The Burglar Who Traded Ted Williams

CHAPTER

Thirteen

Ten minutes later we were sitting in a Blimpie Base on Broadway, planning the commission of a felony. That set us apart from the other customers, who looked to have gotten well past the planning stage.
I started out by telling Doll I didn’t want to have anything to do with it. I’d stayed away from burglary for over a year. Then all I’d done was think about knocking off an apartment and the next thing I knew I was spending the night in a cell.
“I’d like to help,” I said. “You left some clothes in Luke’s apartment and naturally you wanted them back. But it seems to me there are a couple of alternatives to illegal entry. You could wait until he gets back and give him a call, or you could hit Marty up for a loan and go shopping.”
“Forget the clothes,” she said.
“Exactly. Forget them and buy new ones.”
Forget she’d even mentioned the clothes, she said. The big reason to break into Luke’s apartment was to recover Marty’s baseball cards. If Luke had left town in response to a call with an offer of work, he had probably rushed off before he had an opportunity to convert the baseball card collection into cash. Maybe he was in no rush, maybe he’d just as soon let the heat die down while he figured out the best way to sell them.
If we could just get into Luke’s apartment, she was pretty sure we could find the cards. And if we could return them to Marty, that meant I’d be off the hook for burglarizing his apartment. The charges would be dropped, and wouldn’t that be great?
“Well, it would certainly be nice,” I told her. “But according to my lawyer they’re probably going to have to drop the charges anyway, because he says they haven’t got enough evidence to get an indictment, let alone a conviction. On top of that, do you see what I’d be doing? I’d be actually committing a crime in order to exonerate myself from one I didn’t do. Somehow it doesn’t seem worth it.”
As a matter of fact, she went on, there might be something extra in it for me. She was pretty sure there’d be a reward. Marty, after all, was a generous man. His baseball card collection was near and dear to him. Surely I could count on being reimbursed handsomely for the risk I’d be running.
How handsomely, I wondered. Whatever Marty paid me would be coming out of his own pocket, and he’d already paid for the cards once. He wouldn’t want to shell out for them all over again, would he?
“You know,” she said, “he’s already reported the loss to the insurance company, so I suppose they’re already processing the claim. If I sat down with him privately and told him how you’d managed to recover the cards, well, maybe he wouldn’t bother saying anything to the insurance company.”
“I think I see what you’re getting at.”
“It wouldn’t exactly be stealing,” she said. “It would be more a case of letting things run their course, wouldn’t it? If the insurance company paid half a million dollars to settle the claim, which is only fair because the cards really were stolen, well, Marty would have all that money to spend replenishing his collection. If he could do that by buying an almost identical collection from you for a quarter of a million dollars, say, he’d be ahead of the game.”
“And so would I.”
“Absolutely. We both would.”
“Both of us, eh?”
“Fifty-fifty,” she said. “I need you to open Luke’s door and you need me to handle the arrangements with Marty. Bernie, that’s more than a hundred thousand dollars apiece.”
“I don’t know about the percentages,” I said.
“What could be fairer than fifty-fifty?”
“But is it really fifty-fifty? That’s one way to look at it, that you and I split what Marty pays out. But the whole pie is half a million dollars—”
“And Marty gets half of that, and we get the other half.”
“That’s if you count you and me as a team, Doll.”
“I think we make a great team, Bernie.”
“I’m sure we do, but there’s another way to look at it, and that’s that you and Marty are already a team, and your team winds up with three-quarters of the half million dollars.”
We sat there for twenty minutes, arguing over money an insurance company hadn’t yet paid for a box of baseball cards we hadn’t yet seen. She gave ground grudgingly, and we wound up agreeing to a three-way split. Marty would pay each of us a third of whatever he got from his insurance company.
“But don’t even think about going in there tonight,” I said. “The public has this romantic idea of burglary as night work, but that’s the most dangerous time for it. The later it gets, the worse it is. Right now it’s past midnight, and the average person looks suspicious at this hour without even doing anything.”
“But—”
“Look around you,” I said. “Here are a bunch of perfectly nice people having coffee and doughnuts, and just because it’s the middle of the night they look like riffraff and lowlife trash.”
“That’s what they are, Bernie.”
“See? Case closed.”
“But—”
“Tomorrow afternoon,” I said. “The jeans and the jacket are great on you, but leave them home tomorrow. Dress up nice and meet me at the bookstore at two. We’ll go straight from there.”

