The Burglar on the Prowl by Lawrence Block Page A

anybody.”
    “Ohmigod.”
    “You didn’t know, did you? I had a hunch you didn’t. Your partners must have sent you home before they capped ’em.” He frowned. “Bernie, you don’t look so good. You’re not gonna puke, are you?”
    I shook my head.
    “I know it’s not your style,” he said. “Not the rough stuff, and not the triple homicide.”
    “Triple? I thought you said there were just two of them.”
    “Yeah, well, the doorman was taped a little too well. He died of suffocation by the time somebody found him.”
    “God, that’s awful.”
    “It’s about as bad as it gets. I don’t understand you, Bernie. Why would you want to work with people who would do something like that?”
    “I didn’t work with anybody.”
    “You usually don’t,” he allowed. “An’ that’s wise, because the worst thing about partners is they’ll always rat you out to save their own asses. An’ that’s exactly what you’re about to do, my friend.”
    “What?”
    “Give up the murderin’ bastards you worked with last night. We’ll pick ’em up and you’ll turn state’s evidence an’ testify against ’em, an’ you’ll get off with a slap on the wrist an’ a stern talkin’-to from the judge. That doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”
    “No, but—”
    “Matter of fact,” he said, leaning on the counter and lowering his voice, “there’s no reason you got to walk away from the whole deal empty-handed. I figure you an’ me, we worked a lot of angles in the past, we can probably work somethin’ out here. Share an’ share alike, if you get my drift.”
    It wasn’t that elusive a drift. “While we’re on the subject,” I said, “what exactly did they get from the safe?”
    “I should be asking you that, Bernie. You’re the one who was there.”
    “Except I wasn’t.”
    “Aw, Bernie,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re disappointin’ me, you really are.”
    “Well, I don’t mean to, Ray, but—”
    “Let’s go.”
    “Huh?”
    “What, you want to hear the whole spiel? ‘You have the right to remain silent, di dah di dah di dah.’ Do I have to give it to you word for word?”
    “No, that’s good enough. You’re serious? You’re taking me in?”
    “You’re damn right I am. Three people are dead an’ you’re mixed up in it up to your eyeteeth. You bet your ass I’m takin’ you in. Now have you got somethin’ you want to tell me?”
    “I think I’d better exercise my right to remain silent.” I turned to Carolyn. “Call Wally Hemphill,” I said, “and tell him to do something. And would you do me one more favor? Wrap up the rest of my sandwich and put it where Raffles can’t get it. I don’t know how long it’ll take Wally to spring me, but I’m sure to be hungry by the time I get out.”

Twelve
    T he first time I met Wally Hemphill, I’d just been arrested, which is when I have the most urgent need for an attorney. I’d called Klein, who’d served me in that capacity for many years, only to learn that, in the time since I’d last had the need for him, the man had died. You don’t figure your lawyer’s going to do that, and it threw me, but I wound up with Wally, who was training for the New York marathon. And I have to say I was glad of that, because I figured it would keep the weight off and the cardiovascular system in tiptop shape. It takes a while for an habitual felon to bond with his lawyer, so you want to pick a guy who’s going to be around for the long haul.
    Wally went on training for marathons, and running them, until he blew out a knee. Then he met a nice girl and got married, and they had a kid, and then either he found out she wasn’t so nice after all, or she found out he wasn’t, or the discovery was mutual. They got a divorce and she packed up the kid and moved to Arizona, where she’d apprenticed herself to a potter. “She’s throwing clay pots,” Wally said, “and as long as she’s not throwing them at me, I say the best of luck to