Burglar on the Prowl by Lawrence Block

From Barnes & Noble

The Barnes & Noble Review
Burglar and bookseller Bernie Rhodenbarr is back in this captivating new hardcover by New York Times–bestselling author Lawrence Block. Bernie's been in trouble with the law before, and he's the first to admit that it taught him an important lesson. Unfortunately for his victims (and fortunately for mystery readers like us), that lesson wasn't "Thou Shalt Not Steal." In Burglar on the Prowl, Bernie's old friend and occasional co-conspirator, Marty Gilmartin, wants to get even with the slightly shady plastic surgeon who stole his girlfriend -- a lovely (though perhaps questionably talented) aspiring actress. Getting into the wall safe at Marty's rival's house should be no problem for Bernie. After years of honing his skills, there's not much that's out of his reach. Still, such elegantly executed excursions take time to plan, in accordance with Bernie's one rule of burglary: "Don't get caught!" Unfortunately, while waiting for the perfect time to execute his perfect plan for Marty, Bernie gets an irresistible urge to go on the prowl. To a burglar, that means improvising. An old pro like Bernie knows it's courting disaster -- fun, but rarely worth the risk. And this time Bernie's luck may have finally run out. It seems there's evidence that contradicts the story he fed the cops to cover the time he was on the prowl -- evidence that puts him in the wrong place at just the right time. Now he's accused of being an accomplice in a deadly break-in and burglary he didn't commit…and that means Bernie must catch the real villains before he ends up doing time for their crimes. This series has a quirky charm all its own that'll make you eager to steal time for it from your schedule, no matter how busy you are. Sue Stone

From the Publisher

philosophical yet practical gentleman, Bernie Rhodenbarr possesses many admirable qualities: charm, intelligence, sparkling wit, and unwavering loyalty. Of course, he also has this special talent and a taste for life's finer things. So he's more than willing to perform some vengeful larceny for a friend — ripping off a smarmy, particularly deserving plastic surgeon — for fun and a very tidy profit.

But during a practice run at another address, Bernie's forced to hide under a bed when the lady of the house returns unexpectedly with the worst kind of blind date in tow. In no time, Bernie's up to his burgling neck in big trouble. Again. And this time it includes his arrest, no less than four murders, and more outrageous coincidences than any self-preserving felon should ever be required to tie together.

The New York Times

It takes an agile brain and a devilish wit to pull off this farcical self-satire; but Block not only has what it takes, he also has Bernie, whose elastic ethics and pride in his work (''It is, I blush to admit, a gift,'' he says of his skills) are the key to his raffish charm. — Marilyn Stasio

Publishers Weekly

You'd think that Block, with more than 50 books to his credit, would run out of ideas, but as this 10th in his Burglar series shows (after 1999's The Burglar in the Rye), he's as fresh, witty and inventive as ever. The author builds his plot on stupefying coincidences, but not to worry-everything eventually meshes. A friend asks Bernie Rhodenbarr, confirmed New Yorker, used-book dealer and gentleman burglar, to rob a mob-connected plastic surgeon who stole the friend's mistress. He agrees, and cases the doctor's house in Riverdale, the Bronx. But Bernie is restive and, uncharacteristically (because he plans carefully), he breaks into a Manhattan apartment on a whim and almost gets caught, hiding under the bed while a woman is date-raped. Next day a customer is shot near his bookstore, a mysterious migr couple is murdered, a former Latvian war criminal is reported in New York and Bernie's apartment is ransacked. These crimes seem unrelated in such a large city, but Bernie finds a common thread. In the end, Bernie assembles 22 people (including lawmen) in the surgeon's living room and, Charlie Chan style, explains each participant's role and, where appropriate, crime. Lesser hands would not bring off this breathtaking performance, but in Block's it's seamless and hilarious. Quirky characters like Bernie's pals Carolyn Kaiser, the dog groomer, and cop Ray Kirschmann; an insider's love of New York; and a slew of wonderful puns add to the fun. (Mar. 16) Forecast: MWA Grand Master Block recently received the British Crime Writers' Association Cartier Diamond Dagger Award, only the third American to be so honored. A 100,000 printing and a 40-city author tour should ensure a run up most bestseller lists. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

Library Journal

Block's tenth Bernie Rhodenbarr mystery finds the bookseller/burglar in what might be his most complicated intrigue. After a friend asks Bernie to burglarize the house of a prominent plastic surgeon, in revenge for the doctor's stealing the friend's mistress, Bernie becomes entangled in a labyrinthine plot involving a serial date rapist, Latvian patriots, a linguistics professor, assorted gangsters, and a seemingly ordinary copy of Joseph Conrad's The Secret Agent. Bernie, the Poirot of home invasion, gathers everyone even remotely connected to the various crimes at the surgeon's home for a terrific showdown. While not as polished an interpreter of his material as Robert Forster and Joe Mantegna, Block calls attention to the sometimes subtle ironies of his self-mocking story. Highly entertaining; recommended for popular collections. Michael Adams, CUNY Graduate Ctr. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

Product Details

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Table of Contents

Read a Sample Chapter

Chapter One

"The man," said my friend Marty Gilmartin, "is an absolute . . .a complete . . .an utter and total . . . " He held out his hands, shook his head, and sighed."Words fail me. "

"Apparently," I agreed. "Nouns, anyway. Adjectives seem to be supporting you well enough, but nouns --"

"Help me out, Bernard," he said. "Who is more qualified to supply le mot juste? Words, after all, are your métier."