I got to the bookstore the next morning at ten minutes of ten. The first thing I did was call Carolyn. “I’m at the store,” I told her. “You said you’d walk over and feed Raffles for me, but you didn’t have a chance yet, did you?”
“I’m still on my first cup of coffee.”
“He’s acting like a famine victim,” I said, “but I’ve learned not to trust him, so I thought I’d better check. I’ll feed him, so you don’t have to.”
“I was gonna come over around eleven. How come you opened up? You’re always closed on Sundays.”
“Well, maybe I’ve been making a mistake all these years,” I said. “Maybe I’ve cost myself a bundle by closing on Sundays.”
“You really think so?”
“No, but I’m meeting somebody here at two o’clock.”
“You’re four hours early.”
“So? Everybody’s got to be someplace. Come by and keep me company if you feel like it.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “You really did have a quiet evening at home, didn’t you? That’s why you’re so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I don’t know if I can take it.”
“Take what?”
“Your good mood.”
I considered this. “You didn’t have a quiet evening at home,” I said.
“I was going to,” she said, “but I stopped in at DT’s Fat Cat. I figured I’d sleep better if I had a drink.”
“Did you?”
“I slept fine,” she said, “once they closed the place so I could go home. I may not get there, Bern, but I’ll see you tomorrow for sure. Go feed the cat, he must be starving.”
I filled his food dish, freshened his water, flushed his toilet, and came back and watched him eat. That reminded me I hadn’t had anything myself since last night’s moo shu pork, so I went to the deli and picked up a couple of bagels and a container of coffee. After I had my bargain table set up outside I settled in behind the counter and ate my breakfast. The cat came over and sat on my lap for a while, watching me eat, but eating only held his interest when he was the one doing it. He leaped down onto the floor and sat there as if waiting for something to happen.
I finished one bagel and crumpled the paper it had come wrapped in. The noise caught Raffles’ attention and he reacted, the way they do. I let him stare in my direction. The minute he looked away I crumpled the paper some more, then tossed it past him. Except it didn’t get past him, because he sprang to his right and snagged the ball of paper on one hop. Then he batted it to and fro, chasing it up one aisle and down another and slapping it silly. Finally he decided it was dead and wasn’t going to come back to life, so he turned and walked away from it.
“Bring it back,” I said, “and I’ll throw it again.”
I swear he gave me a look, and I swear the unvoiced thought that accompanied it was something along the lines of What the hell do you think I am, a f*cking Labrador retriever?
His game, his rules. I unwrapped the other bagel, crumpled the paper, and put the ball in play.

Carolyn never showed up, which gave her something in common with most of humanity. I spent a couple of hours crumpling up sheets of paper and trying to throw them past Raffles. Then at a quarter of two the door opened, and it was Doll.
She was all dolled up, too, in a navy-blue dress and high heels. The dress was a perfect choice; it made her look as respectable as a Junior League luncheon while leaving no doubt whatsoever that she was a female member of her species, and that it was a distinctly mammalian species at that.
“You look great,” I told her. “That’s the perfect outfit.”
“Is it all right? I tried on the leather hot pants and the Deadhead T-shirt, but wouldn’t you know it got shrunk the last time I washed it? I was afraid it made me look too chesty.”
“That would never do.”
“No,” she said. “You look great yourself, Bernie. You should put on a tie and jacket more often. Bernie, why are there balls of paper all over your floor?”
I looked around for Raffles, but he was hiding. I crumpled a sheet of paper and his head came into view. “Now watch,” I said, and I threw the ball to his left, and the little rascal sprang up and batted it down.
“You have a cat,” she said.
“I don’t exactly have him,” I said. “He just works here. He’s not a pet or anything like that.”
“What is he?”
“An employee, that’s all.”
“And what’s this, a fringe benefit? On Sundays the help gets to play catch with the boss?”
“We’re not playing,” I said. “It’s to sharpen his reflexes.” I walked around picking up paper balls, not for the first time. “He won’t fetch,” I said.
“He’s not a dog, Bernie.”
“His words exactly. If he could talk, I mean.” I threw a ball for him. “Look at that,” I said. “I swear he could play shortstop. Ozzie Smith would have been proud of the move he made on that last one. Of course, Ozzie Smith would have whirled and pegged to first instead of trying to kill the ball. That’s why Ozzie’s playing in the bigs and Raffles is snagging mice in a bookstore.”
“What happened to his tail?”
“You know how they’re always chasing their tails? Well, you see how fast his reflexes are. He was chasing his tail one day and he actually caught it.”
“And he killed it?”
“No, he scooped it up on one hop and rifled it to first base. What’s so funny?”
“You are.”
“It’s just nerves, Doll,” I assured her. “I’ll settle down once we get there.”

