“So the whole set would be worth—”
“Something in the neighborhood of three thousand dollars. Pocket change, from Borden Stoppelgard’s point of view, but that’s not the point. The point is that Marty Gilmartin had the set and Stoppelgard didn’t.”
“And Stoppelgard wanted it?”
“Desperately. And Gilmartin wouldn’t sell it to him. Gilmartin didn’t give a hoot about Ted Williams, but he still insisted on holding on to the set, which struck Stoppelgard as a real dog-in-the-manger attitude.”
“So he wants you to give him the set.”
“Along with the rest of Gilmartin’s baseball cards, in return for which I get a sweetheart deal on the store lease. I wish I’d had the damn cards. I’d have done the deal in a hot second.”
“Really, Bern? I thought Gilmartin’s collection was worth a million dollars.”
“That’s according to Gilmartin. It’s only insured for half that, which means the insurance company would probably pay twenty or twenty-five percent of half a million to avoid having to pay the claim. If I let Ray be the go-between, he’d wind up with half, so what would that leave me? Fifty, sixty thousand dollars?”
“If you say so.”
“I might do better fencing the cards myself,” I said. “That might boost the take up into the low six figures. Well, as Stoppelgard pointed out, the new lease would be worth almost that much to me in the first year. You bet I’d have taken the deal.”
“I don’t suppose he believed you when you told him you didn’t have the cards.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t even think he cared,” I said. “If I want to extend my lease, all I have to do is bring him half a million dollars’ worth of baseball cards. It doesn’t matter to him if they’re Marty’s cards. It doesn’t even matter if the Chalmers Mustard set is part of the package, although that would certainly be a sweetener. But he doesn’t care where they come from, and I don’t suppose he really cares if they’re baseball cards. He’d settle for Sue Grafton first editions if they added up to half a mil. You know what Scott Fitzgerald said.”
“Was he Geraldine’s brother?”
“ ‘The very rich are different from you and me,’ Well, so are the very greedy. When he thought I was a poor but honest bookseller, all Stoppelgard wanted to do was get me out of his building. As soon as he found out I was a convicted felon, he was in a rush to be friends. Because he figures he can use me.”
“Can he?”
“I hope so,” I said. “Because what I want is to save the store, and for the first time in weeks I have hope.”
I also had Perrier. We were at the Bum Rap, and I didn’t want to drink anything that might slow my reflexes or blur my already questionable judgment. “It’s not that I have anything planned beyond a quiet evening at home,” I explained, “but I want to keep my options open.”
“I understand, Bern.”
“There’s something about spending a night in a cell,” I said, “that throws off your timing. When Patience phoned me at the store, I called her Doll. I got away with it. She thought I was being breezily affectionate.”
“It never would have worked if you’d called her Gwendolyn.”
“No.”
“Bern? How come you thought it was Doll?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were you thinking about her?”
“Not consciously. I was in the middle of a conversation with Borden Stoppelgard. If I was thinking of anybody, it was probably Ted Williams.”
“You don’t suppose—”
“No,” I said. “I don’t.”
“You didn’t let me finish the question.”
“ ‘You don’t suppose they’re both the same person?’ That was the question, wasn’t it? And the answer is no, I don’t.”
“Think about it, Bern.”
“I don’t want to think about it,” I said, “because it’s out of the question. They’re two different women.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I saw them, Carolyn.”
“Yeah, but did you ever see them both at the same time?”
“No,” I said, “and I probably never will, but if I ever do it won’t be hard to tell them apart. For starters, Doll’s a brunette and Patience is a dishwater blonde.”
“Ever hear of wigs, Bern?”
“Patience is a good four inches taller than Doll.”
“High heels, Bern.”
“Cut it out, will you? Patience looks as though she could have stepped out of a painting by Grant Wood or Harvey Dunn. She’s tall and slender and she has a long O, Pioneers! face and angular features. Doll has a heart-shaped face and very regular features and—”
“Hey, it was just a thought, Bern.”
“They’re two different women.”
“Whatever you say. Just don’t jump down my throat, okay? I had a rough day.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I was up half the night worrying about you, and then I had to give a wash and set to a puli with dreadlocks. Do you know what a challenge that is? Pulis and komondors, the Rastafarians of the dog world.” She picked up her glass, found it empty, and gave it a look. “It’s either have another of these or go home. I think I’ll go home.”
I rode uptown on the subway. I didn’t pick up the paper, and nobody picked me up, either. I looked around, sort of hoping I’d see Doll Cooper lurking in a doorway somewhere, but I didn’t. I walked home and nodded to my doorman, who nodded right back at me. Was he the same nodding acquaintance who’d reported my movements to the cops? I decided he was, and I decided his Christmas envelope was going to be a little light this year.
My apartment was as I’d left it. I’d been hoping that elves might have come in and cleaned during my absence, and they hadn’t, but neither had Ray Kirschmann come to give the place another toss. I put the TV on, and during the second set of commercials I called the Hunan Miracle and ordered dinner. In no time at all the kid was at my door with a bag full of sesame noodles and moo shu pork. After I’d paid and tipped him he smiled hugely and rushed off to shove menus under all my neighbors’ doors.
I settled in for a quiet evening at home.
It was almost eleven when the phone rang.
I answered it. A woman’s voice said, “Mr. Rhodenbarr?”
“Yes?”
“I’m not even sure you’ll remember me, but you did me a huge favor the night before last.”
“It wasn’t such a huge favor. All I did was walk you home.”
“You remember.”
“You’d be hard to forget, Doll.”
“That’s right, you created a new name for me. I’d forgotten, because nobody’s called me that since. When you said it just now it came out sounding like a line from Mickey Spillane. ‘You’d be hard to forget, Doll.’ You should be smoking an unfiltered cigarette and wearing a slouch hat, and there should be something bluesy playing in the background.”
“A girl singer,” I said, “working her way through ‘Stormy Weather.’ ”
“Or ‘Easy to Love.’ Just as you’re saying, ‘You’d be…hard to forget,’ you hear her in the background, singing, ‘You’d be…so easy to love.’ Nice touch, don’t you think?”
“Very nice.”
“I’m sorry. You know what I’m doing? I’m stalling. I have to ask you for another favor and I’m afraid you’ll say no. Could I talk with you?”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”
“I mean face to face. I’m at the coffee shop at West End and Seventy-second. If you come down I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. Or I could come up to your place.”
I glanced around. The elves hadn’t come, nor had I done their work for them. “I’ll be right down,” I said. “How will I recognize you?”