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  Catch and Release:

  17 Stories

  Lawrence Block

  Copyright © 2013 Lawrence Block

  Table of Contents

  A Burglar’s-Eye View of Greed

  A Chance to Get Even

  A Vision in White

  Catch and Release

  Clean Slate

  Dolly’s Trash and Treasures

  How Far

  Mick Ballou Looks at the Blank Screen

  One Last Night at Grogan’s

  Part of the Job

  Scenarios

  See the Woman

  Speaking of Greed

  Speaking of Lust

  Welcome to the Real World

  Who Knows Where It Goes

  Without a Body

  Story Notes

  About the Author

  A BURGLAR’S EYE VIEW

  OF GREED

  So I walked over to Barnegat Books on East Eleventh Street for a word with my favorite bookseller, Bernie Rhodenbarr. He was behind the counter with his nose in a book while his cat lay in the window, soaking up the sun. The store’s sole customer was a young woman with multiple piercings who was reading a biography of St. Sebastian.

  “I understand the used-book business is hot these days,” I said. “You must be making money hand over fist.”

  He gave me a look. “Every now and then,” he said, “somebody actually buys a book. It’s a good thing I don’t have to depend on this place to keep body and soul together.”

  He doesn’t have to pay rent, either, having bought the building with the profits from his other career as the last of the gentleman burglars. Seriously, I told him, lots of people were making big bucks selling books on the Internet. Couldn’t he do the same?

  “I could,” he agreed. “I could list my entire stock on eBay and spend my time wrapping books and shlepping them to the Post Office. I could close the store, because who needs a retail outlet when you’ve got a computer and a modem? But I didn’t open this store to get rich. I opened it so I could have a bookstore, and have fun running it, and occasionally meet girls. See, I’m not greedy.”

  “But you steal,” I pointed out.

  He frowned, and nodded toward St. Sebastian’s biggest fan. “Not to get rich,” he said. “Only enough to get by. I don’t want to get rich, see, because it would turn me into a greedy pig.”

  “You’re saying the rich are greedy?”

  “They don’t necessarily start out that way,” he said, “but that’s how it seems to work. Look at all the CEOs with their eight-figure salaries. The more you pay them, the more they want, and when the company goes down the tubes they float down on their golden parachutes and look for another corporation to sink. Or look at baseball.”

  “Baseball?”

  “America’s pastime,” he said. “The players used to have off-season jobs so they could make ends meet. The owners were always rich guys, but they were in it for the sport. They didn’t expect to make money.”

  “And?”

  “And now the players average something like two million dollars a year, and the owners have watched their investments increase in value by a factor of five or ten, and everybody’s rich, so everybody’s greedy. And that’s why we’re going to have a strike this fall. Because they’re all pigs, and all they want is more.”

  “In other words,” I said, “success turns men to swine.”

  “And women,” he said. “Success is an equal-opportunity corrupter. And it seems to be inevitable nowadays. Nobody’s happy just running a business and making a living. Everybody wants to grow the business, and either franchise it or sell it to a huge corporation. Luckily, I’m safe. Nobody’s aching to franchise Barnegat Books, and no multinational corporation’s trying to buy me out.”

  “So you’ll go on selling books.”

  “Every now and then,” he said, as the young woman put St. Sebastian back on the shelf and walked away empty-handed. “I’ll tell you, it’s a good thing I’m a thief. It keeps me honest.”

  A CHANCE TO GET EVEN

  A little after midnight, Gordon Benning, a balding gastroenterologist with a perpetually dyspeptic expression on his long face, announced as he dealt the cards that his next deal would be his final hand. Several players indicated their agreement, and one, a CPA with a propensity for stating the obvious, said, “So this is the last round.”

  And so it was. Richard Krale (Dick to his friends, Richard to his wife, who reserved the diminutive for a specific portion of her husband) would have preferred it otherwise. He wished the game could go on for another three hours, so that he might recoup his losses, or that it had ended three hours earlier, when he’d been briefly ahead. Now he had, what? Six, seven hands to get even?

  The game was dealer’s choice, and ninety percent of the time the choice was seven-card stud. The dealer anted a buck for the table, the limit was five dollars, ten dollars on the last card. (The same betting rules applied in five-card stud. In draw poker, the bet was five dollars before the draw, ten dollars after.)

  Krale was the host, as well as being the evening’s big loser. In the latter capacity more than the former, he suggested doubling the betting limits for the final round. That was all right with Mark Taggert, who had a mountain of chips in front of him, but the other players shook their heads dismissively, and that was that. It was by no means unusual for someone, generally the biggest loser, to make this suggestion; it was always voted down.

  And that was just as well for Krale, as it turned out, because his luck was no better in the last round than it had been for the preceding three hours. It was worse, if anything, because desperation led him to play hands he’d have been well advised to fold at their onset, and to stay to the end in hands where he should have cut his losses. When Benning dealt the last hand of the evening, Krale chased flush and straight possibilities, backed into two pair, queens over fives, tried to buy the pot with a raise, and lost to Taggert’s three sixes.

