The Death of Israel Leventhal

by Boom Baumgartner

  Chapter Four

  When Israel Leventhal was a little boy, he broke his leg jumping off a swing set. The bone had stuck out of his leg, and he had stared at the bloody, white stump in shock and horror. After they had set his bone, he promised himself he would do everything in life perfectly. He would not make mistakes. He would not jump unless he knew he was going to land safely.

  Israel Leventhal was good at keeping his promises.

  It was the middle of the day, and it was hot. It was always hot in DC, and when it wasn't, it was cold. There was no such thing as pleasant weather there. It seeped into the pores, and calcified on the bones, weighing everyone down with an unpleasantly heavy feeling. Every step Israel took as he walked the National Mall dragged against the cement. He was wasting time and idly glancing at the tacky souvenirs on the rickety shelves of trucks that lined the sidewalks. A brief squall of rain forced him to take cover under the awning of a truck that sold an odd assortment of Matryoshka dolls in the shape of various politicians, key chains, and postcards.

  His mind was consumed with plans, all of which connected to one another like a vast web. He sat in the middle of it like a spider, feeling each part for vibrations that would cause trouble. Reviewing every possibility, testing every strand for structural integrity.

  Israel rolled his eyes, and forced himself to focus on the one part of his plans he couldn't predict: George Rose.

  A cough directed his attention to the owner of the souvenir truck. The man raised his eyebrows, and then gestured at his wares. Israel took the hint.

  Hanging off the side of the truck next to the window was a display of postcards, each with a photo of a landmark taken years ago when people were just getting into Photoshop and were a bit too overzealous with adjusting the color balances. He picked out a postcard with a picture of the Washington Monument standing tall over a dark purple reflection pool, red and orange fireworks bursting in the background. In a font from Windows 95 Microsoft Word Art, it read Our Capitol.

  Wordlessly, he handed it to the man.

  "For a dollar, I'll throw in a stamp," the seller said. Israel nodded, handing him a wrinkled bill from his pocket.

  Israel tapped the card against his right cheek, and put it in his front pocket, silently berating himself for the purchase. What exactly was he going to do with the postcard? He couldn't exactly send it to Rose without tipping off whoever was trying to kill him. It would have to be a message only Rose would understand. In frustration, Israel pushed his sweaty, curly hair out of his eyes. What did he care what Rose did when he faked his death?

  Gravediggers biting it before their time was not uncommon. It came with the territory. It wasn't usually that big of a deal, unless it was at the hands of a client. That was the one cause that united them with any solidarity, a sort of Zollverein of people who felt that the death of one could very well mean the death of another.

  Yet, when a gravedigger died at the hands of another, or sometimes a fixer, they stood by and did nothing. They would shove their hands in their pockets and say "Should have known better", or "Well, they knew the risks when they got into the business".

  But he and Rose were friends. Or as close as one could be in this line of work. Israel should send a message to him somehow. But where did Rose live anyway? Certainly, never in his apartment in LA. His home was a hotel room in an unnamed city with different wallpaper, different landscapes, a different bed.

  Israel shook his head, then looked at his watch. He had two hours before meeting Derek Long.

  Again, he glanced at the postcard, thinking about a message to leave. He shoved it back in his pocket as he walked, discarding the web of plans that hung from the insides of his skull. Instead, he filed through his memories, carefully considering them.

  Cautiously, he took the postcard out, its edge slightly wrinkled because his pocket had been too small. Opening his phone, he searched "language of stamps", and scrolled through the options. Then, he placed the stamp in the center of the postcard toward the bottom.

  When he saw a blue post box, his hand hovered over its open mouth. Instead of mailing the postcard, he put it back in his pocket. None of this worked if Rose knew he was alive. Rose was a bad actor. He could shape the void all he liked, but he never seemed natural in it. His reaction had to seem real for anyone to believe Israel was dead.

  Fingering the edge of the postcard, he made his way through Tenleytown to the metro to meet his fate.

  *~*~*

  George wasn't really sure if trading the Elizabeth hotel for a bar in the lower part of Brooklyn was his best idea, but he had nothing else to do, and Izzy wasn't answering his damn phone.

