Faye Kellerman

by Street Dreams

  “No, no diamond earring.” His smile was soft. “They wear on one ear a down payment for apartment in Israel.”

  “No justice in this world.”

  “That is true. But at least they entertain.” He looked at me. “Where was I?”

  “You’re tall and have sunglasses on.”

  “Ah, yes.” He broke into a grin. “So I hear my name, Koby, and I turn around. It is this boy, maybe twelve—bald from chemotherapy. He has an eye patch, probably lost an eye from his disease, so maybe he doesn’t see so good. And this is when the Lakers were doing their three champions … third champion …” He made a face. “What is the noun?”

  “Championship.”

  “Yes, third championship, so everyone is thinking basketball.” He led me to the bank of elevators. “You want the basement.”

  I punched the down button.

  “So I hear my name, look at the little boy, and smile.” He chuckled. “In thirty seconds, I have twenty children wanting my autograph. My one time with fame.”

  “Were the kids disappointed when they found out you were the wrong Koby?”

  He let out a soft laugh. “No one say a word! Everybody on staff—doctors, nurses, orderlies, techs—they all know exactly what is going on. Plus, Oncology often get celebrities visiting the kids.” He raised his eyebrows. “This little boy … he just saw what he wanted, and the rest of the kids are also willing to believe. I sign a bad handwriting starting with a K and they were happy. Absolutely thrilled.”

  The elevator dinged.

  Abruptly, his expression turned pensive. “Such sick children, Cindy. So weak … knocked out. It’s all so unfair.”

  The doors opened.

  He shrugged himself out of it. “If I can bring a bit of joy to them, I say, why not?”

  4

  Koby carried the coffee as we walked to an orange plastic table sided by four blue molded chairs. Because of the late hour, the kitchen was closed, but there were still some prepackaged cold sandwiches—slices of something pink covered by wilted green stuff—for the truly famished. Drinks were also available. We sat across from one another. He had taken off his head covering, exposing a close cut of tight black curls.

  “When I came to America from Israel, I was lucky because I came with a skill.” Large, thin fingers wrapped around a paper cup. “Otherwise I end up taking parking tickets at the booths at LAX.”

  I nodded.

  He sipped black coffee, then said, “You see, many of the ticket takers at the airport are Ethiopian.”

  “Oh.”

  “So I was making a joke.” A pause with a raise of an eyebrow. “Not so good one.”

  I felt myself smiling and quashed it by drinking my coffee. It was very acrid. “So how long have you lived here … in the U.S.?”

  “Eight years. First I moved from Ethiopia to Israel in 1983 before Operation Moses. I was eleven. Things were very bad for my people after Haile Selassie was deposed. Ethiopia became Marxist country and not friendly to Beta Yisrael. They outlaw our practices. Sometimes they torture our elders. Then came the drought. My mother died shortly after childbirth with my sister. Then we begin our trek through the Sudan. By then, we were all sick with starvation. I lost another younger sister, but four of us siblings survived—my two older brothers, Yaphet and Yoseph, my younger sister, Naomi, and me. In Ethiopia, my father was very respected qes—a priest. He knew Orit, of course, which is our Torah, but that is in Geez or Amharic. But my father also knew Hebrew Chu-mash, and this is very, very unusual. He only knew because his grandfather was Yemenite Jew who came to Ethiopia in 1900 and brought with him Hebrew books including Chumash. So I have a little Mizrachi in my blood. My father tells me it is from my great-grandfather where I get my light eyes.”

  “I noticed.” Under the fluorescent bulbs, they were sauterne. “They’re lovely.”

  “Thanks.” His smile was shy. “I trade you my eyes for your gorgeous red hair.”

  I smiled back. “Thank you. Just be careful what you ask for.”

  “Indeed.” He took another sip from his cup. “Bitter tonight. Must be dregs. Anyway, my great-grandfather’s last name was Yekutieli. It became Kutiel.”

  “So you have family in Yemen?”

  “No. They all move to Israel in 1950s in Magic Carpet when Israel takes Yemenite Jews. My brothers and I actually know some Hebrew when we go to the Holy Land. Most Beta Yisrael have to learn. As sons of a qes, we were started on Orit at two, because in our culture it is the qes who reads Orit. I pick up languages very quick. By bar mitzvah—which was new custom to us, by the way— I had most of Orit and Chumash memorized, although I forget much of what I learned. My brothers too.”

  “That’s amazing,” I said. “What about your sister?”

  “The girls learn nothing. They obey their husbands, keep house, and have babies. Maybe make a little pottery to sell in the marketplace. But, of course, they give the money to their husbands.”