"They are?"

"Books are your stock-in-trade, " he said, "and what is a book? Paper and ink and cloth and glue, to be sure, but if a book were nothing more than those mundane components, no one would want to own more than one of them. No, it's the words that constitute a book, sixty or eighty or a hundred thousand of them."

"Or two hundred thousand, or even three." I'd read Grub Street recently, and was thinking about the less-than-eminent Victorians George Gissing wrote about, forced by their publishers to grind out interminable three-volume novels for a body of readers who clearly had far too much time on their hands.

"That's more words than I require," Marty said. "Just one, Bernie, to sum up" -- he glanced around the room, lowered his voice --"no, to impale Crandall Rountree Mapes like an insect upon a pin."

"An insect,"I suggested.

"Far too mild."

"A worm, a rat." He was shaking his head, so I shifted gears and exited the animal kingdom."A bounder?"

"That's closer, Bernie. By God, he is a bounder, but he's much worse than that."

"A cad."

"Better, but --"

I frowned, trying to conjure up a thesaurus spread open before me. A bounder, a cad ...

"A rotter?"

"Oh, that comes close," he said."We'll settle for that if we can't do any better. It's just archaic enough, isn't it? And it's better than bounder or cad because it's clearly not a temporary condition. The corruption is permanent, the man is putrid to the core." He picked up his glass, breathed in the bouquet of aged cognac." Rotter comes very close indeed to conveying just what a thoroughgoing shitheel goes by the name of Crandall Rountree Mapes."

I started to say something, but he held up a hand to stop me. "Bernie," he said, wide-eyed with wonder,"did you hear what I just said?"

"Shitheel."

"Precisely. That's perfect, the quintessential summation of the man. And where do you suppose the word came from? Not its derivation, that would seem clear enough, but how did it get into our conversation? No one says shitheel anymore."

"You just did."

"I did, and I couldn't guess the last time I uttered it." He beamed. "I must have been inspired," he said, and rewarded himself with a small sip of the venerable brandy. I couldn't think of anything I'd done to merit a reward, but I had a sip from my own glass just the same. It filled the mouth like liquid gold, slid down the gullet like honey, and warmed every cell of the body even as it exalted the spirit.

I wasn't going to drive or operate machinery, so what the hell. I had another sip.

We were in the dining room of The Pretenders, a private club on Gramercy Park every bit as venerable as the cognac. The membership ran to actors and writers, men in or on the fringes of the arts, but there was a membership category called Patron of the Theater, and it was through that door that Martin Gilmartin had entered.

"We need members,"he'd told me once,"and the main criterion for membership at this point is the possession of a pulse and a checkbook, though to look around you, you might suspect that some of our members have neither. Would you like to become a member, Bernie? Did you ever see Cats? If you loved it, you can join as a Patron of the Theater. If you hated it, you can come in as a Critic."

I'd passed up the chance to join, figuring they might draw the line at prospective members with criminal records. But I rarely turned down an invitation to join Marty there for lunch. The food was passable, the drink first-rate, and the service impeccable, but the half-mile walk from Barnegat Books led me past eight or ten restaurants that could say the same. What they couldn't provide was the rich atmosphere of the nineteenth-century mansion that housed The Pretenders, and the aura of history and tradition that permeated the place. And then there was Marty's good company, which I'd be glad of in any surroundings.

He's an older gentleman, and he's what fellows who read Esquire want to be when they grow up -- tall and slender, with a year-round tan and a full head of hair the color of old silver. He's always well groomed and freshly barbered, his mustache trimmed, his attire quietly elegant but never foppish. While enjoying a comfortable retirement, he keeps busy managing his investments and dipping a toe in the water when an attractive business venture comes his way.

And, of course, he's a patron of the theater. As such he goes to quite a few shows, both on and off Broadway, and occasionally invests a few dollars in a production that strikes his fancy. More to the point, his theatrical patronage has consisted in large part of underwriting the careers of a succession of theatrical ingénues, some of whom have actually demonstrated a certain modicum of talent.

Dramatic talent, that is to say. Their talent in another more private realm is something upon which only Marty could comment, and he wouldn't. The man is discretion personified.

We met, I would have to say, in highly unlikely circumstances ...