  He thought about calling Jaime LaFleur for a job, his finger hovering over the send button on his mobile. Instead, he pocketed it and ordered another drink.

  The bar wasn't his choice. When Izzy didn't answer his phone, which wasn't that odd for him, George called his friend Aodhan MacAuliffe. Word was the man was stateside for a corporate job, and George knew well enough that Aodhan hated going farther West than the Hudson River. If he was going to see him, it was going to be New York and nowhere else.

  And George was just so bored. He always was when Izzy went on the down-low.

  Aodhan MacAuliffe was still the stereotypical Irishman he ever was. The man had frizzy, unkempt ginger hair, pale blue eyes, and a relatively short stature. He was comical, really, with his growing bald spot and developing beer belly. George swore he could take a picture of Aodhan and submit it to the Inquirer as proof that leprechauns really did exist.

  The two had known each for a long time. They used to ramble together when Aodhan was a little bit thinner, and a lot fitter, but still just as bald. Or, at least that's what they called going on hikes to find pubs on the edges of greens. Rambling sounded nicer than a pub crawl with a bit of nature in between. Four years older than George, Aodhan had been going to school at Oxford before he dropped out and started grave digging full-time. They did a few jobs together, but mostly they drank and talked about their work.

  Networking, Aodhan called it.

  "Cheers," said Aodhan, tipping the bottle of Fat Tire toward the bartender as he walked away. Then he turned to George. "Good to see ya, bud. Don't know how you knew I was here, but glad for it anyway. I'm assuming it's because Leventhal needs some space, and you don't know what to do with yourself."

  "You think far too little of me." George brought up his glass to toast with Aodhan as the other man sat down. "What brings you stateside?"

  "Ugh," Aodhan's face twisted in disgust."That is a boring question. You might as well comment on the weather."

  George sighed, and rolled his eyes.

  Smirking, Aodhan leaned over, and elbowed George in the side gently. "Oh, don't be like that. The weather is all right, dontcha think, Georgie?"

  George hooked his hand around the back of his neck, and squeezed the muscles. He felt like he had been sitting still for an eternity. "Well, what do you want to talk about then?"

  "All sorts of things, like the time I almost got you to give me five-hundred quid after I told you a mob boss was after me for soiling his suit." Aodhan laughed, and patted George on the back. "A fucking mob boss in Oxfordshire? You gullible twat."

  George rolled his eyes. This was Aodhan's favorite story.

  "But you thought since the Cambridge Mafia was a thing…"

  "Yeah, I know. Bugger off. I can't help that I heard of the Cambridge mafia as a kid and took the term to be literal. I didn't think to look it up and find out it meant elite conservatives."

  Aodhan laughed as he patted George on the back. "Sure. Sure."

  Unable to help himself, George smiled as he took another drink.

  "Anyway," Aodhan said when he stopped chuckling. "What we should discuss is that Charles Hastings crossed the pond."

  Despite the sudden surge of panic that traveled up George's spine upon hearing the name, he kept his face neutral, taking a measured drink from his own bottle of beer.


  Aodhan snorted. "Don't act as if that doesn't bother you."

  George tried not to rise to the bait, keeping all of what he really wanted to say trapped in his throat. "Everything about Charles bothers me" did not escape his lips. Instead, he said, "What brings his majesty of the Midlands here?"

  "Charles was never anything in the Midlands. He just thought he was. He fancied himself a big fish in a small pond when he was just an annoying fish in a tolerant pond."

  "So why would he come here and be an annoying, small fish in this massive, intolerant pond?"

  Aodhan shrugged. "Don't know. Ego. Idiocy. Connections. Any combination of the three. Just thought I'd warn ya."

  Ego was definitely it. "You worried, then?"

  "A bit." Aodhan sighed.

  George raised his eyebrows, and smiled at Aodhan. "About him or me?"

  "About everything." Aodhan rubbed the back of his neck. "I worry about everything. Where Charlie-boy goes, trouble follows. Where he's concerned, you're unpredictable. That's more trouble."