  “Now you’re baiting me,” I told him.

  His smile was playful. “It all changed when we settle in Israel. My little sister embraced liberation very well. Still, she must thank my father. Now there are about seventy thousand of us in Israel.”

  My eyes widened. “Seventy thousand? I had no idea.”

  “Have you ever been?”

  “No.” I felt my face go warm. As if by failing to visit the Holy Land, I betrayed my ancestral heritage. “One day, I’ll go. My father went about ten years ago. My stepmother lived there for a while with her first husband.”

  “Your stepbrother’s father.”

  “How’d you … Oh, yeah. The one who’s also named Yaakov. We call him Jake or Yonkie.”

  “And he is your only sibling?”

  “No, I have a half sister named Hannah and another step-brother, Sam. The boys are much younger than I am. They go to college back east. Hannah is ten—the baby.”

  He nodded. “My entire family lives in Israel now. My brothers are officers in Zahal—the Israeli army. My sister is also a nurse and lives in Tel Aviv with her family. My father remarried an Ashkenazi woman whose husband had been killed in Lebanon. Batya had four children with her first husband. So for a while we were ten in a very small apartment. Then she became pregnant by my father and they had twin girls. But by that time my brothers and my three stepbrothers had moved out, so there was more room. A year later, I move out at seventeen to do Meluim for three years.”

  “‘Meluim’?”

  “Army service. After that, I decided to be a nurse. From the army, I already knew the skill. I just needed the book learning. I did an accelerated course and was out in two and a half years with a B.S. in nursing, and a job.”

  “So you kind of paved the way for your sister.”

  He thought a moment. “Yes, I think so, although in Israel many Ethiopians learn nursing. She is the nurse with a nice, clean office job. My father was very mad at me for becoming a nurse. As a Kohen, I am not supposed to be near dead bodies. My stepmother said if I don’t respect the Kahuna—the priesthood—at least be a doctor.”

  “That sounds like a Jewish mother.”

  “Yes, Batya is a very Jewish mother. In the end, I follow my heart and my parents make peace with me. I am the youngest son in the family … very spoiled. They don’t stay mad. It is good that I am aware of death. If a baby codes on my shift, I do everything to revive that infant. Of course, the best way not to get a code is to be very watchful. I am very, very watchful.”

  “Dedication is good,” I said, throwing back his own words. He smiled at the recognition. “You have a master’s in public health.”

  He regarded his badge. “That was four years ago. First the hospital sent me to get a master’s in nursing for one year. They get more federal money if their staff has degrees. I come back and do exactly the same things, except now I have more letters after my name. And I got a bump in salary, so that part was good. Then I think I want even more money, so I do the M.P.H. at state university for an
other year during the day and work at night. The M.P.H. is for hospital policy, so I get an administration job. And the work does pay better, but it is so boring.”

  I smiled.

  “Oh my goodness, Cindy, it is one meeting after another. I go out of my mind. I last six months; then I say forget it and go back to nursing.”

  I inwardly smiled, flashing to my own parents. My mother had expected more from my father than just a cop’s salary. Dutiful man that he was, he went to law school, passed the bar, then set up shop with my maternal grandfather, doing wills and estate trusts. He also lasted about six months. “You had no trouble getting your old job back?”

  “Yes, I have problem because now Marnie has been promoted to my old position. I let her be in charge as long as they don’t cut my money. They say okay because with nurses, there is always a shortage, especially if you have degrees and specialties. I am a critical-care nurse. I specialize in pediatrics because I like to help the children. In Ethiopia, they do nothing for the children and the babies. We were the last to be given food. We were the first to die.”

  “That’s horrible,” I exclaimed.

  “It is cruel, but it has to be that way.” His eyes darkened as they intensified. “If the parents starve, who will take care of the children? Who will work? If the mother goes hungry, how can she nurse? You need working adults to keep the family going.”

  “I don’t know, Koby. It goes against everything I was taught. But I’ve never lived in a subsistence economy.”

  “Baruch Hashem,” Koby stated.

  I couldn’t help myself. I laughed. Baruch Hashem was an expression that Rina used all the time. It meant “thank God” in Hebrew. To hear those words uttered by a black man was simply incongruous.

  Koby smiled. “You know what that means?”

  “Yes. I’m not a total Jewish ignoramus.” I sipped coffee, then made a face. I had forgotten it was so bad. “Do you like working here?”

  “At Mid-City Peds, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, it is a very, very good hospital. And the doctors care so much. Why else would they work in an inner-city hospital? As for me, I love the little babies because they represent life. I love life. It is easy to love life after seeing so much death.”

