“All right, so there’s one good store in the block, but it still doesn’t explain—”
“That’s how Bill operates,” Paul Goodman said. “You ever play poker with him? When his luck is running, he plays it to the hilt. Say, the betting is going a chip at a time, he’ll say, ‘Let’s drive out the buttonhole makers,’ and kick it up five. And he buys real estate the same way. When I was liquidating the Harrington estate, he bid seventy-five grand for the land when the other operators were offering bids in the low fifties. Naturally, he got it. And then he split it up into about a hundred lots and peddled them off for an average of three thousand apiece and made himself a sweet little bundle. After he bought it, I told him he could have got it for twenty thousand less, and you know what he said? ‘I never try to buy a property as cheap as possible. That way you’re in competition with the other operators. They keep kicking each other up and before you know it, you’re paying more than you intended and more than it’s worth. I always figure what a property is worth to me, and that’s what I offer. That way you discourage the competition. It takes the heart right out of them.’”
“Well,” said Kaplan, “all I know is, it’s one hellova good price, and if we don’t take it, we all ought to go see some shrink and have our heads examined.”
“I admit it’s a good price and I think we ought to sell,” said Fisher. “But I want to know if the place up in Petersville is a good buy and is it the place we want for a permanent retreat.”
“You’ve been up there, Abner. You’ve seen it.”
“Yeah, but I was there on a retreat. I saw it but I didn’t check it over like I would if it were a place I was going to buy.”
“Well sure, Abner, that’s why I’m arranging for a retreat for this weekend. It’ll give us a chance to look over the place. We can decide while we’re up there and then come back and vote on it formally at Sunday’s board meeting.”
“It’ll be a regular retreat?”
“You bet. Rabbi Mezzik will be there, and the rebbitzin to serve the Sabbath meal and bless the candles. Then Saturday, we can take a real good look at the place and come to a decision—”
“How about transacting business on the Sabbath, Chet?”
Kaplan grinned. “I figure this is holy business, so it’s all right.”
A police cruiser passed, slowed down and parked just ahead of him. The patrolman in a yellow slicker got out and came over. He shone his flashlight through the window.
“Why, it’s Mr. Safferstein? Anything the matter?”
Safferstein lowered his window. “No, nothing wrong, officer. It was just coming down so fast that my wipers couldn’t handle it. And then the windshield got steamed up. I thought I’d pull up here and wait a little while.”
“You want to leave your car here and we can drive you home in the cruiser?”
“No, it’s letting up a little now. I’ll be all right.”
“Anything we can do for you?”
“No, thanks just the same—well, maybe you can at that. I promised to deliver these pills …”
Mrs. Kestler peered anxiously out the window and said doubtfully, “It’s let up some, Rabbi, but it’s still coming down pretty hard. Hadn’t you better wait a while?”
But he was anxious to get to the Kaplan At Home. “No, that’s all right,” he said, “I’ll make a run for it. My car is right in front of the house.”
The rabbi opened the door, momentarily stood in the protection of the porch and then dashed down the stairs and along the front walk to his car. He had intended to get in on the passenger side, which was next to the curb, and then slide over behind the wheel, but the door was locked. As he fished for his keys, a sudden gust of wind shook the branches of the trees, showering him with the water from their rain-laden leaves. Now thoroughly drenched, he remembered that the lock did not work well and required considerable jiggling of the key to open from the outside. In racing around to the driver’s side, he stepped into the deep puddle that had formed along the curb and he uttered an unrabbinic and uncharacteristic oath.
At last behind the wheel, but soaked and uncomfortable, he thought, “I’d better get right home and get out of these clothes or Miriam will have a fit.”
Although the force of the storm had lessened considerably, the rain continued in a heavy downpour. Safferstein had to drive almost to the end of the street before he could find a place to park, a good fifty yards beyond the Kaplan house. But he turned up his collar and, with hands thrust deep in the pockets, he trudged back along the line of cars. Arriving at the house, he quickly mounted the steps to the sanctuary of the porch. He paused, listening to the sounds from within. Noticing that the door was ajar, he pushed it open and entered.
