’s right about that. I didn’t even know where it was.”

“In the middle of the country, southwest of Taipei.”

“So I discovered.”

“Google, huh? Anyway, the food we cook is more Taichung than Taipei.”

“Especially General Tso and the orange beef.”

“The real food,” she said.

“Juneau Lock.”

“I’ll never live that down, will I?”

“Not if I can help it. Dvorak, huh?”

“My main man, ever since I first heard the New World Symphony. And the timing’s perfect, because I’ll be performing his sonata for flute and piano Sunday afternoon. The one in A minor.”

“It’s good you specified. You’re a musician.”

“Not yet, but that’s the plan.”

“A budding musician. And you’re giving a concert?”

“It’s just a recital. I’m a student at Juilliard. That’s why I never have a spare minute, I’m at the restaurant all day and in class half the night, and practicing the rest of the time. Do you want to come? I mean, it’s just a student recital, and none of us are ready to audition for the Philharmonic, but on the other hand it’s the same price as Mr. Vogelsang’s book.”

“Ten bucks?”

“Free admission. You could bring, um—”

“Her name’s Carolyn,” I said, and decided to answer the unasked question. “She’s my best friend, but we’re not a couple. She, uh, likes girls.”

“You know, I had that feeling—”

“It’s the haircut.”

“—but you being together all the time, although I never actually
saw
you both at the same time, but still, I mean, coming in on alternate days and buying food for two, and Juneau Lock and all—”

“I know.”

“Um, are you—”

“I’m like Carolyn,” I said. “In that we both like girls.”

“I had that feeling, too. Oh, God, I’m running late. I’m supposed to be rehearsing. Nguyen’s gonna kill me.”

“He’s the flautist?”

“He’s the pianist. I’m the flautist. Most people say flutist, but you actually said flautist, didn’t you? And why should that make me so curiously happy?”

“I have no idea. What time on Sunday?”

“Three o’clock at Alice Tully Hall. It’s open seating, so you might want to get there a few minutes early. Do you really think you might come?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

“You know, there are men who have a sort of fetish for women who play woodwind instruments.”

“Really? Gee, I wonder why.”

“It’s one of life’s mysteries. I’m glad you’re not like that.”

“Me too. But I might have the other one that you mentioned.”

“I hope it’s for Asian women and not big tits.”

“It’s more specific. It’s for adorable smartass girls from Taipei.”

“Adorable? My Tiger Mom would be so proud. Oh, rats. I really have to—”

“I know. Sunday at three at Alice Tully. And dinner afterward.”

“That’d be great. But one thing, Bernie—”

“Anything but Chinese.”

“Oh, I think I’m in love,” she said, and flew out the door.