  “Hey, the night’s a pup,” he said. “No reason to quit now.”

  No one even bothered to respond. They were all counting their chips and figuring out what they had coming, and in turn they announced their totals and waited for Krale to pay them. He’d set aside the cash they’d all bought in with, and when that was gone he still had two players to pay off—Norm McLeod, who had $120 coming, and Taggert, who’d had a very good last round.

  He dug out his wallet, counted out five twenties and a pair of tens, and paid McLeod, who looked almost apologetic as he pocketed the money. Taggert, who looked not at all apologetic, announced that the chips in front of him came to $538.

  “Stick around,” Krale said. “I’ll have to write you a check.”

  * * *

  The others left, and Krale shook their hands and wished them well. Then he took his time finding his checkbook.

  “Some run of cards,” he said.

  “You caught a lot of second-best hands,” Taggert said. “Nothing much you can do when that happens but wait for the cards to turn.”

  “They never did.”

  “There’s always next week.”

  “I hate to wait that long,” Krale said. He’d uncapped the pen but had not as yet touched it to the check. “You in a rush to get home?”

  “You want to play some more?”

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Heads up, you mean? Just the two of us?”

  Krale made a show of looking to his left and right, then at Taggert. “I don’t see anybody else here,” he said, “so I guess we’re stuck with each other.”

  Taggert thought about it. “I’ll just keep these chips, then.”

  “Right. And I’ll help myself from the bank.” He did so, stack
ing the chips in front of him, giving himself a bigger bankroll than Taggert’s. That would help psychologically, he told himself. The player with fewer chips was at a disadvantage, doomed to play with a loser’s mentality. This way he could feel like a winner, and it was only a matter of time before he’d be one.

  Taggert didn’t seem awed by Krale’s chips. He rearranged his own stacks, and for some reason the new arrangement made it look to Krale as though there were more of them.

  “Same rules?”

  Krale nodded. “Except we can forget about the three-raise limit,” he said. “Since there’s just the two of us.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “How about a drink before we get started?”

  “Good idea,” Taggert said. Krale went to the bar and poured a brandy for each of them. They sat with their drinks, and he suggested they cut for deal, and then his wife walked into the room. She said, “Hi, hon. I hope it went—” and stopped in midsentence when she realized her husband had company.

  “Hello, Tina.”

  “Mark,” she said. “I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have come in if I’d known you were still here.”

  “What’s the matter, don’t you love me anymore?”

  She grinned. “I know better than to interrupt you boys. Poker’s a serious matter.”

  “Oh, it’s not all that serious,” Taggert said. “We just pretend it’s serious so that we can keep up our interest in it. Like war or business.”

  “I see.”

  “Mark’s the big winner,” Krale said, “and he’s giving me a chance to win some of my money back.”

  “You’ll probably win it all back,” Taggert said, “and then some.”

  “Not unless the cards turn.”

  “They always do, sooner or later.”

  “Well,” Tina Krale said. “Is it all right if I wish you both good luck?”

  When she left the room, Taggert’s eyes lingered on her retreating form. This did not go unnoticed by Krale.

  * * *

  They cut cards to determine who’d deal the first hand, and Krale was high.

  “Look at that,” Taggert said. “The cards are turning already.”

  But his tone was ironic, and it was clear to Krale that he didn’t believe it. Taggert expected to go on winning for as long as Krale sat across the table from him. As though it wasn’t a matter of luck, or cards, or the breaks of the game. As though it was all predetermined by the character of the players, and winners won while losers lost, and he was a winner as sure as Krale was a loser.

  A loser with a big house and a going business and money in the bank.

  A loser with a beautiful wife.

  But a loser all the same.

  The big house was mortgaged to the rafters. The money in the bank came to less than the outstanding bills. The going business...well, it was going, all right. Going broke, going to hell in a handbasket, going, barring a miracle, out of business. Going, going, gone.

  And the beautiful wife?

  Krale took a deep breath and dealt the cards.

  * * *

  Half a dozen rounds in, Taggert dealt and Krale looked at a deuce and six to go with the ten he had showing. Different suits, of course. “Check,” he said, and Taggert shook his head.

  “Oh, right,” Krale said. They’d changed the rules to avoid hands that got checked to excess, and whoever was high had to make a first-round bet. “Bet,” he said, unnecessarily, and tossed a chip into the pot.

  His next card paired the six. This time he was entitled to check, and did, but Taggert bet, and the pair of sixes kept him in the hand. He kept having enough to call, and the ten he caught on the river gave him two pair, and he knew his tens up were beat but called the last bet anyway, because he had so much in the pot already, and Taggert had kings up and won the hand.

  He gathered up the cards, shuffled them. “Maybe we should raise the stakes,” he suggested.

  “Sure,” Taggert said. “What do you say we make the raise retroactive?”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’ve got a better idea, Dick. Why don’t we call it a night?”

  “I thought you were going to give me a chance to get even.”

  “At this rate, that’ll take a while.”

  “So we’ll raise the stakes.”

  “To what?”

  “We’ve been playing five and ten. Let’s up it to ten-twenty.”