The cab ride uptown didn’t do much to settle either of us. We were blessed with a driver who clearly believed that his best hope lay in reincarnation, and the sooner the better. Neither of us said much, except perhaps in silent prayer, until we pulled up right in front of 304 West End Avenue. I can’t imagine the doorman would have challenged a well-dressed couple who arrived by taxi, but the fellow on duty barely noticed us. His attention was taken up by a little old lady who wanted to know what all the fuss had been about that morning.
“Cops in the hallways,” she said. “On a Sunday morning yet. This was always such a nice building.”
They’d come and gone, he told her, before he went on duty. We were waiting for the elevator when the old woman said, “So what did she do, kill her husband? Stupid! Does she think they grow on trees?”
The door opened and we rode up to the seventh floor. Doll asked me what I thought the woman was talking about. Domestic violence, I said, was what it sounded like to me. On the other hand, I suggested, maybe the old lady was nuts. She’d been carrying on about cops in the hallways, and I certainly hadn’t seen any. If the doorman didn’t care, why should we?
I turned the wrong way when we got out on seven, but Doll caught my arm and steered me in the right direction. Luke Santangelo’s lock yielded to me as to an old lover. In a matter of seconds we were inside.
“I guess you haven’t lost your touch,” she whispered.
I flexed my fingers. “Once you learn,” I whispered back, “you never forget. It’s like drowning.”
“You mean swimming.”
“Or falling off a bicycle,” I said. “Same thing.” I donned my plastic gloves, double-locked the door, fastened the chain lock, and put on the light. Doll pointed at my gloves and mimed putting on a pair of her own.
“Sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking. I only brought the one pair. Anyway, you couldn’t have worn gloves all the other times you were here, so the place must be full of your fingerprints. A few more won’t matter.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Besides, you don’t think Luke’s going to dust the place for prints, do you?”
“No, but—”
“So let’s just find what we’re looking for and get out of here.”
That was easier said than done. She went first to the closet, and she did a pretty commendable job of ransacking it, yanking garments off hangers and tumbling boxes down from the top shelf. I guess that’s the way to search a place if you’re in a hurry, but it’s never been my style. I tend to walk lightly upon the earth, especially in other people’s houses.
“These are mine,” she said, holding a couple of sweaters and a pair of jeans. “But who cares?” She tossed them onto a wooden chair and spun around to glare at the open closet, her hands on her hips. “Come on, Bernie! I thought you were going to check the dresser.”
“I did.”
“How come you didn’t just pull out all the drawers and empty them in the middle of the floor? Isn’t that what burglars do?”
“Some do, I guess. This one doesn’t.”
“Well, you’re the expert,” she said, “but it seems to me—”
“Slow down,” I said. “Take a breath.”
“I know they’re here,” she said. “I guess I had this picture in my mind. You would open the door and we’d walk in and there they’d be, right out in plain sight. I expected to see Marty’s rosewood humidor sitting on Luke’s coffee table. But of course he left the humidor, didn’t he?”
“How would he have taken the cards? He didn’t just stuff them in his pockets.”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’d pack them in a shopping bag.”
“And walk out of Marty’s building that way?”
“Why not? He could just—Bernie, the attaché case! That’s what he would have used.”
“I hope the cards don’t wind up smelling like meat.”
“Meat? Oh, right, I told you how he used it for shoplifting. But I’ll bet that’s what he did. He put on his one decent suit, he shaved his larcenous little rat face, he packed up his attaché case, and—”
“What’s the matter?”
She ran to the closet. “Where’s his suit? Shit. Son of a bitch.”
“What’s the matter?”
“His suit’s gone. You don’t see a suit, do you? The son of a bitch took it with him.”
“You said he probably got an acting job out of town. Maybe they told him to bring a suit because the part called for it.”
She shook her head. “Bad casting. If the part called for a suit, you’d get a different actor. Did he take the attaché case? That’s the real question, isn’t it?”
“Where did he keep it, Doll?”
“In the closet,” she said. “Isn’t that where you’d keep it?”
“I might. What other luggage did he have?”
“I don’t know. We never went anywhere together. All he really wanted to do was go to bed. The bed!”
“What about it?”
“Under it,” she said, diving to the floor. I stood by as she fished things out—an olive-drab duffel bag, a maroon backpack, a carryall of light blue parachute nylon. There were other things, too—a couple of athletic shoes, a tennis racket, a sock. No attaché case.
“Shit,” she said. “I give up. They’re not here. If he had the cards in the first place.”
“You think he didn’t?”
“I don’t know what to think. I was positive, but now I don’t know. And if he did have them, they’re not here now.”
“We don’t know that.”
“We don’t? This is a tiny little one-bedroom apartment, Bernie. And we searched it from top to bottom. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Sit down,” he said. “I’ll show you how to search a place.”

