Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 04

by Day of Atonement

  “Lookit,” Hank said. “You wear a ski mask over your head, no one will know who you are, all right?”

  Noam paused a long time. Finally he agreed.

  “Good guy, man, good guy.” Hank picked up the gun. “You gotta get comfortable with it, Nick-O. You gotta hold it. Touch it. It’s like girls, Nick-O. You gotta start sometime. At first, it’s gonna feel weird, but after a few times…” He snapped his fingers. “You get the hang of it. Hey, after we pull this thing off, I’ll get us another girl—”

  “No,” Noam shook his head. “Not for me.” His stomach started to churn. He remembered hearing all those grunts, those slurping noises. The smell of raw fish oozing under the bathroom door.

  “You gotta start sometime.”

  “Not yet,” Noam insisted, his voice cracking.

  “Okay, buddy,” Hank said. He offered him the gun. “But this. You gotta get comfortable with it.”

  Noam took a deep breath, then clasped his fingers around the gun.

  “Ain’t so bad,” Hank said.

  No, Noam thought. No it wasn’t so bad. All it was was a piece of metal. A piece of metal…

  “Is it loaded?”

  “No,” Hank said.

  “Will it be loaded when we…” Noam’s voice trailed off. He looked up at the lopsided smile.

  “Up to you,” Hank said. “You can convince the mark it’s loaded, I don’t care if it is or isn’t. But if it isn’t, you’d better not fuck up.” He paused a moment. “Course, I’ll have my gutting knife for a backup.”

  “Then I don’t have to do it with a loaded gun?” Noam said.

  “Can you pull it off?”

  “Yes,” Noam said. “Yes, definitely. No problem.”

  “Then it won’t be loaded.”

  Noam broke into a big smile. “I’ll do it, Hank. I can do it for you.”

  “Hey, buddy,” Hank said. “That’s what I like to hear.”

  22

  “Why am I obsessing on the fish?” Decker said to Marge.

  “Someone gets head while cleaning a fish…” Marge rubbed her arms. “Somehow that has to be significant.”

  She wore a white cotton blouse, a pair of Levi’s, and a yellow windbreaker. But the zipper on the jacket was broken and every time the wind kicked up, she felt tiny electric shocks prick her skin.

  “You want my jacket?” Decker asked.

  “You’re not cold?”

  “No.” Decker handed her his denim jacket. It would have swallowed up any ordinary woman. Marge filled it nicely.

  “It goes beyond the sexual perversity,” Decker said. “There’s a connection and I can’t bring it up.”

  “Don’t fight it. It’ll come to you.” Marge scanned the crowds. “Besides, if you’re concentrating on fish, you’re going to miss what’s around you. And that’s why we came to Westwood.”

  She was right. There were just too many people cluttering the street. He needed all his energy for observation.

  They were walking north on Westwood heading toward the skyline of UCLA. The queues for the eight o’clock movies were around the block. Most of the boutiques were open—a western boot store, sports paraphernalia, a cubbyhole that specialized in humorous greeting cards. All the eateries were open as well. Most sold portable grub—ice cream, chocolate-chip cookies, muffins. Decker was munching on a buttermilk doughnut bought from a pushcart, sorting out the faces.

  There were groups of college kids, that was to be expected. But there were also groups of children too young to go unsupervised. Boys and girls junior high school age. Plump little girls barely pubescent, sporting five earrings in each lobe, dyed green tufts of hair sticking out at odd angles. They wore miniskirts even though it was cold. The boys were dressed in baggy pants or combat fatigues, using cigarettes to look grown-up because their facial hair and muscle layer hadn’t come in yet. They made a lot of noise but for the most part, they were innocuous.

  Not the case with the homeboys. Black teenaged boys, in oversized clothing—convenient duds if you’re hiding a gun. They checked out the scene, on the prowl for enemy color. Confrontive eyes, short haircuts covered by baseball caps worn backward. The Crips’ rivalry with the Bloods was so fierce, they wouldn’t even pronounce words that began with B—saying cecause for because.

