Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 04

by Day of Atonement

  “What time is it?” Decker asked.

  “It’s still around six-thirty,” Rina said. “Why do I feel we’re not communicating?”

  “Around six-thirty.” Decker scratched his head. “That would make it nine-thirty in New York. I’ve got to make a phone call.”

  “I’ve already called the boys this morning,” Rina said. “I didn’t know when you’d get home. You can call them again if you want. They’d love to hear from you.”

  The boys?

  He’d forgotten to call the boys.

  “I’ve got a few phone calls to make,” Decker said. “We’ll discuss you and your pathological need to help later.”

  Rina smiled. “Okay, Peter.”

  “You’re shining me on,” Decker said. “I hate that.” He looked at the clothes tucked under his arms.

  “Would you like me to take those for you?” Rina asked.

  “The jacket has to be dry-cleaned.”

  “I know that, Peter.”

  Decker saw her wrinkle her nose. “Don’t worry, I’ll shower before dinner.”

  Rina thought that was a very good idea.

  25

  “Hersh Schaltz is my first cousin.” The deep voice paused a moment. “I haven’t seen him in years. What did he do this time?”

  Decker could have kissed the phone. Big Hersh, the fish vendor from Crown Heights, was indeed a link to Psycho Hersh’s past. Even if the man couldn’t provide information as to Psycho Hersh’s whereabouts, perhaps he could shed some light upon his enigmatic cousin.

  “How’s he related to you,” Decker asked. “I mean, are your mothers sisters or what?”

  “You tell me you’re a cop and a frum yid,” Hersh said. “You tell me you’re looking for Hershie Schaltz. Now you’re asking me personal questions. Vos macht?”

  Decker wasn’t sure what he meant, but the fish vendor’s tone of voice seemed to indicate he wanted to know what was going on. Decker spent the next ten minutes rehashing the last six days, explaining Hersh Schaltz’s involvement in the affair. Afterward, there was a long pause on the other end of the line.

  “I have no idea where Hershie is,” Big Hersh said. “Like I said, I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “You don’t have any family connections in Los Angeles?” Decker asked.

  “I have second cousins living in Beverly Woods,” Big Hersh said.

  “You mean Beverly Hills?” Decker said.

  “No, Beverly Woods.”

  He meant Beverlywood—the gilded ghetto of L.A. Jewry. Beverlywood housed a lot of L.A.’s Orthodox professionals, many with parents who’d been camp survivors. Would Hersh try to make contact with distant relatives? It was worth looking into.

  “Can you give me their names and addresses?” Decker said.

  Another pause. Then Big Hersh said, “You sound honest. And my wife does remember talking to you. But I still feel funny about giving out my cousins’ names over the phone.”

  Decker told him to hold on a moment and called Rina. He covered the receiver with his palm and said, “I’ve got Hersh Berger, the fish vendor from Crown Heights, on the line. He’s first cousins with Hersh Schaltz. I’m trying to squeeze information from him, but he’s reluctant to talk to me. Talk to him. Convince him I’m legitimate.”

  Rina stared at him, thinking: So now you want my help? Instead, she took the receiver and spoke to Big Hersh in Yiddish. They talked for five minutes, mentioning a lot of names Decker had never heard before. Then she handed him back the receiver and nodded.

  Decker said, “Mr. Berger?”

  “Okay,” Big Hersh said. “I know friends of your wife’s family. As a matter of fact, she knows my second cousins in Beverly Woods. But I’ll give you their address anyway. You got a pencil?”

  Decker said he had a pencil. He wrote down the names, address, and phone number.

  Big Hersh said, “Anything else?”

  “Can you give me a little background on your cousin?” Decker said. “What’s he like? I don’t have a good feel for him.”

  Big Hersh laughed. “You’re not alone.”

  “Hersh was always a cipher?”

  “A meshugener, you mean? Yes, he was always strange.”

  “Can you tell me a little bit about him?”

  “You’ve got some time?”

  Decker said he had all the time in the world.

  “First thing you’ve got to realize,” Big Hersh started out, “was that Hershie’s father was a bought son-in-law, so you know there had to be major problems with the marriage.”