The thing is, you can’t just dash around. You have to proceed methodically, taking it a room at a time, going through each room in a deliberate fashion. You don’t necessarily spend more time that way but you spend it wisely, and when you quit a place you know you haven’t missed anything.
Within reason, that is. If you put a little thought and effort into it, you can hide stuff so that it won’t be found other than by a crew of professionals with time on their hands. Of course, the right dog will sniff out drugs or explosives in nothing flat, but otherwise you’re safe.
I was willing to assume, though, that Luke had not enlisted a carpenter to build in some really good hiding places, in a baseboard, say, or as a false back to a cupboard or closet. The fact that he had three large bottles of pills in his freezer and a plastic bag full of some dried herb underneath the sugar in his sugar canister suggested to me that he probably stuck to the tried and true. Most people do.

I spent half an hour at it, and when I was done I’d have been prepared to swear that there was neither an attaché case nor a quantity of baseball cards in that apartment. I didn’t say a word during the entire half hour, and, after a few conversational ventures that I ignored, neither did Doll. When I gave up at last and let my shoulders sag in defeat, I realized that she was staring at me with something akin to awe. I asked her what was the matter.
“You’ve done this before,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m impressed, you’re obviously a pro at this. What did you think I meant?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know what I thought,” I said. “It’s frustrating. The best sort of burglary is when you know exactly what you’re looking for and just where it is, and you go in and it’s there and you take it and you’re gone.”
“That’s how I thought this was going to be.”
“I know. So did I. The second-best burglary is when you go in without any expectations whatsoever, and there’s the thrill of discovery whenever you find something. But this is the worst kind, because…well, no, that’s not true, is it? The worst kind is when you get caught.”
“Don’t even say that, Bernie!”
“The next-to-worst kind,” I said, “is when there’s something you’re looking for and it’s not there, and even if you do find something else you don’t really give a damn because it’s not what you wanted. Here.”
“What’s this?”
“It’s a hundred and twenty dollars,” I said. “It’s exactly half of what he had stashed in an empty jelly jar in the fridge. There was some change, too, but I left it. Go ahead, take it. We’re partners, remember?”
“It seems strange to take it.”
“It would seem stupid to leave it. I think we should get the hell out of here. You checked the duffel and the carryall, didn’t you? And the little red backpack?”
“I reached inside them. Why?”
“Check ’em good,” I said. “One reason I’ve been going through things so thoroughly is I don’t know exactly what we’re looking for.” I picked up the duffel bag, opened the long zipper, ran my hands around the inside. “Maybe he stuffed the attaché case, cards and all, into a locker somewhere. Maybe he gave it to a checkroom attendant and walked away with a claim check.”
“Wouldn’t it be in his wallet?”
“Probably,” I said. I tossed the duffel bag aside and grabbed the carryall. “Check the backpack,” I told her. “It’s got a whole batch of compartments, same as this stupid thing. We might as well be thorough.”
And I set about being thorough, and so did she, and wouldn’t you know it?
“Bernie,” she said, dropping the backpack to the floor, turning to me with something in her hand. “Bernie, what’s this?”
“Let’s see,” I said. “Well, it’s a baseball card, isn’t it? And an old one, too, from the looks of it. Black-and-white photo on the front. Lousy printing, too, but the card’s in good shape, wouldn’t you say?”
“Bernie—”
“ ‘A Stand-up Triple!’ And there’s our hero, standing up at third base. Recognize the guy?”
“Which one?”
“Well, not the third baseman or the umpire. The other guy, the one planted on third with his hands on his hips and a belligerent glare on his face. I never saw him play, but I can recognize him.” I turned the card over. “ ‘Chalmers Mustard.’ Can we smell the mustard? No, but I swear there’s the faintest trace of Havana tobacco.”
“From Marty’s humidor.”
“I don’t think there’s any question about it,” I said. “The card’s from a special Ted Williams series. It’s a specialized item, so it’s not worth a fortune, but it’s rare. And Marty owns it, or at least he did until your friend Luke paid him a visit.” I gazed ruefully at the hunk of cardboard, then tucked it away in my breast pocket. “Half of this is yours,” I said, “but I’d just as soon keep it intact for the time being. The cards were here, Doll. This proves it. Luke took them and brought them here.” I sighed. “And then the son of a bitch took them somewhere else.”