  Rap music boomed from ghetto blasters. Sometimes two rival groups would pass each other, eyes filled with malice, the music a cacophonous mix sounding like competing marching bands. The jaunty walks would slow just a tad. Cold glances exchanged, more threatening than words.

  Westwood was well patrolled. It showcased L.A.’s first-run movies and held some upperclass restaurants. But with this many people cruising the sidewalks, so many cars clogging the streets, it would be easy for bystanders to catch a stray bullet if the gangbangers went to war.

  Lots of people. But so far, no Hersh or Noam.

  They had canvassed almost all the shops, all the ticket booths at the movie theaters. Now they were down to using their eyes.

  Marge said, “I don’t think they’ve been here yet.”

  Decker agreed.

  “It’s almost ten-thirty,” she said. “Want to call it a night?”

  “Might as well,” Decker said. “If they show up, most of the store owners have our business cards.”

  “Yeah, it was worth coming down just to pass out the pictures,” Marge said. “They might not be here tonight, but to quote Scarlett: Tomorrow’s another day.”

  “I like Rhett’s line better,” Decker said.

  “You don’t give a damn?”

  “Not right now.”

  Marge smiled and yawned.

  “I keep forgetting you have to work tomorrow,” Decker said. “Let’s go.”

  “You’re still thinking about Hersh and the fish,” Marge said.

  He shrugged.

  Marge said, “Look at that guy.” An emaciated six-foot man on roller skates was weaving through the crowds. He wore a black veil over his head. “Is there a point I’m missing?”

  “Got me.”

  Marge said, “You know, Pete, I never did get a chance to tell you how much fun I had at your wedding.”

  Decker broke into a broad smile. “It was a great wedding, wasn’t it?”

  “Like nothing I’d ever seen before,” Marge said. “You always hear about Jewish weddings. But it’s different when you’re there.”

  “Especially if you’re the groom.”

  “Know what I liked best? Cindy dancing with Rina. It was really touching.”

  Decker smiled.

  Marge shook her head. “And now you’re reduced to doing this on your honeymoon?”

  “Call it collecting points with Rina.” He stopped a moment and finished off his doughnut. “I have this delusion that what I really want is vacation and rest. But here I am working…I’m not unhappy.”

  “Gets in the blood, doesn’t it?” Marge said. “I act like I’m doing you a favor by cruising with you. What would I be doing otherwise? Harry’s always on call. We meet for bed.” She paused. “Not a bad arrangement.”

  “Not bad at all—” Decker snapped his fingers. “Goddamn, that’s what it is!”

  “What?”

  Decker smiled. “This is so stupid…Hersh. One of the Hershes I inquired about in Crown Heights was a fish vendor.”

  “And you think that’s the Hersh you’re looking for?”

  “No,” Decker said. “That Hersh was bearded and weighed over two hundred pounds. His last name was different. I think it was Hersh Berger or Bergman. But it is a little weird, isn’t it? Two Hershes, both associated with fish.”

  Marge shrugged.

  “You know,” Decker said, “Jews name after their deceased relatives. Rina once told me she had a cousin Rina, both of them named after her maternal grandmother.”

  “Think Big Hersh is related to Psycho Hersh?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “Did Big Hersh mention anything to you about a cousin Hersh?” />
  “I didn’t talk to Big Hersh directly. I talked to his wife and maybe she doesn’t know he even has any relatives named Hersh.” Decker thought a moment. “Think I’ll give him a call.”

  “What do you hope to find?”

  Decker said, “If Psycho Hersh is related to Big Hersh, he can give me a little more background about Psycho Hersh. Or maybe they have relatives out here…maybe that’s why Hersh flew out here with Noam.”

  “They didn’t hook up with anyone when they came into Los Angeles, Pete.”

  “Well, maybe it’ll take them a little time to get their act together. Get all the raunchy stuff out of the way, all the forbidden fruit. I don’t know, I’m just spouting off the top of my head.” Decker looked at his watch. “It’s one-thirty over there. It’ll have to wait until morning.”