  “Bought son-in-law?” Decker said. “I’m not familiar with the term.”

  Hersh told him to ask Rina—she’d know exactly what he meant—but he explained it anyway. Bought sons-in-law were men purchased by rich couples to marry their daughters. They were all very similar. Had some education but were usually not professionals. They were handsome. They dressed well. Spent some time in a proper yeshiva but rarely did they go into the Torah education for their parnassah—their livelihood. Usually, they worked in the lucrative businesses of their fathers-in-law. The main purposes of these marriages-for-money were to give some physical presence to their Plain Jane brides and to sire good-looking children—grandchildren for the bride’s parents.

  Okay, so there was nothing wrong with a handsome dowry. But so many of these men were gonifs—scoundrels. They cheated in business; often they cheated on their wives as well. They were ostentatious, lived for the finer things in life—the fanciest home, the finest mink for their shtreimel hats, the best silk and wool for their suits. They demanded respect—kavod—and if they couldn’t earn it, they’d buy it.

  In short, Hersh Berger said, they represented everything wrong with society, sacrificing spiritualism for gashmius—crass materialism.

  Today, the going rate for a good one with education was about a half-million. Grooms who didn’t have heads for learning, but had looks and some business sense, could be had for a quarter-million. The precise financial arrangements were worked out between the individual parties before the wedding. The original prenuptial contract.

  Hersh Schaltz’s father had been bought for a half-million twenty years ago. Why so much? Peretz Schaltz had been very handsome—a big man, over six feet with powerful shoulders. He had also graduated from college with a degree in chemistry, but that wasn’t important to Mr. Kornitski. Uncle Perry was very learned in Talmud. That was important to Mr. Kornitski. Even so, Mr. Kornitski hadn’t paid that much because Uncle Perry was learned. He paid that much because his daughter, Bracha, was crazy.

  Everyone knew Bracha was crazy. She had periods where she could function—she even taught for a while in the local girls’ school. But she was always very bizarre. Aunt Bracha used to dress in ten layers of clothes. Aunt Bracha used to shave her head and wear terrible wigs—long witchlike things, the black tendrils falling down to her waist. Aunt Bracha never threw anything away. Her house had been crammed with every shopping bag, every receipt, every box she’d ever taken home from a store. Her closets were stuffed with every article of clothing she had ever worn, every pair of shoes that had ever graced her feet. Aunt Bracha was also so fearful—crazy fearful. If a dog or a cat got within petting distance, she went meshugenah. She’d lock herself inside her room and wouldn’t come out for days. Even the sight of a fly could throw her into a panic. She eventually lost her job because of that. You couldn’t teach and go crazy every time a fly buzzed by.

  Aunt Bracha and Uncle Perry lived in a big house in Kew Gardens because Uncle Perry didn’t want to live where people knew Aunt Bracha’s history. He used to keep the drapes drawn, the lights out, and the door locked and tell everybody in the neighborhood that his wife was very, very ill.

  “Which was true,” Big Hersh said. “She is sick.”

  “How were you related to them?” Decker asked.

  “My mother and Peretz Schaltz were brother and sister,” Big Hersh said. “Bubbe and Zeyde Schaltz were the nicest people on earth.
Simple people. Zeyde was a fish vendor. I took over the business after he died and I turned it into a business. Zeyde, alav hashalom, used the business for charity. Give this away, that away. And people took terrible advantage of him. If a lady said a price was too high, he’d lower it. If another said the fish wasn’t fresh, he’d give her a refund even if the woman’s husband ate the fish for dinner. And he never raised his voice in complaint. I think Zeyde was the only one of the bunch who really cared about Hersh. He used to drive over to Kew Gardens on Sundays and pick him up to work with him. He made like he needed Hersh in the business, but that also was charity. Zeyde felt sorry for Hersh. And he loved him. I think Hersh loved Zeyde. Zeyde was the only person Hershie was ever close to. But Zeyde was close to everyone. Everyone loved him—really loved him.”

  “Did Peretz love his father?” Decker asked.

