The Burglar Who Thought He Was Bogart by Lawrence Block

Europe and she lives in New York, and you haven’t managed to narrow down either of the parameters any more than that.”
    “Carolyn, we only just met.”
    “You’re right, Bern. I’m being silly. I’m probably just jealous, because God knows I could use a mystery woman in my life. Anyway, if she’s a mystery woman, it’s more interesting if there are things you don’t know about her.”
    “I guess so.”
    “And you know the important things. She’s beautiful and she likes Humphrey Bogart.”
    “Right.”
    “And she comes from Europe, and she lives here now. What’s her name, Bern?”
    “Uh,” I said.
    There was a pause. “Hey, what’s a name, anyway, Bern? You know what they say about a rose. Hey, maybe that’s it.”
    “Huh?”
    “Rose. Lots of European women are named Rose, and they’d smell as sweet even if they weren’t. Bernie, have a great time, you hear? And I want a full report at lunch tomorrow. Or call me tonight, if it’s not too late. Okay?”
    “Okay,” I said. “Sure.”

CHAPTER
Five
    T wo weeks later it was Wednesday again, and it was still May, and a little before one o’clock I hung the clock sign on my door to let the world of book lovers know I’d be back at two. Ten minutes later I was at the Poodle Factory with lunch for two.
    I opened containers and dished out the food while Carolyn locked up and hung her own CLOSED sign in the window. She sat down opposite me and studied her plate. “Looks good,” she said, and sniffed. “Smells okay, too. What have we got here, Bern?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You don’t know?”
    “It’s the daily special,” I said.
    “And you didn’t even ask what it was?”
    “I asked,” I said, “and the guy answered, and I have no idea what he said.”
    “So you ordered it.”
    I nodded. “‘Give me two of them,’ I said, ‘with brown rice.’”
    “This is white rice, Bern.”
    “I guess they only had white rice,” I said. “Or maybe he didn’t understand me. I didn’t understand a word he said, so why should I expect him to understand everything I said?”
    “Good point.” She picked up her plastic fork, then changed her mind and chose the chopsticks instead. “Whatever it is, it tastes okay. Where’d you go, Bern?”
    “Two Guys.”
    “Two Guys From Abidjan? Since when do you get chopsticks with African food? And this doesn’t taste African to me.” She picked up another morsel of food, then paused with it halfway to her mouth. “Besides,” she said, “they closed, didn’t they?”
    “A couple of weeks ago.”
    “That’s what I thought.”
    “And just reopened yesterday, under new management. It’s not Two Guys From Abidjan anymore. Now it’s Two Guys From Phnom Penh.”
    “Say that again, Bern.” I did. “Phnom Penh,” she said. “Where’s that?”
    “Cambodia.”
    “What did they do, keep the old sign?”
    “Uh-huh. Painted out Abidjan, painted in Phnom Penh.”
    “Must have been a tight fit.”
    Indeed it was; Two Guys From Phnom Penh waswhat it looked like. “Cheaper than getting a new sign,” I said.
    “I guess. Remember when it was Two Guys From Yemen? And before that it was Two Guys From Someplace Else, but don’t ask me where. It’s got to be a hard-luck location, don’t you think?”
    “Must be.”
    “I bet there was a restaurant there back when the Dutch owned Manhattan. Two Guys From Rotterdam.” She popped a cube of meat into her mouth and chewed it thoughtfully, then chased it with a swig of Dr. Brown’s Celery Tonic. “Not bad,” she announced. “That was Cambodian food we had up near Columbia, wasn’t it?”
    “Angkor Wok,” I said. “Broadway and a Hundred and twenty-third, a Hundred and twenty-fourth, somewhere around there.”
    “I think this is better, and God knows it’s handier. I hope they stay in business.”
    “I wouldn’t count on it. A few months from now it’ll probably be Two Guys From Kabul.”
    “Be a shame, but at least that would fit on the