  Marge said, “You still hungry or did the doughnut do it for you?”

  “I can always use another cup of coffee,” Decker said.

  Two Hershes, both connected with fish. And what also struck him as a coincidence was that the fish shop was in Williamsburg—where Psycho Hersh had lived—not Crown Heights, where Big Hersh was living.

  He thought about it all the way to the coffee shop.

  Crouched in the back alley stinking of garbage, Noam was sweating even though it was cold. He could tell the temperature by the gun in his hand. The metal was chilled—like the handlebars of his bike after it had been left out overnight. It must be the ski mask that was making him so hot. The ski mask and fear.

  When Hersh first set him in the alley, he nearly gagged from the stench. He was also petrified to be left alone. But he was more afraid of Hersh’s temper than he was of being attacked by a stranger. As the hours wore on, his fear had blossomed into terror. Shadows were people waiting to jump him, every sound was magnified into an explosion. He felt like the rock pulled back on a slingshot, everything tight and ready to spring. Perspiration was preventing him from getting a good grip. Twice he even dropped the gun. Then he thought maybe he should just tell Hersh he’d lost it.

  But Hersh would get mad. Maybe even kick him out. And it was just like he said. He had nowhere to go at this time of night. Just the police. And he was terrified of that.

  What if the druggist reported him as the one who stole those things? Vey is mir, what if they arrested him, put him in jail?

  No, he couldn’t go to the police.

  They might even be looking for him now.

  He felt his hands shake uncontrollably and told himself to stop thinking about that. Just go through the night one minute at a time.

  Just let the night be over with. He prayed to Hashem to give him guidance, but as always he found no answer in tephila. Just empty words. Hashem never answered him. But maybe he didn’t pray right.

  He was so confused.

  At least Hersh hadn’t made him load the gun. The clip inside was only for show.

  You’re gonna look like an idiot if you show someone some steel and there ain’t no clip in it. You’re gonna look real stupid.

  Hersh swore that the clip was empty. He showed Noam that it was empty. But still Noam wished that the clip wasn’t there at all.

  Maybe he should just pull it out.

  But then Hersh would get mad at him.

  Something warm and wet was leaking from his body. He must have gone to the bathroom twenty times, but there was still something in there. He felt his head swell up, throb with pain. He felt his knees knock together.

  He began to hear himself drawing for breath.

  Third time tonight he began to gasp for air. He knew what to do by now.

  Deep breaths. Slow yourself down to deep breaths.

  The tears started coming, blurring his vision. He wiped them away on his jacket.

  He heard a sound and felt himself stiffen.

  A second of silence.

  Another hoot.

  His hand gripped the gun, turning his knuckles white.

  Then nothing.

  No one.

  The alley was deserted. So were the streets. This back way was in the better part of the city, not too far away from all the courthouses. Where they were staying…that area was full of weirdos and bums, most of them blacks or Puerto Ricans. (Did they have Puerto Ricans in California or was it Mexicans?) There were loads of drunken old guys talking to themselves, walking with limps, pulling on their hair. They all stank from liquor.

  After waiting for Hersh in this alley, he probably stank too. Hersh promised to get him an Aerosmith T-shirt after this was over. Though Noam wanted the T-shirt, he wondered whether it was smart to spend on clothes when they needed money for food and a place to stay.

  But Hersh became real mad when Noam told him his concerns.

  Hersh was great to talk to as long as you were complaining about your parents, about the rabbis. When you complained about anything else, he pounced on you like a tiger.

  Better not to speak unless spoken to.

  Again the tears. How he wanted to go home, but he was so afraid. What if his parents wouldn’t take him back? Course they had to by law, but…what if they wouldn’t forgive him?

  They’d have to forgive him if it was Yom Kippur. That’s what Yom Kippur was for. If he didn’t make it back by this Yom Kippur—which was in four days—he’d have to wait a whole other year.