Instantly, he found himself in an atmosphere of masculine gaiety and good fellowship. The large reception hall, the adjoining living room and the dining room beyond were full of men standing around in groups, talking, laughing, arguing. When they caught sight of Safferstein, they hailed him jovially.
“Hi, Billy.”
“Hyuh, Billy, old boy.”
“Hey, there’s Bill Safferstein.”
From the tone of their greeting, he suspected that Kaplan had already told them of his offer to buy the Goralsky property and that they approved.
He took off his coat and looked around for a place to put it. There were large piles of coats on several chairs in the reception hall, but since his was wet, he hesitated to place it on top of them.
Kaplan greeted him and then whispered, “It’s all set.” Taking his coat, he said, “It’s wet, I better hang it up in the closet.” Kaplan draped it on a hanger and then pushed the mass of coats along the closet rod and insinuated Safferstein’s. “How’s Mona? She okay now?”
“I went to get her some medicine and the driving was so bad I thought I’d stop here till it lets up a little.”
“You bet. Come and have a glass of beer.”
“Coffee would be better if you’ve got it.”
“Sure. One coffee coming up.”
“Say, can I use your phone?”
“Right there.”
He dialed his house. It was the maid who answered. “Hilda? How’s Mrs. Safferstein? … Oh, good. If she wakes up, tell her I stopped off at the Kaplans because of the storm, and I’ll be along later.”
Mrs. Kestler leaned over the banister and called down to her husband below. “Joe, come quick. Your father—he sounds terrible.”
He ran up the stairs. “Hey, Pa, what’s the matter? You all right?” To his wife he snarled, “Don’t just stand there, dummy. Call the doctor.”
She hurried downstairs. He could hear her dialing and then talking but he could not make out what she was saying. He went down to join her, and she turned to him, her hand cupping the receiver. “It’s the answering service. She wants to know what’s the matter and she’ll notify Dr. Cohen.”
Grabbing the phone out of her hand, he shouted into it, “Look, lady, my father is acting up from some pill Doc Cohen gave him. You get hold of him and tell him to get his ass over here right away. Understand?” He banged down the receiver.
“Oh, Joe, I don’t think you should have talked to her like that. You know, out of spite they can—”
“She better not. I could sue her for everything she’s got down to her panties. You go and stay with him. I’ll wait here by the phone.”
“Oh, Joe, I’m afraid.”
“Afraid? What’s to be afraid of?”
“I don’t know. He looks so—so funny.”
“Go on. I want to be here to answer the phone when the doc calls. You, he could give fifty-seven varieties of crap.”
Reluctantly, she started for the stairs. The phone rang, and she paused.
“Yeah. Who?”
“I’m Dr. DiFrancesca,” said the voice over the phone. “Dr. Cohen can’t be reached. His phone appears to be out of order. I’m standing in for him. What’s the matter?”
“Well, he gave him this pill, and now he�
��s having trouble breathing.”
“I see. I think we’d better get him to the hospital. I’ll call the police, and they’ll send the ambulance. I’ll alert the hospital that he’s coming.”
“And what happens if he gets worse on the way to the hospital?”
“Well … well, all right. I’ll have the ambulance stop and get me and I’ll come by with them.”
“Hey, Chet, got an extra one of those maps?”
“Sure, Howard, plenty. Help yourself.” Chester Kaplan held out a sheaf of Xeroxed sheets showing the route to the campsite where the retreat was to be held. “Now you’re coming for sure, aren’t you?”
“Would I give you my check for twenty-five bucks if I didn’t plan to make the scene?”
Since the rain had let up a little, many of the guests began to leave, taking advantage of the lull in the storm. With much jovial humor, they moved toward the hall to get their hats and coats.
“While you’re at it, Bert, pick out a good one.”
“Hey, you sure you wore a coat?”
