A couple of months ago, a woman named Bianca emailed me from Germany. Could I write something around 700 words long for a New York guide book called 38 Hours? I could and I did, and they’ve just now sent me a copy of the book, with my effort printed, and with a terrific illustration on the page opposite. I wanted to give you a chance to read it—and, even better, to see the illustration, which you’ll be quick to see is an uncanny likeness of Our Favorite Felon. But it’s all too short and insignificant to sell you, so I figured I’d just print it here:
A Burglar’s Complaint
So I took the subway to Union Square and walked a couple of blocks to a storefront on East Eleventh Street, where a tailless cat dozed in the window. Inside I found Bernie Rhodenbarr perched on a stool behind the counter, reading the latest Wallace Stroby novel.
“It’s about Crissa Stone,” my favorite bookseller announced. “A professional thief. Sort of like Richard Stark’s Parker, but without a Y chromosome. I’ll tell you, it makes me miss the old days.”
“When men were men?”
“When it was possible for an enterprising individual to make money the old-fashioned way.”
“By working for it?”
He shook his head. “By stealing it. And I’m not talking about computer crime and identity theft and all of that sneaky cyber-stuff. I mean leaving one’s own house and letting oneself into somebody else’s. I mean breaking and entering—and then exiting, richer than when you entered. I mean picking locks and jimmying doors and outfoxing doormen and elevator operators.”
“You mean burglary.”
“Once,” he said, “it was a profession. A morally reprehensible one, I’ll grant you, but one with a set of standards and a code of ethics and a steep learning curve, designed to separate the sheep from the goats, the ribbon from the clerks, and the fool from his money. And what is it now?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”
“A fool’s errand,” he said. “I have two trades, burglary and bookselling. That’s two sets of footprints in the sands of time, and I wouldn’t encourage any son of mine to follow in either of them.”
“You don’t have a son,” I pointed out.
“And a good thing,” he said, “because what kind of a role model would I be? Two careers, and both of them victims of the Twenty-first Century.”
“Oh?”
“Nobody buys books anymore,” he said. “For that I blame technology, whether you call it ebooks or the Internet.”
“People still steal,” I said.
“And get caught, because you can’t walk a block without getting your picture taken half a dozen times. There are security cameras everywhere, up and down every street and inside of most large buildings. Do you know what I did last Thursday?”
“No idea.”
“Well, you would,” he said, “if you looked at the right tapes. I went to an address in the East Sixties, where a supermodel whose name you would recognize uses a dresser drawer for what ought to be in a safe-deposit box.”
“Jewelry?”
“Her building’s a brownstone,” he said, “so there’s no doorman, no on-site security people. And she was in St. Croix, shooting a spread for the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue, so the house was empty.”
“Except for her jewelry.”
“And other valuables. I went there and I stood out in front of her building. I was close enough to see the lock on the front door, and I figured it would take me about thirty seconds to pick it. I waited while the sky darkened, and the programmed lights went on in some of the rooms.” He sighed. “I had a brown paper bag in my pocket.”
“To hold the loot?”
“To pull over my head. I’d already cut eye holes in the thing.”
“So the cameras wouldn’t trip you up.”
“But what good would it do? They’d check cameras on the street, and fiind images of me before I put the bag over my head. Or, even if I got out of a cab with my head already in the bag, there’d be footage from the day before, when I cased the site. So I walked home.”
“You walked?”
“Through Central Park. It’s a pleasant route, but there may have been security cameras in the trees, taking note of my presence. If so, there’s probably a picture of me taking the paper bag out of my pocket and dropping it in a trashcan.”
“At least you didn’t litter.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he said. “Not these days, in this city.” In the window, his cat stretched and yawned. “Smile, Raffles,” he told it. “For the camera.”
Sigh. A teaser. I want MORE! Clearly, if he is saying he knew what was in the dresser drawer, he did indeed get in. I totally need a Bernie fix! It’s been far too long. Hell, it’s always too long between Bernie escapades!
I’m with you! Too long gaps between Bernie books,
although the last one was a doozy! Loved it!
Thanks, LB! That was a nice fun stroll!
Aw, heck. I feel like I should send you a buck or something.
“The machine never sleeps, Mr. Reese” (Finch to John in “Person of Interest). Great story!