  What he really should do was drop the gun and run as fast as his legs could carry him. But where? He didn’t have any money. And chas vachalelah—God forbid—he should bump into these crazy street people at this hour at night without a gun.

  So confused.

  Then he heard the noise—voices. People talking.

  This time it was for real. The words garbled and echoing.

  Getting closer and closer. Hersh’s voice talking and laughing. A deep voice answering him. It also sounded happy.

  Noam looked up, couldn’t see a thing. Slowly he rose and flattened himself against a brick wall. He didn’t move.

  The deep voice was louder—he was slurring his words.

  Who was this guy?

  Noam inched his way to where the alley met the surface street and peeked around the corner. The two shapes took on recognizable forms. Hersh all dressed up in his Shabbos pants and coat, shiny boots on his feet. The big figure in a suit and tie.

  A big guy.

  Maybe six feet.

  Hersh said the mark would be little.

  The big guy was staggering as he walked.

  Was he drunk?

  Noam had never known any real drunks. Some of the rabbis got drunk on Purim, but they weren’t drunks. Noam didn’t know whether the big guy’s drunkenness would make him easier to rob or if it would make him mean and eager to fight.

  They approached, closer and closer.

  No one on the streets except Hersh and the mark.

  Deserted. Alone.

  They talked loudly. Hersh was talking with a half-German, half-Yiddish accent. He seemed like he was having a good time.

  Sweat pouring into Noam’s ski mask, turning it damp. The smell of wet wool. It made him nauseated. He pleaded to God to get this over with!

  They were coming.

  Closer and closer.

  His heart was beating out loud, the gun quivering in his hands.

  The salty smell of his sweat.

  The blood rushing through his head.

  Closer and closer.

  A high-pitched ringing in his ears. Then it stopped and his head was filled with a whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

  His heart hammering against his chest.

  Lub dud, lub dud, lub dud.

  Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

  Lub dud. Whoosh.

  Faster, faster.

  Now!

  He leaped out and stuck the gun in the mark’s back. Said his practiced lines.

  But it didn’t go as planned.

  A large arm pivoting, turning.

  A heavy thump across his head.

  Losing balance.

  Something warm and we
t inside his mouth. Something hard floating in his saliva.

  But the gun in his hand.

  Move and I’ll kill you! someone screamed.

  Someone screaming in his voice. He spit out the hard thing as he screamed.

  Blood pouring from his mouth.

  An arm going around his throat, choking him.

  Noam pushed the gun deep into a soft gut. Pulled the trigger.

  Nothing.

  Pulled harder and still nothing.

  The arm choking harder, his head becoming light. Blood choking him.

  Was he shot in the mouth?

  God, he was going to die!

  Coughing. Coughing. Coughing.

  Going to die!

  Say your last prayers.

  Say kaddish!

  Gasping for air. Coughing blood.

  His body floating away.

  Gasp.

  Choke.

  Floating away. Say kaddish quick. But the words…

  And then the arm releasing him.

  The body slumping down on the ground.

  Hersh on top of the body, his hand plunging into the man’s chest.

  Something shiny in his hand.

  Hersh screaming something.

  But Noam could barely make out the words as he spit out blood.

  Then he understood.

  GODDAMN IT! CHECK HIS COAT POCKET!

  Noam reached inside the man’s suit.

  Wet and warm.

  The man was wet and warm.

  On his chest shreds of fabric. A wet hole. A few bits of something that felt like chopped meat.

  The man not moving.

  HURRY, GODDAMN IT!

  Noam searched the inside coat pocket. Pulled out a wallet and showed it to Hersh.

  Hersh grabbed the wallet, then Noam’s hand, and ran. One block, two, three, four.

  Noam sucking for air, spitting out blood. Deep pain in his chest.

  Then Hersh yelling at him to slow down.

  They stopped a block later.

  Quickly Hersh took off his coat and used it to wipe the knife. He threw it into a Dumpster and tucked the knife into his boot, peeled off Noam’s ski mask and stuffed it in his pocket.