Write Me a Letter (Vic Daniel Series)

by David Pierce

  "Hum, a regular clotheshorse suddenly," he said to me as we shook hands.

  "Look who's talking," I said, grinning down at him. "So how are you?"

  "How should I be on such a day, heartbroken?" he said.

  "You will no doubt remember Miss Evonne Shirley, who came to your reopening party with me," I said.

  "Could I forget such a vision?" He took her hand and kissed the back of it gallantly. Then he led us into the house, through the large living room, and then out through open French doors into a spacious courtyard enclosed on all sides by the various wings, ells, projections, and abutments. There we discovered other members of the catering crew busily putting the final decorative touches that mean so much on rows of linen-draped trestle tables. Three additional tables at the rear, under some arches next to the kitchen, groaned under the weight of enough high-class comestibles to relieve the famine in Somalia overnight.

  The booze—plus all the soft drinks, fruit juices, ice buckets, Maraschino cherries, and cunningly cut slices of assorted citrus fruits—were temptingly laid out on yet more tables right next to the food.

  I raised my eyebrows. "Quite a spread. Quite a joint, too. I never knew there was so much money in ankle bracelets and mood rings."

  "Don't mind him," Evonne said. "He's just jealous."

  "You better believe it," I said. "Mr. Lubinski, how about you entertaining Evonne for a few minutes while I have a little snoop around."

  "A rare pleasure," he said, taking her arm and leading her toward the drinks table. "I think there's a bottle of champagne already open, my dear, and if not, there soon will be."

  "What a treat to meet a real gentleman at last," my beloved said over her shoulder so she'd be sure I heard it. I winked at her and wandered back into the front of the house. As I was admiring the artwork in the living room, Frank's wife Annie called to me through the open door of an adjoining room.

  "Peekaboo, I see you," she said, raising a glass of cheer in my general direction.

  "Likewise, I'm sure," I said. I went in and patted the top of her head. She blew a kiss up at me. She was sitting at a desk in what turned out to be Nathan's office or study or den or all three, two pages of guest list in front of her and in front of them, a complicated-looking telephone setup, almost a junior switchboard, also a FAX machine.

  "How's it going, shortie?" I asked her.

  She shrugged. "Could be worse." I took a quick look around. In the walls were framed pictures of various Jewish leaders in all fields—political, artistic, business—and in many of them the tall, stooping figure of Nathan Lubinski also appeared, to my surprise. There were also several framed letters of thanks from various Jewish charities which Nathan had either donated heavily to, served on the board of, or in one case, chaired. The walls were otherwise lined with bookshelves; from my brief examination, all seemed to deal with some aspect of Jewish history. One, Hugh Trevor-Roper's The Last Days of Hitler, I'd even read part of once. Or maybe I just saw the movie. I have to confess my ignorance of works by Shirer, Spicehandler, Mann, Speer, Rabinowitz, and all the others.

  "Looking for something to read in the john?" Annie said.

  "Not in this library," I said. "Unless he's got some Elmore Leonard westerns tucked away somewhere."

  Oh. There was one more item on the walls aside from the ones I've mentioned—a large and elaborate family tree, done with exquisite penmanship—by Nathan, I found out later. I noticed that one whole branch of his family, those living in and around Riga, were marked by an asterisk, signifying they had been killed in 1941 in the Holocaust. I wondered if Riga was anywhere near Estonia, and made a mental note to look it up next time I was in the office. I did—it turned out to be the capital of Latvia, Estonia's neighbor to the west. I also wondered briefly if Miss Ruth Braukis just happened to be an acquaintance of the Lubinskis, too, as she was of the Lewellens; maybe the whole wedding was merely an Israeli intelligence ploy to get me into Nathan's office for nefarious purposes as yet unrevealed.

  Before I got out of there, I asked Annie how may guests were expected. She said about 120, and thanked me for getting her in on the act as there was no reason Frank couldn't have retained the guest list and done all the vetting by himself. I said, "What are friends for," told her to hang in there, and departed.