Thanks!
love, love, LOVE anything you write…especially about Raffles (I mean Bernie…)
A present, and its not even my birthday!!!!
Thank you, Mr Block!!!!!
(PS I would have bought that, you know, just for the record!)
True serendipity.
“Oh no,” I gasped! “Tell me this isn’t Mrs. Rhodenbar’s young man Bernie’s swan song!
“I won’t have it!” I exclaimed! (If the proliferation of said punctuation weren’t evidence enough of my reaction to said thought.) “I simply won’t have it!”
“Egads and Alack. I weep for my favorite burglar.”
Trish, I feel your pain.
Depressing!!! Please see if Bernie can figure out a way out of this fix. Maybe he should just give up on burglary and set himself as the Nero Wolfe of the 21st Century. Detective has been his third occupation for years now anyway.
Well, Fred, the lad’s resourceful. We’ll see what happens…
I Miss Bernie!
There cannot be enough books with Bernie.
I prefer paper, btw.
Is it OK if I print this? As Greg said, “For the record?” I love Bernie!
Feel free, Millicent!
🙂
I wonder if Mr Block will sell the sketch?
More Bernie is always welcome, many thanks for sharing this with us!
Posted a link on the blog as well.
Ah Bernie… my favorite scoundrel. 😉
Please tell us that this is a sample to whet our appetite for a new book about Bernie. Please! Please! Please! God, I hate to beg but there it is.
What a great Bernie appetizer. Now I want more!
I love Bernie – and I bought the leaflet from eBay…
I could go with the series The Burglar Who Detected….
I seem to recall “When The Sacred Ginmill Closes” had its origins as a short story..:)
Thank so much! It was a great way to start my day. I really miss Bermie!
Great to read a new Bernie, love him. More please x
Thanks so much – it really made my day! I miss Bernie – please bring him back!!
LOVE your writing style! Even just those few words. Thanks for sharing.
Larry, it is delightful!
I loved it.
What a delightful surprise!!! Thank you so much!! I miss Bernie and Carolyn’s banter so much!
Well it will be my birthday on Friday, so getting a newsletter from you with a Burglar Who appetizer in it makes the mid fifties not so bad.
I have pondered if Bernie will move to a less surveilled area, or if he will be reduced to going out to work wearing stiletto heels, a fashionable dress, and a wig with secret compartments. Of course the size of some purses I see lately, he might not need a compartment in his wig.
As always wishing you the best and for more Bernie books.
Are you going to be offering autographed copies of the guide book? Count me in if you are. I miss Bernie.
They sent me two copies, and eventually I’ll probably offer them on eBay.
Loved it! Always ready for more Bernie (and Raffles)!
Where there’s a will…
My advice to Bernie: The cameras see, but who says they have to see *you*? That swimsuit model has an ex boyfriend or ex husband. All Bernie needs to do is don a disguise to look like the likely suspect (the ex) so that he doesn’t have to walk through the city with a bag over his head (which might be a tad suspicious, though there was a stand up comedian who made a good living wearing a bag). Much easier to look like the ex when making your way to the crime scene.
Now, if her ex were that stand up comedian…
Hmmm…
Hi there! I could have sworn I’ve been to this blog before but after reading through some of the post I realized it’s new to me. Anyhow, I’m definitely delighted I found it and I’ll be book-marking and checking back often!
“But Bern – you’ve always been able to figure out a way around every problem – I don’t understand why you can’t handle the cameras. Speaking of cameras – remember Elvis’ bedroom!?”
We were having our usual lunchtime Juneau Lock.
“It’s not me, Carolyn. It’s my literary agent. He used to be set to boil, but these days the blockhead just simmers in his comfy study writing nothing but overly long e-newsletters and far-too-short stories. Oh, and publishing e-books. Furthering my destruction – don’t get me started.”
“Why don’t you get a new agent, Bern? New York’s lousy with them.”
“I have a contract. It’s ironclad until he dies. Or the copyright expires – he may well live that long – he’s too lazy to die.”
I saw that light come into Carolyn’s eyes – the one where she decides she needs another cat or wants to go on a burglary with me.
“Bern, I was thinking – I heard about this guy named Keller….”