Burglars Can't Be Choosers by Lawrence Block Page A

alone and would have been delighted to have had this very person in the room with me—ah, the injustice of it all. Women, policemen, taxis, newscasts, none of them on hand when you want them.
    “Soup?” She turned her face toward me and smiled a tentative smile. Her eyes were either blue or green or both. Her teeth were white and even. “What kind of soup?”
    “Almost any kind you’d want. Black bean soup, chicken noodle soup, cream of asparagus soup, tomato soup, cheddar cheese soup—”
    “You’re kidding about the cheddar cheese soup.”
    “Have I ever lied to you? It’s in the cupboard if you don’t believe me. If Campbell’s makes it, Rod stocks it. And nothing else except for some roach-ridden rice.”
    “I guess he’s not terribly domestic. Have you known him long?”
    “We’re old friends.” A lie. “But I haven’t seen very much of him in the past few years.” A veritable truth.
    “College friends? Or back in Illinois?”
    Damn. What college? Where in Illinois? “College,” I ventured.
    “And now you’ve come to New York and you’re staying at his place until—” the blue or green eyes widened “—until what? You’re not an actor, are you?”
    I agreed that I wasn’t. But what in hell was I? I improvised a quick story, sitting up in bed with the sheet covering me to the throat. I told her how I’d been in the family feed business back home in South Dakota, that we’d been bought out at a good price by a competitor, and that I wanted to spend some time on my own in New York before I decided what turn my life should take next. I made the story very sincere and very dull, hoping she’d lose interest and remember a pressing engagement, but apparently she found my words more fascinating than I did because she hung on every one of them, sitting on the edge of my bed with her fingers interlaced around her knees and her eyes wide and innocent.
    “You want to find yourself,” she said. “That’s very interesting.”
    “Well, I never even suspected that I was lost. But now that I’m really at loose ends—”
    “I’m in the same position myself, in a way. I was divorced four years ago. Then I was working, not a very involving job, and then I quit, and now I’m on unemployment. I paint a little and I make jewelry and there’s a thing I’ve been doing lately with stained glass. Not what everybody else does buta form I sort of invented myself, these three-dimensional free-form sculptures I’ve been making. The thing is, I don’t know about any of these things, whether I’m good enough or not. I mean, maybe they’re just hobbies. And if that’s all they are, well, the hell with them. Because I don’t want hobbies. I want something to do and I don’t have it yet. Or at least I don’t think I do.” Her eyelashes fluttered at me. “You don’t really want soup for breakfast, do you? Because why don’t I run around the corner for coffee, it won’t take me a minute, and you can put on some clothes and I’ll be right back.”
    She was on her way out the door before I had any chance to object. When it closed behind her I got out of bed and went to the toilet. (I would avoid mentioning this, but it was the first time in a long time that I knew what I was doing.) Then I put on yesterday’s clothes and sat in my favorite chair and waited to see what came through my door next.
    Because it might well be the plant-watering lady with the coffee come to serve breakfast to the earnest young man from South Dakota.
    Or it might be the minions of the law.
    “I’ll just run around the corner for coffee.” Sure. Meaning she’d just recognized the notorious murdering burglar, or burgling murderer (orbungling mumbler, or what you will), and was takingthis opportunity to (a) escape his clutches and (b) let Justice be done.
    I thought about running but couldn’t see any real sense in it. As long as there was a chance she wasn’t going to the cops, then this apartment was a damn sight safer