The Soul Thief_ A Novel - Charles Baxter [32]
Where did they go? Who would burglarize two shirts?
Where are my shirts?
16
AT ONE OF THE TABLES in the dining area of the People’s Kitchen sits Ben the Burglar, alone, slurping his soup. He wears a red cap. He eats with his gloves on, spoon in his right hand, lit cigarette in his left. Today he sports a pair of old tortoiseshell glasses, a 1940s look, that of a chump in a downtown diner wearing a cheap disguise, behind which his junkie eyes peer at his fellow citizens. A bruise shines from the left side of his jaw. Deep film-noir shadows fall on him; blue smoke rises from his head. It is four o’clock in the afternoon, and Nathaniel sits down next to him uninvited.
“Whad I do this time?” Ben asks without looking up. He swallows, then takes a puff from the cigarette.
“I’m missing two shirts,” Nathaniel says. “I think you know where they are.”
“Would you let me finish?” Ben slows down the eating process, savoring each bite of potato, carrot, and stew meat. Why hasn’t he taken off his gloves? He needs a gangster affectation.
“You broke into my place again. That was unfair.”
“So?” Ben smiles. “You didn’t mind when I did it before.” Confessions of misdeeds apparently emerge easily from this hard-boiled guy. Like any tradesman, he takes pride in his work and in a job successfully accomplished. He smiles coldly, blowing smoke upward toward the ceiling. It is an era when people still know how to smoke and eat at the same time.
“So why did you take those shirts?”
“You forgot to lock the door again, for starters. I took a pair of pants, too,” Ben says thoughtfully. “And a pair of shoes.”
He’s now madly grinning with self-love. Also, his speech has slowed down, an effect caused by the good life of cigarettes, food, and opiates. For him, heroin is to experience what salt is to rice. It makes it palatable.
“How come you took them?”
“How come? I was on commission.”
“You were what?”
“You’re funny when you pretend to be deaf.” Ben gazes up at the ceiling with merriment. His eyes mist over. Life is one long spree. He taps out ash on the coffee cup’s saucer, then rotates the cigarette’s tip on the china, a delicate gesture suitable for a dollhouse.
“On commission from whom?”
“‘Whom.’ I like that.” He shakes his head in admiration. “You sure got yourself a good education somewhere.”
“Oh, fuck you, Ben.”
“Okay, there you go, fuck me,” Ben replies, rubbing his chin violently before lifting his eyebrows to express radical innocence in the line of questioning from this overeducated spoilsport. After taking one last long drag from his cigarette, he stubs it out on the saucer and exhales smoke through his teeth. He resumes foraging in the bottomless bowl of soup, prolonging the moment to excruciation, a delay that evidently delights him, because he smirks. Now, with his left gloved hand, free of the cigarette, he lifts a piece of bread, taking a delicate bite. The bread has been slathered with butter, and butter affixes itself to his chin, giving him the look of a polished wooden marionette.
“Coolberg. It was Coolberg, right? He found you.”
The burglar shrugs. “A man’s gotta eat.”
“Which you’re doing. For free. It’s not as if you’re dining off your ill-gotten gains.”
“That’s right. I gave the ill-gotten gains to Luceel. My wife. You remember her. You let yourself meet her, which she didn’t want to do, with you. She didn’t like your looks. She didn’t want to make your acquaintance. Listen, I tell you what.” Ben straightens up. His comic momentum appears to have diminished. “So here I am, okay, right? Eating?” He talks and chews with