The Burglar Who Studied Spinoza

by Lawrence Block

  I saw no plaque for Abel Crowe, Receiver of Stolen Goods, and I shook my head at the thought. Give me half a chance and I can become disgustingly maudlin.

  The doorman approached, asked if he could help me. I got the feeling he’d lately graduated with honors from an assertiveness-training workshop.

  “No,” I said sadly. “Too late for that.” And I turned away and went home.

  The phone rang while I unlocked all of my locks and gave up in mid-ring as I was shoving the door open. If it’s important, I told myself, they’ll call back.

  I took a shower which no one could have called premature, got into bed, dozed off. I was dreaming about a perilous descent—a fire escape, a catwalk, something vague—when the phone rang. I sat up, blinked a few times, answered it.

  “I want the coin,” a male voice said.

  “Huh?”

  “The nickel. I want it.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Not important. You have the coin and I want it. Don’t dispose of it. I’ll contact you.”

  “But—”

  The phone clicked in my ear. I fumbled it back onto the receiver. The bedside clock said it was a quarter to two. I hadn’t been sleeping long, just long enough to get into the swing of it. I lay down and reviewed the phone call and tried to decide whether to get up and do something about it.

  While I was thinking it over I fell back asleep.

  CHAPTER

  Twelve

  Murray Feinsinger’s goatee had just a touch of gray in it a little to the right of center. He looked to be around forty, with a round face, a receding hairline, and massive horn-rimmed glasses that had the effect of magnifying his brown eyes. He was kneeling now and looking up at me, with my shoe in one hand and my bare foot in the other. My sock lay on the floor beside him like a dead laboratory rat.

  “Narrow feet,” he said. “Long, narrow feet.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Only if it’s extreme, and yours aren’t. Just a little narrower than average, but you’re wearing Pumas, which are a little wider than average. Not as much so as the wide versions of shoes that come in widths, but what do you need with extra width when you’ve got a narrow foot to begin with? Your feet wind up with too much room and that increases the tendency of the ankle to pronate. That means it turns in, like this”—he positioned my foot for demonstration—“and that’s the source of all your problems.”

  “I see.”

  “New Balance makes variable widths. You could try a pair on for size. Or there’s Brooks—they make a good shoe and they’re a little on the narrow side, and they ought to fit you fine.”

  “That’s great,” I said, and would have gotten up from the chair, except it’s tricky when somebody’s holding one of your feet. “I’ll just get a new pair of shoes,” I said, “and then I’ll be all set.”

  “Not so fast, my friend. How long have you been running?”

  “Not very long.”

  “Matter of fact, you just started. Am I right?”

  As a matter of fact, I hadn’t even started, and didn’t intend to. But I told him he was right. And then I emitted a foolish little giggle, not because anything struck me funny but because the good Dr. Feinsinger was tickling my foot.

  “That tickle?”

  “A little.”

  “Inhibition,” he said. “That’s what makes tickling. I tickle people day in and day out. No avoiding it when you’ve got your hands full of other people’s feet for six or eight hours at a stretch. Ever tickle your own feet?”

  “I never gave it a thought.”

  “Well, trust me—you couldn’t do it if you tried. It wouldn’t work. The ticklishness is a response to being touched in a certain way by another person. Inhibition. That’s what it’s all about.”

  “That’s very interesting,” I said. Untruthfully.

  “I tickle a patient less over a period of time. Not that I touch him differently. But he gets used to my touch. Less inhibited. That’s what tickling’s all about. And what your feet are all about, my friend, is something else again. Know what you’ve got?”

  Five toes on each of them, I thought, and a loquacious podiatrist for company. But evidently it was something more serious than that. I hadn’t expected this.

  “You’ve got Morton’s Foot,” he said.

  “I do?”

  “No question about it.” He curled his index finger and flicked it sharply against my index toe. “Morton’s Foot. Know what that means?”

  Death, I thought. Or amputation, or thirty years in a wheelchair, and at the least I’d never play the piano again. “I really don’t know,” I admitted. “I suppose it has something to do with salt.”