  “Fine with me,” Taggert said.

  * * *

  At first he thought raising the stakes was the charm. He won three small pots in a row, got out of a fourth hand with an early fold, and then, after staying in too long with an unmade hand, caught the king of hearts for a flush while Taggert, who’d held three queens all the way, failed to catch his full house. He bet the hand, too, and pulled in a handsome pot.

  “Well played,” Taggert said. Krale glowed, even though he knew he hadn’t really played the hand well. He shouldn’t have stayed long enough to catch that king, and he’d had no business betting into Taggert at the end. He’d been lucky, lucky to catch the king, lucky that Taggert hadn’t filled.

  But wasn’t that as good as playing smart? In fact, wasn’t it better? Because it meant that the cards were turning, that his luck was returning, and that he could get even and then some. Wouldn’t it be nice if the evening ended with Taggert writing a check to him instead of the other way around?

  Taggert yawned. Because he was tired? Or because he wanted to appear tired, so he’d have an excuse to end the game?

  “Hang on a sec,” Krale said.

  He left without an explanation and came back a few minutes later with a glass of brandy for each of them. “A little pick-me-up,” he said. “And how do you take your coffee? Tina’s making a fresh pot.”

  “I don’t like to drink coffee after dinner,” Taggert said. “It screws up my sleeping.”

  “I find they smooth one another out,” Krale said. “The coffee and the brandy. Keeps you awake while you’re at the table, then lets you sleep like a baby when you get home.”

  “And in the morning?”

  “You wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to do battle.”

  Taggert raised an eyebrow. “You’ve made a study of this,” he said.

  “Personal observation,” he said, “along with an exhaustive study of the available literature.” He raised his glass, and Taggert, after a moment, raised his.

  * * *

  You had to expect the occasional setback. You couldn’t sit there and win every hand. But this one hurt.

  He’d started with nines rolled up, two down and one up, trip nines, gorgeous cards. And he’d nursed them along, played them just right, while Taggert got enough of a diamond flush to keep him in the hand. And on sixth street Krale stopped caring about Taggert’s diamonds, because he caught a pair for the five he had showing, which gave him a full house, so who cared if Taggert had his flush?

  With the river cards dealt, he bet and Taggert raised, which made him very happy, and he raised back and so did Taggert, and now he wasn’t all that happy. Taggert had four diamonds showing, and there was no way he could have a straight flush, not with the five and nine of diamonds in Krale’s hand, but neither was there any way Taggert could make that second raise with nothing better than a flush.

  So Krale called, and Taggert turned over a pair of tens that matched one of his diamonds and an eight that matched another, giving him tens full, which, alas, beat Krale’s nines full.

  He sat there, trying to catch his breath, watching Taggert pull in the pot, and that was when Tina came in with the coffee.

  “And I made sandwiches,” she said. “I figured you boys must have worked up an appetite by now.”

  * * *

  Appetite? If there was one thing Krale didn’t have, besides the fourth nine, it was an appetite. He felt a hollowness in his middle, but had no urge whatsoever to try to fill it. He didn’t want the coffee, either, and as for the brandy, well, he’d already swallowed it, and al
l he could hope was that it would stay down.

  He excused himself, and as he left the room he heard Tina asking Taggert if something was wrong. He didn’t catch Taggert’s reply.

  Nines full, carefully nursed along, with every bet calculated to get the maximum amount of money in the pot. Everything was perfect about that hand except the outcome.

  He tried to look at the bright side, but there didn’t seem to be one. At least he hadn’t raised one more time. He could have been stubborn enough to throw another twenty dollars in the pot, in which case Taggert would certainly have bumped him again. So, yes, he’d managed to save forty dollars, but was that a bright side? Glimpsing it, would one be well advised to pop on a pair of sunglasses?

  Krale didn’t think so.

  He went to the bathroom, the one in the back of the house off the master bedroom, so that they wouldn’t hear him gagging. He decided he might feel better if he threw up, but as it turned out he couldn’t throw up, nor did he feel better.

  On the way back, he stopped in the den and opened the upper left hand drawer of his desk. It was the one with the lock, although the key had been misplaced years ago. So it was never locked, but still it was the natural place to keep a gun, and that’s where Krale kept his .38-calibre revolver. He took it out, held it in one hand and then the other, swung out the cylinder to make sure that all its chambers were loaded, closed the cylinder again, and held the gun to his temple, then put the barrel in his mouth.

  And how would it play?

  They’d hear the shot. They’d run in, see him. And then?

  It’d almost be worth it if he could see the expressions on their faces. Tina, who typically looked as if she was trying not to look disappointed, would show some other, more forceful emotion on her beautiful face. And Taggert’s habitual poker face would almost certainly lose its composure, if only for a moment.

  But he wouldn’t get to see it. He’d be dead, with his brains spattered on one wall or another, depending which way he faced when he pulled the trigger. And he wouldn’t know whether they laughed or cried.

  So what was the point? Well, he’d be out of it. There was that. The pain, which might be quite bad for a moment there, would stop, once and for all. But was that reason enough to do it?