"But not today, huh, Bern?"

"Not today," I said, "and not tomorrow, and not the day after tomorrow."

"What's the day after tomorrow?"

"Friday."

"Thanks, Bern. If I didn't have you for a friend I'd have to go out and buy a calendar. What happens on Friday?" I just looked at her, and she put her hand on her forehead. "Duh," she said. "That's when you're gonna do it. Friday night? I guess that means you'll be ordering Perrier at the Bum Rap."

We meet every day after work at a gin mill around the corner for a ritual Thank-God-It's-Finished drink, to unwind after a high-pressure day of washing dogs and peddling books. On those occasional evenings when the work has just begun for me, my standard tipple is Perrier water. Scotch, my usual drug of choice, mixes well with any number of things, but burglary, alas, is not among them.

"But that's okay," she said, "because I won't be there myself." She cocked her head, winked. "I've got a date."

"Anybody I know?"

"Nope. Well, I shouldn't be so quick to say that. You might know her. But I don't."

"You met her online."

"Uh-huh."

"Which service? Date-a-Dyke?"

"They're the best, Bern. They're much better than Lesbe Friends at screening out the teenage boys. What's the deal with adolescent males and gay women, do you have a clue? Why are they so fascinated with us? Because I can assure you it's not reciprocal."

"You mean to say you don't have fantasies of being a fifteen-year-old boy, or fooling around with one?"

"Oddly enough," she said, "I don't. Bern, you were a fifteen-yearold boy once."

"That was before computer dating and online chat rooms."

"Yeah, but it wasn't before Sappho. Did you have a thing about lesbians?"

"I did have a thing," I said, "though I couldn't figure out what to do with it. As far as lesbians were concerned, I barely knew they existed. I had a pretty elaborate fantasy life, but as far as I can remember it was pretty much dyke-free."

"I just have this image of a hot chat room conversation, with two gay women pulling out all the stops and telling each other just what they want to do and how they'll do it, and each one of them is actually a boy. I just thought of something."

"What?"

"Well, the boys who do this. I mean, they may be crazy but they're not stupid, right?"

"So?"

"So don't you figure they know their online buddy is about as much of a lesbian as they are? And if they know, and get off on it anyway, what does that make them?"

"Happy," I suggested.

"I guess. Anyway, you get a lot less of that crap with Date-a-Dyke. There's no chatting, you just post messages back and forth. And if you click you make a date to meet."

"And this'll be what, your fourth date?"

"Only the third, Bern. I had one all set a week ago, and she canceled."

"Cold feet?"

She shook her head. "Warm memories. She and her ex were going to try to make it work after all. So it was just as well she canceled, because earlier she'd said she was footloose and fancy-free, that her last relationship was a horror and she never wanted to see the bitch again. If she was going to be carrying all that baggage, well, I'm glad I didn't waste an evening on her."

"Figures."

"The one I'm seeing Friday," she said, "is a paralegal at a law firm that represents lenders in commercial real estate transactions."

"She probably tweaked it a little to make it sound exciting."

"So it's not glamorous. It's not as though washing dogs day in and day out is gonna get you on the cover ofVanity Fair. Anyway, she sounds interesting. Of course, without a photograph it's hard to know if you're going to be attracted to one another."

"No photos on Date-a-Dyke?"

"That's one way to keep the boys away. You'd think it'd be the other way around, that they'd have trouble finding photos to post, but they just download them from somewhere else." She rolled her eyes. "Teenage boys sending each other naked pictures of the women they're pretending to be. Some world we live in, huh, Bern?"

"What's her name, the woman you're meeting?"

"If we hit it off, she'll probably tell me sooner or later. Right now we're on a screen name basis. She's GurlyGurl."

"She probably won't show up dressed to go duck hunting."

"I think the screen name's partly ironic, actually. She's not ultra-femme, but she doesn't drive a Peterbilt semi, either."

"Somewhere in the middle."

"Uh-huh."

" 'I'm not a lipstick lesbian, but I play one at the office.' "

"Something like that, Bern. She sounds pretty interesting. Even if it's not a romance, it should make for a fun evening. So I'd have to say I'm looking forward to Friday."

"Me too," I said.

I went back to the bookstore and opened up, and I can't say my afternoon would have been any less exciting if I'd been, say, a paralegal at a law firm representing lenders in commercial real estate transactions. GurlyGurl must have earned more than I did that day, and I'll bet she's got medical coverage, too.

I closed up around six, brought in my bargain table from its place on the sidewalk, made sure Raffles had dried food in his food dish and fresh water in his water bowl, and that the bathroom door was ajar so he could use the toilet. I met Carolyn at the Bum Rap, and we ordered our usual scotches, hers on the rocks, mine with a splash of soda. Maxine brought them and we drank to something-crime, most likely-and worked on our drinks. Somewhere in the middle of our second round, Carolyn asked if I wanted to come over to her place for an evening in front of the television set. It was Wednesday, she pointed out, and that meantThe West Wing andLaw amp; Order, both of which would go perfectly with some take-out Chinese from Hunan Pan.

"Can't," I said.

"You've got a date?"

"The last date I can remember," I said, "is 1066."

"The Battle of Hastings?"

"If I'd been there," I said, "I'd have been on Harold's side. That's how well dating works for me."

"You could try the computer, you know."

"Yeah, right."

"And even if you don't, Bern, you'll meet someone. It's just a question of time."

"By the time I meet someone," I said, "I'll have forgotten what it is you're supposed to do with them. No, I haven't got a date tonight. I've got to go to work."

"Tonight? I thought that was Friday."

"Tonight too."

"But you're drinking, Bern."

"I'm not drinking alone, though, am I?"

She frowned. " Bern, you never have a drop of alcohol before you go out burgling. It's a firm rule of yours, and just about the only one."

"I don't play cards with men named Doc," I said, "or eat at places called Mom's."

"Or drink before you burgle."

"Or drink before I burgle," I agreed. "Three sound rules, I'd have to say."

She thought it over. "You're working tonight, but it's not going to involve breaking and entering."

"I shall not break," I said. "Neither shall I enter."

"Are you doing an appraisal?"

My antiquarian book business sometimes has me working evenings, appraising a client's library for insurance purposes or making an offer to a potential seller. But that wasn't what I had on tonight's agenda.

"It's burglary-related," I said, "and it demands a reasonably cool head, but not necessarily a sober one. I'm taking the subway up to Riverdale for a look at the Mapes estate."

"A reconnaissance mission. Do you want company?" She frowned. "But I'd have to be back by nine o'clock. This is gonna sound silly, but I really don't want to missThe West Wing."

"It doesn't sound silly. Tonight'll be boring, anyway. All I'm going to do is look at the house and walk around the neighborhood." I picked up my drink, observing its pleasing color. "Friday's when I could use company, but you're tied up with GurlyGurl."