The Burglar Who Studied Spinoza - By Lawrence Block Page 0,1
A miniature poodle?”
“Well, I don’t—”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” she said. “You wouldn’t and neither would I. There are only two kinds of people who’d have a dog like that, and they’re the two classes of human beings I’ve never been able to understand.”
“How’s that?”
“Gay men and straight women. Can we get out of here? I suppose I could have an apricot brandy sour. I had a lover once who used to drink them. Or I could have that bourbon and soda you mentioned. But I think what I really want is a martini.”
What she had was Perrier with lime.
But not without protest. Most of the protest was vented on the open air, and by the time we were at our usual table around the corner at the Bum Rap, Carolyn was agreeable if not happy about it. The waitress asked if we wanted the usual, whereupon Carolyn made a face and ordered French seltzer water, which was not her usual by any stretch of the imagination. Neither was it mine at the end of the day’s work, but the day’s work was not yet over. I, too, ordered Perrier, and the waitress went off scratching her head.
“I don’t see why I can’t have a real drink. The thing tonight is hours in the future. If I had a drink it would wear off in plenty of time.”
“You know the rules.”
“Rules.”
“Without them, society would crumble. We’d have anarchy. Crime in the streets.”
“Bernie—”
“Of course,” I said, “I could always do a single-o tonight.”
“The hell you could.”
“The job wouldn’t be that much harder with one than with two. I could handle it.”
“Who found it in the first place?”
“You did,” I said, “and you’re in for fifty percent whatever happens, but you could stay home tonight and still collect it. Why run extra risks? And this way you can have your martini, or even three or four of them, and—”
“You made your point.”
“I just thought—”
“I said you made your point, Bern.”
We stopped talking while the waitress brought two glasses of Perrier to the table. On the jukebox, Loretta Lynn and Conway Twitty were singing a duet about a Mississippi woman and a Louisiana man. Perhaps it was the other way around. No matter.
Carolyn wrapped one hand around her glass and glowered at me. “I’m coming,” she said.
“If you say so.”
“Damn right I say so. We’re partners, remember? I’m in all the way. You think because I’m a goddamn woman I should sit home keeping the goddamn home fires burning.”
“I never said—”
“I don’t need a goddamn martini.” She lifted her glass. “Here’s to crime, dammit.” She drank it like gin.
The whole project had gotten underway at the Bum Rap, and at that very table. Carolyn and I generally get together for a drink after work, unless one or the other of us has something on, and a couple of weeks earlier we’d been raising a couple of glasses, neither of them containing Perrier water.
“It’s funny how people pick dogs,” Carolyn had said. “I have this one customer, her name’s Wanda Colcannon, and she’s got this Bouvier.”
“That’s funny, all right.”
She looked at me. “Don’t you want to hear this, Bern?”
“Sorry.”
“The thing is, when she came in with the dog I figured they were a natural combination. She’s a tall stern blonde out of a masochist’s dream. Wears designer dresses. Cheekbones straight out of the Social Register. Yards of class, you know?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And the Bouvier’s a very classy dog. Very trendy these days. It’s only been an AKC recognized breed for a couple of years now. They’re expensive dogs, and they look pretty classy even if you don’t happen to know how much they cost, and here’s this leggy blonde in a leather coat with this jet-black Bouvier at her side, and they looked right for each other.”
“So?”
“She picked the dog because of its name.”
“What was his name?”
“Her name, not his name. The dog’s a bitch.”
“That’s pretty trendy, too. Being a bitch.”
“Oh, it never goes out of style. No, the dog’s name is Astrid, as a matter of fact, but that’s the name Wanda gave her. What made her pick the dog was the name of the breed.”
“Why?”
“Because Wanda’s maiden name is Flanders.”
“Jackie Kennedy’s maiden name is Bouvier,” I said, “and I don’t know what kind of a dog she has, and I’m not sure I care. You lost me somewhere. What does Flanders have to do with Bouvier?”
“Oh, I thought you knew. The Bouvier originated in Belgium. The