The Burglar Who Counted the Spoons (Bernie Rhodenbarr) by Lawrence Block Page A

either that or—”
    “I know what you said, Bern. Are you telling me he paid you five thousand dollars?”
    “It’s an advance,” I said. “I get the rest on delivery.”
    “The rest amounting to—”
    “Another twenty-five.”
    “That adds up to thirty thousand dollars.”
    “You’re no slouch at math,” I said. “Not even after three drinks. I’ll have to give you that.”
    “Bern, what do you figure it’s worth?”
    “Thirty grand.”
    “Because that’s what he’s offering to pay for it? What about on the open market?”
    “What open market? It’s the lawful property of a non-profit institution. I suppose I could find out what other F. Scott Fitzgerald letters and manuscripts have brought in recent years, though I doubt there’s been much comparable that’s changed hands. But it wouldn’t tell me all that much about this particular case.”
    She picked up her glass, took a sip that was mostly melted ice. “Thirty thousand dollars,” she said, “is a lot of money.”
    “Just the other day,” I pointed out, “one of the big banks settled with the government over an alleged irregularity in their bond-trading division.”
    “I think I read something about that. Or maybe it was on the TV news.”
    “While refusing to admit any wrongdoing on their part, they paid over half a billion dollars.”
    “If they didn’t do anything wrong—”
    “Then why shell out all that money? You have to wonder. Now I’d say that’s a lot of money, but it’s a little less than ten percent of their annual profit.”
    “Okay, point taken. But for a man with a second-hand bookstore on East Eleventh Street—”
    “It’s a lot of money.”
    “But it’s got to be risky,” she said. “Swiping a manuscript from a museum isn’t like, um—”
    “Taking candy from a baby?”
    “Or from a candy store. Won’t they have security cameras?”
    “These days,” I said, “so will the candy store, and there’s probably a Nanny Cam keeping an eye on the baby’s lollipop. It’s a good thing I haven’t got a son.”
    “It is?”
    “I’ve got two ways to make a living,” I said, “and I couldn’t in good conscience encourage any child of mine to go into either one of them. We already talked about bookselling, and burglary’s even worse. The security cameras are everywhere, and that’s just the beginning. Some of the subspecialties have disappeared completely. A man used to be able to make a decent living as a hotel thief. It was always a high-anxiety trade, but it was exciting, and full of possibilities. You never knew what you were going to find on the other side of a door.”
    “There are still plenty of hotels, aren’t there?”
    “And every one of them that gets more than fifteen dollars a night for a room has those plastic key cards that you slip in a slot. How the hell are you supposed to pick an electronic lock?”
    “Oh.”
    “I’m not saying it can’t be done. You rent a room, then you go back when a different clerk’s on duty and tell him your key won’t work. They get deprogrammed all the time, and he’ll ask you your name and room number and reprogram it for you. ‘My name’s Victor Kotowitz, I’m in Room 417.’ A couple of clicks and you’re all set to go through Mr. K’s luggage.”
    “That’s pretty slick, Bern.”
    “And it works okay, unless the guy you approach happens to remember that Victor has a handlebar moustache and weighs three hundred pounds.”
    “Oops.”
    “The Galtonbrook will have real locks,” I said, “and a state-of-the-art burglar system wired into the local precinct. I think I’ll go up there tomorrow. Just to look it over from a distance and check out the neighborhood. Then a few days after that I’ll be ready to go inside.”
    “How will you get in?”
    “I’ll pay the five dollars,” I said, “just like everybody else. I’ll get my picture taken by their security cameras, but I won’t be doing anything suspicious. I’ll be just