  George shrugged. Maybe Aodhan was right. The truth was that George spent so much effort consciously not thinking about Charles Hastings that it kept him too busy to consider what he would do if Charles was close enough for him to do something about the man.

  "But really," Aodhan said. "The dynamics of this business are fragile. Any shift, and I mean any shift, can start a chain reaction that no one is going to stop."

  "That's a bit over dramatic, don't you think?" George said, though he knew it was true. When he partnered up with Charles, all of Oxfordshire changed, especially for him. Instead of school, sneaking booze from off-licenses, and clubbing with the university students, Oxfordshire became a place where he and Charles stole into dark corners and took secrets from the dead. That was change enough.

  Aodhan's eyes drifted away, and he took another sip of his beer. "I don't know. Charles is… well, I needn't tell you how volatile he is."

  George nodded, his skin suddenly feeling wet and dirty, and a headache stretched across his skull. He could feel the ghost of a cold cobblestone alleyway against his cheek, and a phantom pulsing pain in his eye. Even in the warm bar, he felt icy and waterlogged. Indeed, Aodhan did not need to tell him how volatile Charles was at all. He already knew.

  *~*~*

  Ordinarily, Israel did not meet up with clients. He texted them from afar, left emails in secured accounts, and sometimes he even mailed the answers if they were innocuous enough. He did not get on trains filled with tourists and commuters to meet clients at their homes.

  But Jaime had insisted, and Israel wanted answers anyway.

  Besides, he looked forward to the sound Derek's jaw would make when he ripped it from his skull. That is if he stepped out of line.

  The intercom dinged, announcing their arrival at Tenleytown. Reluctantly, Israel disembarked from the cool air conditioning of the car back out into the oppressive heat of the city.

  Spring Valley was a pleasant part of Washington DC, reserved for the wealthiest people. It surprised him that Derek wanted to meet there at his own home, but Israel got the impression the man was arrogant bordering on stupid. But maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. With so many diplomats' homes around, it would be patrolled and safe. Furthermore, the expansive yards between their large houses insured privacy, as did the thick walls of the old, expensive homes.

  Derek sent his mistress and children away somewhere for the weekend, and gave his staff time off. Derek's credit card statements and a call to the hotel confirmed it. Israel also found a deposit from an offshore account that told him a bodyguard would be there. A little research into the bodyguard revealed he studied Krav Maga, which concerned Israel even though he had also trained in it. Further into this record, Israel found where the man was taught. From his size, and some footage from a tournament six years back, Israel felt less concerned. It was obvious the man coasted on his size more than proper use of the technique. Still, Israel was only five-foot-seven going up against a hefty man that was at least George Rose's height.

  Israel scratched at the scar on the back of his leg absentmindedly as he stared at the three-story white house with maroon shutters on Tilden Road. He took in the large, green trees and meticulously kept lawns; the quiet of the neighborhood reassuring him as he reviewed his web of plans one last time before going in and knocking on the door.

  He was unsurprised by the bodyguard opening the door. Immediately, he was patted down, and he submitted to it. When no weapons were found, the bodyguard pushed Israel in front of him, roughly guiding him down a hallway to a large study. Though it was the middle of the day outside, the office looked as if it were night. Heavy, red curtains were drawn against large windows, and the Georgian lamp's bathed the room in a mustard-colored light.

  "Ah, Mr. Leventhal. So sorry for the precautions." Derek did not stand up. Israel noticed that he kept one hand below the desk.

  Israel did not say anything. He just raised his eyebrows.

  Derek's honey gold hair shown in the yellow light, making him look a bit like what Israel thought an angel might look like. Israel looked around, taking in all the details he could. A chair in the corner, the stance of the bodyguard, the thickness of the mahogany on Derek's desk. New plans began to form in his mind.

  "So, do you have my answer?"

  "Hm?" Israel looked up in disinterest. "Oh, about your wife?"

  "Yes."

  "She was already dying of cancer, so that will clear you of suspicion of murdering her." Israel paused to gauge Derek's reaction. The other man didn't even twitch. "She poisoned herself."