  “Salt?” He looked confused, but only for a moment. “Morton’s Foot,” he said, and flicked my toe again. It didn’t tickle, so maybe I was overcoming my inhibitions. “Sounds ominous, doesn’t it? All it means is that this toe here”—another flick—“is longer than your big toe. Morton’s the doctor who first described the syndrome, and what it amounts to is a structural weakness of the foot. I have a hunch it’s a throwback to the time when we all lived in trees and used our big toes as thumbs and wrapped our second toes around vines and branches for leverage. Next time you get to the Bronx Zoo, make sure you go to the monkey house and look at the little buggers’ feet.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Not that Morton’s Foot is like being born with a tail, for God’s sake. In fact, it’s more common to have Morton’s Foot than not to have it, which is bad news for runners but good news for podiatrists. So you’ve not only got a nasty-sounding complaint, my friend, but you’ve got a very ordinary nasty-sounding complaint.”

  All my life the only trouble I’d had with my feet was when some klutz stepped on them on the subway. Of course I’d never tried wrapping my toes around vines. I asked Feinsinger if what I had was serious.

  “Not if you live a normal life. But runners”—and he chuckled with real pleasure here—“runners give up normal life the day they buy their first pair of waffle trainers. That’s when Morton’s Foot starts causing problems. Pain in the ball of the foot, for example. Heel spurs, for instance. Shin splints. Achilles tendinitis. Excessive pronation—remember our old friend pronation?” And he refreshed my memory by yanking my ankle inward. “And then,” he said darkly, “there’s always chondromalacia.”

  “There is?”

  He nodded with grim satisfaction. “Chondromalacia. The dreaded Runner’s Knee, every bit as fearful as Tennis Elbow.”

  “It sounds terrible.”

  “Potentially terrible. But never fear,” he added brightly, “for Feinsinger’s here, and relief is right around the corner. All you need is the right pair of custom orthotics and you can run until your heart gives out. And for that I’ll refer you to my brother-in-law Ralph. He’s the cardiologist in the family.” He patted my foot. “Just my little joke. Stay with running and the chances are you won’t need a cardiologist. It’s the best thing you can do for yourself. All we have to do is make sure your feet are up to it, and that’s where I come in.”

  Orthotics, it turned out, were little inserts for me to wear in my shoes. They would be custom-made for me out of layers of leather and cork after the good Dr. Feinsinger took impressions of my feet, which he did right there and then before I had much of a chance to think about what I was getting into. He took my bare feet one at a time and pressed them into a box containing something like styrofoam, except softer.

  “You’ve made a good first impression,” he assured me. “Now come into the other room for a moment, my friend. I want to have a look at your bones.”

  I followed him, walking springily on the balls of my feet, while he told me how my personal pair of orthotics would not only enable me to run without pain but were virtually certain to change my whole life, improve my posture and penmanship, and very likely elevate my character in the bargain. He led me into a cubicle down the hall where a menacing contraption with a faintly denta
l air about it was mounted on the wall. He had me sit in a chair and swung the gadget out from the wall so that a cone-shaped protuberance was centered over my right foot.

  “I don’t know about this,” I said.

  “Guaranteed painless. Trust me, friend.”

  “You hear a lot of things about X rays, don’t you? Sterility, things like that.”

  “All I take is a one-second exposure and nothing goes higher than the ankle. Sterility? There’s such a thing as the ball of the foot, my friend, but unless you’ve actually got your balls in your feet I assure you you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  In a matter of minutes the machine had done its nasty work and I was back in the other room pulling up my socks and lacing up my Pumas. They had never felt wide before, but they certainly felt wide now. With every step I took I imagined my Mortonic feet slipping dangerously from side to side. Heel spurs, shin splints, the dreaded Runner’s Knee—

  And then we were back in the reception room where I let a redhead with a Bronx accent book an appointment three weeks hence for me to pick up my orthotics. “The full price is three hundred dollars,” she told me, “and that includes the lab charges and this visit and all subsequent visits, in case you need any adjustments. It’s a one-time charge and there’s nothing additional, and of course it’s fully deductible for taxes.”