“Now remember, you guys,” Kaplan called out to them, “we start out from here at half past two sharp. But if you should miss us, you’ll have no trouble getting there by just following the map.”
As Safferstein rose, Dr. Muntz called out to him, “You going now, Bill?”
“Well, I—You staying?”
“Sure. Stick around for a while.”
Kaplan approached. “What’s your hurry, Bill? Edie is fixing some sandwiches. We’ll have another cup of coffee and shmoos a little.”
“Well, all right. How does it look?”
“In the bag, I’d say. I figure there’ll be no sweat voting it officially Sunday.”
“Fine.”
“I got a couple of letters from people interested in the vacant store. One is from a paint and wallpaper—”
Safferstein shook his head.
“And there’s a letter from the drugstore about his lease.”
“What about it?” Safferstein asked quickly.
“It seems his lease was expiring, so he wrote to Goralsky for a renewal. The old man agreed and had the forms drawn up. But he died before he got around to signing them.”
Safferstein smiled broadly. “Is that so?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Why don’t you just write Aptaker and tell him I’m taking over and to see me about it.”
Marcus Aptaker turned the key in the lock and then jiggled the knob to make sure the door was locked. “Good night, Ross,” he said, and to his son, “Coming, Arnold?”
“You go ahead, Dad. I got my car here. I’ll be along a little later.”
The rain had stopped but it was misting, and as Akiva drove along the shore road he encountered patches of heavy fog that his headlights could barely penetrate. As he approached the house by the shore he saw that the entire area was dark, not only the houses but the street lights as well. He began to have doubts. Leah might have taken the boy to her parents’ house at the approach of the storm and was there with him now. Or if they had remained, then they could be asleep, and if he rang the bell …
Then he saw her silhouetted in the window, looking out at the turbulent ocean. He parked his car and walked across the street, hoping she would recognize him as he approached.
She opened the door before he could reach for the bell. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “What do you want?”
“I tried to call you a couple of times, but I guess your line is dead. I was worried. You’re right on the water. I thought I’d run out and see if you were all right.”
“The electricity is out,” she said, “and I used up the one candle I had.” She stood aside for him to enter.
He found his way into the living room and sat on the sofa. A moment later he felt it give as she plumped down beside him. Her thigh was tight against his, and he thought she had misgauged the distance in the darkness. But she leaned against him. And then she was on top of him, her mouth pressed hard against his.
Later, when they were lying close together on the narrow sofa, she murmured, “It’s been so long.”
“For me too,” he said huskily.
The phone rang, and Chester Kaplan called from across the room, “Take it, will you, Al.”
Dr. Muntz picked up the phone and said, “This is the Kaplan residence…. Who? … He’s not here. Just a minute, hold on.” He cupped the instrument and called out to Kaplan. “It’s for Dan Cohen. Was he here tonight? I didn’t see him.” He spoke into the phone again. “No, he didn’t get here. Say, who is this? … Oh, it’s you, John. I thought I recognized your voice. What’s up? … What! … Just a minute.” He raised his head and said, “Hey, pipe down, you guys, will you? I can’t hear.”
The room immediately got quiet, all eyes turned toward him.
“So they called you? … M-hm … M-hm … M-hm… Well, I guess it’s one of those things. I’m sorry you got mixed up in it…. Yeah, bye.”
“Was that John DiFrancesca?” asked Dr. Kantrovitz. “What happened?”
“One of Dan Cohen’s patients died. They couldn’t get hold of Dan, so the service called John. He says it was probably a reaction to medication that Dan ordered and—”
“Who was it?”
“Old man Kestler.”
“Oh my God!” The cry came from Safferstein.
All turned to him. His face was ashen.
“What’s the matter, Billy?” Kaplan asked.
“Maybe it was my fault. I might have switched the pills.”
“What are you talking about?”
He explained how he had volunteered to deliver the prescription to the Kestler house. “So I had these two envelopes, one that Al prescribed for Mona and one for Kestler. Maybe the one I gave the cop for Kestler was Mona’s.”