  Big Hersh let out a bitter laugh. “You got me on that one. Well, I was young but I couldn’t see it. Uncle Perry was nothing like him. He had nothing but disdain for the fish business and it seemed like he had nothing but disdain for his parents, also. But he had grown up poor. My mother used to say they had nothing. So when Aunt Bracha came along, my mother said, Peretz jumped.”

  “How did your Uncle Perry relate to his son?” Decker asked.

  “I couldn’t see any…any bond,” Big Hersh said. “But I wasn’t with them a lot, so who am I to judge, nu? Most of his disgust seemed to be directed toward Bracha. He hated everything about her, but if he wanted the money, he had to stick with her. Bracha’s parents didn’t give him the money all at once. They doled it out, bit by bit. And my mother told me they had put all sorts of conditions on the money. Uncle Perry had to be a Satmar Chasid—which he was at the time. So that wouldn’t present a real problem. Bubbe and Zeyde Schaltz were Satmar Chasidim, grew up in Williamsburg. But Uncle Perry hated that too, couldn’t wait to get away from the whole thing. Then Bracha came along. I guess the money was too tempting. So Uncle Perry had to dress like a Satmar, speak Yiddish like a Satmar, raise his son to be a Satmar.”

  “So why’d they live in Kew Gardens?” Decker asked.

  “Uncle Perry put his foot down on that,” Big Hersh said. “He said he wouldn’t marry her if they had to live in Williamsburg because she was a big embarrassment. So my mother told me they reached a compromise. They could live in Kew Gardens until Hersh was ten. Then Mr. Kornitski wanted his grandson to be part of the Satmar community. Uncle Perry agreed because he really wanted the money. And once he got it, he spent it as fast as they gave it to him.”

  Decker asked him what he spent the money on. Big Hersh answered on things—and on women. Everyone knew Uncle Perry ran around with women.

  “Did his son know?” Decker asked.

  “He found out as soon as Uncle Perry married a shiksa,” Big Hersh said. “He divorced Aunt Bracha as soon as Mr. Kornitski died. The old man left him a little cash in his will, but the bulk of the money was left to Bracha’s brother, who wouldn’t loan Uncle Perry half a cent if his life depended on it. So Uncle Perry divorced his wife and married his kourve—the shiksa.”

  Big Hersh didn’t speak for a moment.

  “It’s all very sad,” he said. “It’s easy to blame Uncle Perry, but he did live with the woman for twelve years. Gave her some sort of a life. And then he died so terribly. You know about that?”

  Decker said he did. Then he asked if his cousin might have had something to do with it. Big Hersh said there was never any indication that he did. But everyone still wondered. It would probably be one of those things where no one would ever know.

  “When did Hersh start acting out?” Decker asked.

  “You mean acting crazy? For as long as I remember, he acted crazy. Even as a little kid working in the market, he was weird. Quiet. A loner. Then, after Zeyde died, he began acting even more crazy. He only came down to the market once or twice after the old man passed away. I’d taken it over by then. I was only nineteen, but I had enough experience. Hershie wasn’t interested in the market, only in Zeyde.”

  He paused.

  “Last time I saw Hershie was at the business. He asked if he could keep some of Zeyde’s fish knives. I thought that was very strange. Why would he need the knives if he wasn’t going to work in the market anymore? And I certainly needed the knives. But I told him to take what he wanted, figuring that was what Zeyde would have wanted me to say. He didn’t deplete my stock, mind you. But he did take the best gutting knives, a cleaver, a hammer, a butterfly knife, and Zeyde’s sharpening stone. Very odd.”

  Hersh hesitated again.

  “While he was picking and choosing the stuff, I remember thinking to myself, ‘He’s just like his mother. Only a matter of time before he goes off the deep end, too.’ Even when Zeyde was still alive, Hershie was strange. He had a weird smile, Sergeant. It even made me a little nervous. I kept waiting for him to go crazy. But he never quite did. Maybe Zeyde’s love kept him sane.”

  Sane—but only for a while. Decker thought about all the fish that had been in Hersh’s rooms. He asked if Hersh—Hershie—had liked working in the fish business.