  “Three hundred dollars,” I said.

  “No cost compared to other sports,” Feinsinger said. “Look what you’d spend on a single ski weekend, let alone buying your equipment. Look at the hourly rates they’re getting for tennis courts. All you have to do to get the full benefits of running is get out there and run, and isn’t it worth it to spend a few dollars on the only feet God gave you?”

  “And running’s good for me, I guess.”

  “Best thing in the world for you. Improves your cardiovascular system, tones your muscles, keeps you trim and fit. But your feet take a pounding, and if they’re not set up to handle the task—”

  Three hundred dollars still seemed pretty pricey for a custom version of the little arch supports they sell for $1.59 at the corner drugstore. But it dawned on me that I didn’t have to pay it now, that a thirty-dollar deposit would keep everybody happy, and in three weeks’ time they could sit around wondering why I hadn’t shown up. I handed over three tens and pocketed the receipt the redhead handed me.

  “Running must be great for podiatrists,” I ventured.

  Feinsinger beamed. “Nothing like it,” he said. “Nothing in the world. You know what this business was a few years ago? Old ladies with feet that hurt. Of course they hurt, they weighed three hundred pounds and bought shoes that were too small. I removed corns, I wrapped bunions, I did a little of this and a little of that and I told myself I was a professional person and success wasn’t all that important to me.

  “Now it’s a whole new world. Sports podiatry is my entire practice. Feinsinger orthotics were on the road in Boston last month. Feinsinger orthotics carried dozens upon dozens of runners to the finish line of the New York Marathon last October. I have patients who love me. They know I’m helping them and they love me. And I’m a success. You’re lucky I had a cancellation this morning or I’d never have been able to fit you in. I’m booked way in advance. And you want to know something? I like success. I like getting ahead in the world. You get a taste of it, my friend, and you develop an appetite for it.”

  He dropped an arm around my shoulders, led me through a waiting room where several slender gentlemen sat reading back copies of Runner’s World and Running Times. “I’ll see you in three weeks,” he said. “Meanwhile you can run in the shoes you’re wearing. Don’t buy new shoes because you’ll want to have the orthotics when you try ’em on. Just go nice and easy for the time being. Not too far and not too fast, and I’ll see you in three weeks.”

  Out in the hallway, the Pumas felt incredibly clumsy. Odd I’d never noticed their ungainly width in the past. I walked on down the carpeted hall to the elevator, glanced over my shoulder, looked around furtively, and went on past the elevator to open the door to the stairwell.

  I wasn’t sure what effect Morton’s Foot might have on stairclimbing. Was I running a heavy risk of the dreaded Climber’s Fetlock?

  I went ahead and took my chances. Murray Feinsinger’s office was on the fourth floor, which left me with seven flights to ascend. I was panting long before I reached my destination, either because my feet lacked the benefit of orthotics or because my cardiovascular system had not yet been improved by long-distance running. Or both of the above.

  Whatever the cause, a minute or two was time enough for me to catch my breath. Then I eased the door open, looked both ways much like a tractable child about to cross a street, and walked past the elevator and down another carpeted hallway to the door of Abel Crowe’s apartment.

  Well, why else would I be getting my feet tickled? I had awakened a few hours earlier, had a shower and a shave, and while I sat spreading gooseberry preserves on an English muffin and waiting for my coffee to drip through, I recalled my reconnaissance mission to Riverside Drive and the telephone call that had interrupted my sleep.

  Someone wanted the coin.

  That wasn’t news. When an object originally valued at five cents has increased over the years by a factor of approximately ten million, the world is full of people who wouldn’t be averse to calling it their own. Who wouldn’t want a 1913 Liberty Head Nickel?

  But my caller not only wanted the coin. He wanted it from me. Which meant he knew the coin had been liberated from Colcannon’s safe, and he knew furthermore just who had been the instrument of its delivery.