“How about it, Al?” asked Kaplan. “Could what you prescribed for Mona have hurt Kestler?”
“It was penicillin,” Dr. Muntz replied. “If Kestler was sensitive to it—” He broke off as another idea occurred to him. “You gave Kestler’s pills to Mona?”
“No, I came right here because of the storm.”
“So you’ve still got the other one,” Muntz pointed out. “All you have to do is look and see if the pills you still have are Kestler’s or Mona’s.”
“Yeah, that’s right. They’re in my coat pocket.” Safferstein immediately went to the hall closet where Kaplan had hung his coat. The others followed. He picked up a coat and thrust his hand into the pocket. “It’s gone,” he exclaimed in dismay. “The pills are gone.”
“Look in the other pockets.”
“I remember putting them in this pocket.” But he began to search nevertheless. He drew out a pair of gloves and stared blankly at them. “These aren’t mine. Say, this isn’t my coat. Somebody must have switched coats with me.”
14
Marcus Aptaker stirred uneasily and then came awake. He rubbed his eyes and yawned mightily. His wife, in her bathrobe, was sitting on the rocker, staring out the window.
“What’s the matter? Can’t you get to sleep?”
“It’s a quarter of two,” she said, “and Arnold’s not home yet.”
“So what? He’s a big boy now.”
“But the storm—he may have—according to the broadcast a lot of trees blew down, and some telephone and electric-light poles.”
“Good Lord, why do you want to imagine such things?” But he got out of bed and put on his bathrobe. “Let me make you some hot milk. Then you’ll be able to sleep.”
She followed him into the kitchen. “I don’t want any hot milk. I think we ought to call the police.”
He stared at her. “What for?”
“Well, you could ask if—”
“Look, Rose, if he’s been in an accident, if that’s what’s bothering you, believe me, they’d let us know.”
“So where can he be?”
“How do I know? He probably went to visit a friend and they didn’t notice
the time passing.”
“Who would he go see? What friends does he have around here?”
“I don’t know. All I know is he was on the phone a couple of times.”
“I think we ought to call the police,” his wife insisted.
“I’m not calling no police. What could I say to them? That it’s almost two o’clock in the morning and my twenty-eight-year-old son isn’t home yet? I’d never hear the end of it. Chances are he had a flat tire or something and he’ll be along pretty soon.”
“So why wouldn’t he have called? He’d know we’d be worried, wondering what might have happened to him in a storm like this.”
“How the hell do I know why he didn’t call? Maybe he didn’t have a dime.”
Grumbling, Marcus Aptaker wandered into the living room and his wife followed after him. He turned on the TV to “The Late Late Show” and stared unseeing at the screen.
“Why don’t you go to bed?” she urged. “You’ve got to get up in the morning.”
“I don’t feel sleepy.” He was as worried as she was but he could not voice his fears lest he increase hers.
At three o’clock, Akiva came home. He was happy. He was euphoric. He was uneasy. “Gee, the house is lit up like a Christmas tree,” he said gaily. “Don’t you folks ever go to bed?”
“Oh, Arnold, we were so worried,” his mother wailed.
“Where in hell have you been?” Aptaker demanded, his worry instantly converted to dark anger.
“Didn’t you know we’d be worried?” his mother sobbed. “Where were you?”
“I—I went to see a girl.”
“In Revere, I bet,” his father shouted. He turned to his wife. “One of those floozies he used to hang around with. You wondered who he knew around here, who he could go see. I’ll tell you who. One of those nice girls in Revere you don’t have to know personally, that’s who. He’s religious now. Goes to the synagogue. Won’t eat your food because it isn’t holy enough for him. And he’s home one night and he goes chasing after whores.”
Akiva lost control. “You can’t talk to me that way,” he shouted. “I don’t have to take that from you.”
Wednesday the Rabbi Got Wet Page 7