  I was outside admiring the rhododendrons when a dulcet voice I'd heard before once or twice in my life called out from somewhere above me, "Yoo hoo!" I looked around and spied Evonne waving at me from the sun roof above one of the bedrooms, from which from time to time came the sound of female laughter. I climbed up the spiral staircase nearest to her—there were four in all, one in each corner of the patio—and stole a sip of her champagne. Aaron Lubinski was twirling the rest of the bottle in an ice bucket on the counter of a small wet bar that was nestled under a striped awning in one corner.

  "It's lovely from up here," Evonne said, "except for champagne thieves who are too lazy to get their own glass."

  "Here, enjoy," Mr. Lubinski said, pouring me out one.

  "When are the guests due?" I asked him.

  "As soon as they uncover the chicken liver," he said. "Like vultures they'll gather."

  "Let me ask you something," I said to him. "Do you put all the wedding presents on display, like they do at Italian weddings, I think it is?"

  "It is, and we don't," 'he said. "A lot of the guests, though, will be giving the happy couple, I hope, money, like our Italian friends also do at a wedding."

  "Money money?"

  "More likely check money," he said, refilling all our glasses.

  "Did your cousin call his insurance guy like I suggested?"

  "He did," Mr. Lubinski said. "I was there."

  "What was that for?" Evonne wanted to know.

  "Normal precautions," I said. "Although it's not likely anything will happen with me and you and Frank and Annie here, you never know. There's going to be over a hundred guests all dressed up in pearl chokers and gold cuff links and there's a roomful of wedding present loot somewhere, to say nothing of the Renoirs in the living room."

  "Renoirs they're not," Mr. Lubinski said. "They were painted by a Jewish artist who died in one of the camps. I forget which one, Nate would know."

  "About how many were there, just out of curiosity?" I said.

  He shrugged. "Auschwitz, Chelmno, Sibibor, Majdanek, Belsec, Treblinka, of course, there was Belsen, Stutthof, Neuengamme, Dachau, Flossenburg, did I say Buchenwald? There was Sachsenhausen, there was Mauthausen, Riga, Theresienstadt, Ravensbrück. Enough? You want more, ask Nate, or the rabbi, when he comes, they're the experts."

  "No, no," I said hastily. "That's more than enough, thanks, Mr. Lubinski."

  "So why all this interest all of a sudden?" he said, looking up at me.

  "No real interest," I said. "I was just in his den, that's all, having a word with Annie, and saw all the stuff he had on Jewish history. Anyway, Evonne," I said, changing the subject rather clumsily, "aside from all the guests wandering around and dancing the hora you've got all the catering staff, plus a bunch of chaffeurs, no doubts, maybe some kids breaking things, plus those valet parkers—"

  "—Plus the band," said Mr. Lubinski. "All five pieces."

  "Plus all five pieces," I said, "of zonked-out accordian players, so why take a chance? Better get temporary coverage for everything and everyone including God knows how many Rolls-Royces and Mercedes-Benzes, let alone guests who choke on a bone in one of those cold fishballs I saw piled up on the goodies tables. Frankly, I was hoping for chicken a la king, its got more class."

  "Oh, oh," said Mr. Lubinski then. "Action stations." He gestured with a thumb over the parapet where a white Cadillac was pulling up in front of the house. He downed the last of his champagne and left us alone with the rest of the bottle of Mumm's.

  "What a sweet man," my favorite blonde said.

  "Yeah," I said. "But not as sweet as you." She gave me a quick kiss.

  "I wonder where the blushing bride is," she sa
id. "And what she's doing."

  "Ask me a tough one," I said. "She's in the room directly under us where all the giggling is coming from and what she is doing is telling dirty jokes with the bridesmaids." I poured us out the last of the bubbles.

  There was a pause, then she said idly, "You ever think of getting married, Victor?"

  "Sure," I said promptly.

  "You do?" She seemed surprised.

  "All the time. I just can't decide who to get married to."

  "Ha-ha," she said.

  "OK," I said. "I have, from time to time, thought about walking down the aisle with you, Evonne Louise Shirley."