  Derek took a deep breath, and smoothed his hair. "I don't give a shit about that. I have money enough to keep the lawyers at bay. You know what I want."

  Israel cocked his head. "You're paying me a large sum of money. Enough money to be very thorough."

  Derek's eyes smoldered as he spat out, "Is the kid mine?"

  Israel thought about this moment for a long time before this, and hadn't come to a decision.

  "The kid's yours," Israel said casually, making sure to note any change in position from the bodyguard. There were none. Ah, Israel thought smugly, This asshole wants to play with me first.

  "You're sure she wasn't lying?"

  "She went on at great length about how she hates that the kid was yours. She wanted it to be Jared's." Israel shrugged. "Though, if it were your twin's, I don't really know how much different the kid could have turned out. You're genetically identical, after all, and she'll always have you as a father to fuck her up. Never underestimate nurture over nature."

  Derek narrowed his eyes briefly. Then he smirked, and leaned back in a deceptively casual manner. Below this desk, his hand fidgeted. "You know what makes me such a good businessman?" His voice had a low, slimy quality to it as he spoke. It made Israel want to take a shower.

  "Nothing makes a businessman good." Israel slid his hands in his pockets, and watched the bodyguard's stance change as he did it. Interesting, he thought as he withdrew them.

  Derek ignored him. "My ability to kill several birds with one stone."

  Israel nodded, but his expression was disbelieving. Surely, Derek didn't think he was one of those birds.

  In an instant, Israel lunged at the bodyguard, twisting into his unprotected area to snatch the man's gun. As he predicted, the man was clumsy and only prepared for holds. Before Derek could awkwardly grasp for his own pistol, Israel shot him in the chest using the bodyguard's gun.

  "Fuck," the bodyguard growled, throwing Israel to the ground and sending the gun flying from his hand.

  Israel rolled out of the way as the bodyguard moved to attack and kicked the chair from the corner in between them. The man stumbled to the ground near where Israel had dropped the gun. The two both reached for it, but Israel aimed a kick at his ribs, stunning him for a brief, but fatal moment. The next shot was automatic. Israel didn't have to think about it. The heavy bodyguard fell to the ground with a floor-shaking thud.

&
nbsp; Israel quickly turned his attention to Derek, who was still breathing and alive as Israel stood up. In his bloodied hand was a pistol. Fuck. Belatedly, Israel raised his own gun.

  A loud bang reverberated through the air.

  *~*~*

  In his pocket, George's mobile buzzed. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the unwanted feeling of nausea and cold that Charles always made him feel.

  "Leventhal?" Aodhan asked, though his expression made it clear he fully expected it to be.

  George frowned at the unknown number. "No," his voice rumbled. Slowly, he pressed the green button. "Hello?"

  "Is this a… Mr. Darling?" came a gruff voice over the phone.

  George almost said "No" as he went to hang up but a thought stopped him. Arthur Darling was an old identity he burned years ago on one of his first jobs with Izzy. "Who's this?"

  "This is Detective Inspector Michele Ronson from the DC Metropolitan Police."

  George stopped breathing. A stream of "what the fucks" ran through his mind, overriding every thought in his head; thoughts like "hang up" stood no chance against the deluge of confusion he felt.

  When George didn't respond, the woman on the other side of the phone breathed in and continued. "You've been listed as an emergency contact for Neil McCauley."

  McCauley. Images of gangly boy with curly, dark hair coming in off the Anatolian tarmac flashed in George's mind. It couldn't be… Izzy….

  George tried to collect himself, his fingers gripping the phone painfully hard. At some point he had set down his half-empty bottle, and hadn't noticed that it fell down on its side. "Yes," he said finally. "What's wrong?"

  Aodhan's hand darted out to right the beer.

  "I'm sorry to inform you, sir, but we have reason to believe that we have found Mr. McCauley's body."

  "You're sure it's him?" George steadied his voice, turning so Aodhan would not see his face.

  "His wallet had his ID," affirmed the woman. "However, there is trauma which makes it difficult for us to identify with certainty."

  George frowned. He still wasn't convinced. "What sort of trauma?"