  Who was he? And how might he know a little thing or two like that?

  I poured my coffee, munched my muffin, and sat a while in uffish thought. I found myself thinking of that impregnable fortress where my friend Abel had lived and died, and where the coin—my coin!—survived him. I pictured that doorman, a gold-braided Cerberus at the gate of hell, a three-headed Bouvier des Flandres in burgundy livery. (The old mind’s not at its best first thing in the morning, but the imagination is capable of great flights of fancy.) I visualized that entrance, those dull rosy marble columns, the bronze plaques. Three shrinks, a dentist, a pediatrician, a podiatrist, an ophthalmologist—

  Whereupon dawn broke.

  I finished breakfast and became very busy. I hadn’t remembered the names on those plaques, or bothered noticing them in the first place, so for openers I cabbed up to Eighty-ninth and Riverside, where I sauntered nonchalantly past the entrance and quickly memorized the seven names in question. A few doors down the street I took a moment to jot them all down before they fled my memory, and then I continued east to Broadway, where I had a cup of coffee at the counter of a Cuban Chinese luncheonette. Perhaps the Cuban food’s good there, or the Chinese food. The coffee tasted as though each roasted bean had been tossed lightly in rancid butter before grinding.

  I turned a dollar into dimes and made phone calls. I tried the psychiatrists first and found them all booked up through the following week. I made an appointment with the last of them for a week from Monday, figuring I could always show up for it if nothing else materialized by then, by which time a shrink’s services might be just what I needed.

  Then I looked at the four remaining names. The pediatrician would be tricky, I decided, unless I wanted to borrow Jared Raphaelson for the occasion, and I wasn’t sure that I did. The dentist might be able to fit me in, especially if I pleaded an emergency, but did I want some unknown quantity belaboring my mouth? As things stand, I get free life-time dental care from Craig Sheldrake, the World’s Greatest Dentist, and I’d last seen Craig just a couple of weeks ago when I’d dropped by for a cleaning. My mouth was in no need of a dentist’s attention, and I didn’t feel much like saying Ah.

  The ophthalmologist looked like the best choice, better even than the shrinks. An eye exam doesn’t take long, either. I’d have to make sure he didn’t put drops in my eyes, since that could
make lockpicking a far cry from child’s play. And wasn’t I about due to get my eyes looked at? I had never needed glasses, and I hadn’t yet noticed myself holding books at arm’s length, but neither was I getting younger with each passing day, and they say it’s a good idea to get your eyes checked annually so that you can nip glaucoma in the bud, or the pupil or iris, or wherever one nips it, and—

  And I made the call and the guy was in the Bahamas until a week from Monday.

  So I called Murray Feinsinger’s office, wondering upon what pretext a podiatric appointment might be booked, and a young woman with a Bronx accent (and, I was to learn, with red hair as well) asked me the nature of my problem.

  “It’s my feet,” I said.

  “You a runner or a dancer?”

  Dancers look like dancers. Anybody can look like a runner. All you have to do is sweat and wear funny shoes.

  “A runner,” I said, and she gave me an appointment.

  Whereupon I went home and changed my Weejuns for my Pumas, all in the interest of verisimilitude, and then I called Carolyn and begged out of our standing lunch date, pleading a doctor’s appointment. She wanted to know what kind of doctor, and I said an ophthalmologist instead of a podiatrist because I’d have been stuck for an answer if she asked what was the matter with my feet. I didn’t yet know I had Morton’s foot with chondromalacia just a hop, skip and a jump away. When she asked what was the matter with my eyes, I muttered something about getting headaches when I did a lot of reading, and that seemed to satisfy her.

  I didn’t mention the middle-of-the-night phone call.

  At one-fifteen I showed for my appointment with Feinsinger. The doorman called upstairs to make sure I was expected and the elevator operator lingered to check that I entered the right door. Now I was out thirty bucks and my feet felt too narrow while my shoes felt impossibly wide. Maybe I should have gone to the pediatrician instead. I could have lied about my age.