  "And?"

  "That's all," I said. "I have, from time to time, thought about marrying you." She turned away. There was just enough breeze to disturb the tendrils at the back of her neck. I disturbed them a little more with my free hand, took a big drink, then a bigger breath, cleared my throat, then asked her ever so casually, "What about you, do you want to get married? To me, naturally."

  "Naturally." She turned and gazed at me for a long moment with those blue, blue eyes of hers. Finally she sighed and said, "Almost."

  I said, "I know exactly what you mean, honey," although I wasn't at all sure I did. She put her head against my shoulder and hugged me. I hugged her right back. After a moment or two she disentangled herself, then shook out her coiffure.

  "Come on, babe," she said. "Time to mingle."

  "Right here?"

  "Down there." She pointed to the patio where fifteen or twenty guests were already mingling pretty well without us. As we watched, the bride, Rachael, and her six bridesmaids made their entrance from the room below us while at the same time from the room facing theirs the groom and his six ushers or whatever you call them made their appearance. The bride wore white, her attendants identical pretty, long white summer coats over their dresses. The groom wore black, while his team sported white tuxedo jackets worn with navy blue trousers, and with a red carnation in each lapel. I forgot to mention the bridesmaids all had red carnations pinned in their tresses.

  Down we went.

  Mingle we did. While we were so doing I borrowed a couple of red carnations from one of the vases for me and Evonne.

  During the next couple of hours we ate, drank, mingled, even danced, when the band finally struck up after the speeches, wandered, and met people. We met Yoav, the groom, whose suit was too big for him and who looked like he'd been dragged to the reception by his hair; Rachael, the bride, who looked like she'd been crying and drinking; Rebecca Lubinski, the bride's mother, who said her feet were killing her; assorted guests; the perspiring head of the catering team; and during one of their breaks, three members of the band, two out back who were sharing a companionable reefer and one up on the sun roof. I even met the elderly rabbi, and Mrs. Rabbi,

  "Try the potato salad," he said. "It's delicious."

  "Is it kosher?" I said.

  "If it isn't, don't tell me," he said.

  I did try it; it was delicious, it had capers in it. I also essayed the chopped liver, the pastrami, the lox, the cole slaw, and the cold tongue. The horseradish was red, also red hot. I gave the fish balls a miss. I kept my eyes as well as my mouth open.

  At one stage I strolled down to visit Frank, taking with me, in a glass in one pocket, a hefty slug of bourbon, which Annie had told me would be much appreciated. I noticed she was appreciating a tall tumbler of something refreshing as well. Frank reported that all was quiet at his end. I said, "Likewise."

  Shortly thereafter, back up at the house again, I was standing near the band watching the dancing and sipping a brandy and ginger ale without the brandy when the little rabbi popped up beside me.

  "Aaron tells me you are a private detective, Mr. Daniel," he said. "Hum, interesting. I never met anyone in your line of work before."

  "Can't say I've met many rabbis, either," I remarked. "Is it true that to be Jewish your mother has to be Jewish, not your father? That always seemed a little strange to me."

  "A lot of our laws seem strange at first," he said, "until you know the thinking behind them. Then it is highly possible they may still seem strange, of course. But in this case, the logic is clear enough. While it is not always possible to tell who the father of a particular child is, it's usually highly obvious who the mother is."

  I laughed. He peered innocently up at me through his bifocals.

  " 'Daniel,' " he said reflectively. "You have the same name as one of our greatest prophets, as you no doubt know."

  "No, I didn't," I admitted. "Was that the same Daniel who I heard had all kinds of problems with some lions once somewhere?"

  "In Babylon," he said, nodding.

  "Yeah, well," I said. "Always was a lively town, Babylon, especially on Homecoming Week."

  He smiled, then waved to Mrs. Rabbi, who came sedately fox-trotting by with Yoav.

  I looked around to make sure Evonne wasn't within hearing distance, i.e., a nautical mile. "Rabbi, can I ask you something?"

  "Why not?"

  "Did you ever meet a Nazi?"

