“Is that a fact?”

“But here’s the big news,” I said, and I told her about Wally’s delivery of the deed. “So I get to keep the store,” I said. “I’ll be a landlord, but nobody ever has to know that outside of you and me and Wally. The tenants will just send in their measly checks every month, same as always. And you and I can go on having lunch together and going over to the Bum Rap together after work. And as far as making up the buildings annual deficit, well, I got a little installment on that today from Borden Stoppelgard.”

I told her about our transaction. “I took pity on him,” I said, “and sold him the Ted Williams set for two or three times its value, and of course it was all I had to sell to him or anybody else, because the rest of Marty’s good material was gone before Doll lifted it. I was planning on jerking his chain a little more, but I found myself feeling sorry for the man.”

“Well, the two of you have something in common, Bern. You’re both landlords.”

“Don’t ever call me that, even in jest. But I looked at the poor slob, doomed to spend his life being outclassed by his brother-in-law—”

“And by everybody else he happens to meet.”

“—and trying to cheat on his wife, and screwing that up, and having her cheat on him, and, well, I gave him a break.”

“Mr. Nice Guy.”

“C’est moi,” I agreed.

She reached to pet the cat. “Bernie,” she said, “I’ve been trying not to ask you this, because I’m sure it’s obvious, and when you tell me I’m gonna feel like an idiot. How did Raffles solve the case?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember, because I know you do. We were right here, talking about The Cat Who Lived Forever, and Raffles jumped up in the air and arched his back and chased an imaginary tail or something. I don’t know what he did exactly, but it triggered something and the next thing I knew we were all at the Nugents and you were telling everybody who did it.”

“Oh.”

“Now how did Raffles solve it?”

“Carolyn,” I said, “Raffles didn’t solve the case.”

“Well, I know that, Bern. I mean, I’m not an idiot. I know Raffles is just a cat.”

“Right.”

“And I don’t know what he did, or why he did it, but I know he’s not the reincarnation of Nero Wolfe. But whatever he was doing, it made some connection for you and—why are you shaking your head?”

“I had already figured it all out,” I said. “I just didn’t want to do anything about it, because I couldn’t see the point. Then we got into that nutty conversation about the cat, and he picked up his cue and acted as if he was on a hot tin roof, and I just couldn’t help myself. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, Bern. I knew I’d feel stupid for asking, and I was right.”

“Well, cheer up. This is a special day. I get to keep the store, Carolyn. And we get to go on—”

“Having lunch together,” she chimed in, “and having drinks after work, and having doomed relationships with inappropriate people. I was gonna see Lolly tonight, but she had to cancel. She’s doing something with Borden.”

“He probably wants to show her his new cards. So let me take you out to dinner instead. We’ll celebrate.”

“I thought I’d go home and reread Sue Grafton. It’s been a while since I last read the one about the topless dancer who gets poison injected into one of her implants.”

“ ‘D’ Is for Cup.”

“Right. Bern, you know what I wish? I wish she didn’t have to stop at twenty-six. When the alphabet’s used up, what happens to Kinsey?”

“Are you kidding? She goes straight into double letters. ‘AA’ Is for Drunks, ‘BB’ Is for Gun, ‘CC’ Is for Rider. There was a whole list in Publishers Weekly a few months back. ‘PP’ Is for Golden Showers, ‘ZZ’ Is for Topp—I can’t remember them all, but it looks as though she can go on forever.”

“Bern, that’s wonderful news.”

“You’ll be reading about Kinsey fifty years from now,” I told her. “ ‘AAA’ Is for Motorists, ‘MMM’ Is for Scotch Tape. You’ll never have to stop. You’ll keep on washing dogs and Raffles will keep on playing shortstop. And I’ll keep on doing what I was born to do, selling books and breaking into people’s houses.”

“And we’ll live happily ever after, huh, Bern?”

“Happily ever now,” I said, and reached to pet my cat.

The author is pleased to acknowledge the contributions of The Writers Room, in Greenwich Village, where much of the preliminary work on this book was undertaken, and of the Hotel Gaylord, in San Francisco, where it was written.

About the Author

A Mystery Writers of America Grand Master, LAWRENCE BLOCK is a four-time winner of the Edgar® and Shamus awards, as well as a recipient of prizes in France, Germany, and Japan. He also received the British Crime Writers’ Association’s prestigious Cartier Diamond Dagger for lifetime achievement in crime writing. The author of more than fifty books and numerous short stories, he is a devout New Yorker and enthusiastic world traveler. You can visit his website at www.lawrenceblock.com.

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