  “Hershie hated the business.” Big Hersh hesitated, then said, “I should say he hated the customers. Never smiled. When he did, it was that weird smile I told you about. I think he scared the customers so Zeyde told him he could do the back work and leave the counter to him and me. That seemed to be a good arrangement. Hersh used to love gutting the fish. Sometimes he’d do it while they were still alive. I hated when he did that. Tsaar baalei chayim—you know. Cruelty to animals is a terrible aveyrah. I used to tell him to kill the fish first, just slit the gills. But he wouldn’t do that. Sometimes he’d step on their heads or slice them off. It was strange.”

  “How’d you get along with him?”

  “We were on speaking terms if that’s what you mean,” Hersh said. “But we kept our distance just the same. He was a very weird kid. But not so hard to understand if you know about the family.”

  No, Decker said, not so hard to understand at all.

  Big Hersh’s cousins lived on Guthrie Drive—the poshest street in suburban Beverlywood. Decker spoke to a Dr. Sam Beiderman—a cardiologist—who knew about his cousin Hersh Schaltz from Brooklyn but had never met him and wouldn’t know him if he looked him in the eye. Dr. Beiderman said he’d contact him immediately if Hersh called. Decker thanked him for his time, disappointed by the lack of progress but not surprised.

  After the conversation with Big Hersh, Decker felt even dirtier than when he had been with the homeless. He took a long shower, then phoned the boys in New York. It felt wonderful to talk with them even though Sammy spent most of the time complaining. Then, in a burst of insight rare for a twelve-year-old, Sammy said he knew that Decker was working. That this wasn’t the vacation he wanted either.

  Decker said it wasn’t a vacation, but he could understand the boy’s frustration. He was frustrated, too. In less than a week, they’d all be together again. He promised to make up for lost time and asked the boys what they would like to do.

  They both wanted to build a rocket with him. Decker said, first thing when they all came home, he’d take them to the hobby shop and they’d get the biggest, most complete rocket kit ever.

  He finished the conversation just as the doorbell rang. Rina answered, greeting his daughter as if she were her best friend. Cindy returned the salutation by giving Rina a hug and breaking into giggles. Decker could hear Cindy’s laughter, hear her chatter coming from outside.

  Decker peeked inside the living room. His daughter was now officially a young lady. Her lanky frame had softened into the gentle curves of womanhood. Her skin glowed with health, her hazel eyes sparked with youthful passion. She’d grown her hair out, the red locks grazing her shoulders. She looked down the hallway and when their eyes met, she broke into a radiant smile.

  She cocked her hip and said, “Well, are you coming out or what?”

  All Decker could do was grin. He felt all warm inside.
Cindy’s voice did that to him every time.

  Stretched out on an unmade bed, Noam watched Hersh straighten his tie while looking in the bedroom mirror. It was old and cracked and the surface dull. Another dump, he thought, the room smelling as stale as a laundry hamper. At first, he welcomed the sloppiness. What a change from his mother’s own fastidiousness. But now the dumps were just depressing—like everything else he and Hersh had done. All of it was hateful and depressing.

  He knew it was only a matter of time before Hersh would want to hit the streets again. He just didn’t expect it to come so quickly. He was calm: The driving need to take his own life had faded.

  Hersh wanted to score again. Noam didn’t want to hurt any more people. Hashem knew he didn’t want to do that. But he didn’t want to die or go to jail. Whenever Hersh spoke, an awful nausea churned up Noam’s stomach. His head began to throb.

  “Yo, Nick-O,” Hersh said. “We gotta get movin’, ya know?”

  Noam didn’t respond.

  “Cha’ hear what I said, Bud?”

  “Yeah, I heard you,” Noam said.

  “So, we gonna make some plans or what?” Hersh said.

  Noam looked up. “I thought you said we scored enough so we don’t have to do it for a while.”

  “Duds cost money,” Hersh said.

  Noam returned his eyes to his book, but he couldn’t concentrate on the words. Think, he yelled to himself. Think! Think! He said, “Couldn’t we use the guy’s credit cards?”

  “I threw them all away with the wallet,” Hersh said. “Can’t use stolen cards. They can be traced.”

  “Well, we could use them and then split—”

  “Forget it,” Hersh said. “Too messy.”

  “But killing someone is clean?”