  "Yes," he said. "I did."

  "When?"

  "This morning." I stared at him.

  "What was he doing?"

  "He was scrubbing off a swastika someone had sprayed on the door to our temple. He shows up every time there's been vandalism, with his bucket and Vim and paint remover and whatever, rolls up his sleeves, and goes to work."

  "How do you know he was a Nazi?"

  "He told me," the rabbi said. "The time I took him out a cup of coffee. 'Why are you doing this?' I asked him. 'Because I was a Nazi,' he said. More than likely he was SS as well."

  "And why is that, Rabbi?"

  "They were the only ones with the money and the resources and the organization to be able to leave Germany before the end," he explained patiently. "Of course, they had the most reason to leave, as well, as it was estimated they were responsible for something like ninety-five percent of all the atrocities."

  "And where'd they go? South America?"

  "South America," he agreed. "Uruguay. Argentina alone gave them seven thousand blank passports. South Africa."

  "Here?" I asked uneasily.

  "In Mr. Allan Ryan's book, he estimates ten thousand came here. Naturally, they'd all be trembling old men now in their middle seventies, like me." He took off his skullcap, looked at it, gave it a little shake, then put it on again. "Not a particularly cheerful subject for such a festive occasion, if I may say so, Mr. Daniel. Have you some particular interest in the subject? A professional one, perhaps?"

  "I sure as fuck hope not," I said, but under my breath. To the diminutive rabbi I merely repeated what I had told Mr. Aaron Lubinski, that a passing interest, nothing more, had been aroused by Nathan's library.

  "Oh, yeah," I said, snapping my fingers. "I know what I did want to ask you about. Did you ever happen to come across those rabbi mysteries? Monday the Rabbi Slept Late. Tuesday he did something else and Wednesday I can't remember what?"

  "Indeed I did," he said, nodding. "I have the whole series. My son, the well-known comedian, sends me one every time I have a birthday. He thinks he's shocking me."

  "So what do you do?"

  "I pretend to be deeply shocked," he said. "Who am I not to give my only son what he wants most?" He went off to rejoin Mrs. Rabbi, who was beckoning energetically to him from a nearby table, one of two that had been left in place when the rest were dismantled to provide space for cutting the rug. I went off, rather hastily, to put the merest splash of booze in my ginger ale.

  It was a little after eleven when the party started running down; some of the more elderly of the guests had already left, as had some of the ones with young children. I tracked down Aaron Lubinski and asked him to please join us in his cousin's den in five.

  "Why not?" he said.

  I cut in briefly on Evonne, who was dancing a spirited cha-cha-cha with the best-looking of the ushers, and asked her the same thing.

  "Sure, too
ts," she said.

  When we had all gathered, Annie got me Frank on the phone.

  "Anything?" I asked him.

  "One fender," he said. "Annie took care of it."

  "OK, roger and out," I said. "Tell the head hot-rodder I'll be down in a few minutes to pay him off."

  Frank said, "OK, pal," and rang off.

  "What fender?" I asked Annie.

  She looked at a slip of paper in front of her.

  "Fender of some kind of a technicolor circus car," she said. "Completely totaled."

  "Very funny," I said.

  "Fender of a dark green Buick Le Sabre," she said. "The name on the keys was Jacob Vineberg. Couldn't find a Jacob Vineberg. Was directed to a Samuel Vineberg. Told him his fender had been slightly dented by one of the parkers. He laughed. I said, 'What's so funny?' He said, 'It's not my fender, it's my brother's, so let him worry.' "

  "How about you, babe," I said to Evonne. "See anything untoward?"

  "Well," she said, frowning prettily, "I don't know if it was untoward or not but I saw a man in one of the bedrooms smooching with a lady who wasn't the one he came with."

  "Well!" I exclaimed. "Did you ever!"

  "I saw something," said Mr. Lubinski. "I witnessed an outright act of theft." He unloosened his bowtie with a sigh of relief.

  "No kidding?" Annie said. "What was stolen?"

  "Two red carnations," said Aaron Lubinski severely, winking at Evonne.