  “I can certainly understand that. It must be nice being around something so pure, especially after seeing the worst in human beings.” I thought a moment. “But I’ve also seen lots of heroics, too. In my job, you see both extremes, and often side by side. Like tonight. Someone abandons an infant in a garbage dump, leaving her for dead. Then, by accident, a man hears a cry, and the next thing we know, she’s alive and well.”

  “God had different plans for her. I hope you find her mother. Postnatal women need care.”

  “I hope so. It’s such a shame because she had options. If she had dropped the infant off in front of a police station or at a hospital, she wouldn’t have committed any kind of crime. And even now, if she gives herself up within seventy-two hours, she’ll escape prosecution. We have laws that protect desperate women.”

  “I’m sure she does not know the law. Or maybe she was too scared.” His pager buzzed. He looked down at the number, then back up at my face. “I must go back to work. I would like to see you again, Cindy. Would that be possible?”

  I looked at him, making the quick mental calculations about his age based on what he had just told me. He looked younger than thirty-two, but then again, people say I look younger than twenty-eight. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Dinner is always nice.”

  “When?”

  “You tell me.”

  I flipped through my mental calendar. “Friday night?”

  He winced. “I am not shomer Shabbat. I do drive much to my father’s disapproval, but I don’t usually go out Friday, except maybe a Shabbat dinner.”

  “I understand. Look, I work evening watch. Nights are hard. How about lunch?”

  “Lunch would be fine. How about Wednesday? I don’t start here until six in the evening.”

  I didn’t start work until three. I told him that Wednesday would be fine. “Let’s meet at the restaurant. That way I can go straight to work afterward.”

  And it avoided giving him my phone number or e-mail address.

  He seemed tickled. “Perfect! Have you ever had Ethiopian food?”

  “Never had the pleasure, but I’m adventurous.”

  “Meet me on the corner of Fairfax and Olympic—southeast corner—at twelve, maybe?”

  Little Addis Ababa. It was only a block or two in length, but it was in striking contrast to the Jewish area around it. “Twelve it is. Any vegetarian dishes in your cuisine?”

  “Many. You are vegetarian?”

  “Not strictly, but most of the time.”

  “I am kosher and the restaurants are not. So I will eat vegetarian, too.”

  His pager went off again. I stood and so did he. “It was really nice meeting you, Koby.”

  He laughed. “You sound shocked.”

  “Not shocked.” I shrugged. “It was just … unexpected.”

  “That’s when it is the nicest,” he said, beaming. “It was lovely meeting you, Cindy. I look forward to Wednesday.”

  He turned and walked hurriedly out of the cafeteria. He moved with grace and confidence, a man clearly comfortable in his own skin.

  The streets held scant traffic and I made good time, catching all green lights down Sunset Boulevard. This was my district, and out of habit, I slowed at the hot spots—the pay phones used by the hookers at the pimp motels. Still some foot soldiers out at two in the morning, but nothing too heavy. Poor girls were shivering, wearing microminiskirts and tank tops with only thin shawls to warm their bare shoulders. They teetered as if drunk, but it could have been the ultrahigh platform shoes.

  I thought about my upcoming date. There were three immediate things in Koby’s favor: He didn’t appear to be a psycho, he was employed, and he seemed genuinely nice—more interested in me than in my profession.

  Civilian guys usually split into two camps—those intimidated by female cops, and those obsessed with the fact that I carried a gun. The only men who truly didn’t care were those involved with the Job—other cops, DAs, PDs, probation officers, private detectives, and bail bondsmen. Those dates usually dulled very quickly because after we talked shop, there was nothing else. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. The Job was consuming, and those of us immersed in it often forgot that there was a whole other world out there.

  Scanning the streets, I recognized one of the working ladies and immediately slowed. She had on fishnet stockings whose tops came below the hemline of her sleeveless red minidress. Smooth brown arms swayed as she walked. Her lemon-colored hair, marred by dark roots, had been pulled into a ponytail.

  I rolled down the window. “I hope you’re on your way home, Magenta.”

  She squinted. She was nearsighted but never wore glasses while working. I found this out after she claimed to have witnessed an assault on a bag lady. The detectives had a specific perp in mind and put him in a lineup. After peering at the men, Magenta had picked out Detective Elgen Halkhower from GTA detail. Now she said, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Officer Decker.”

  “Officer Decker? You still on duty?”

  “An officer’s work is never done.”

  “Same here.”

  “Except I don’t give my money to a pimp.”

  “Just the U.S. government—biggest-ass pimp in the whole wide world.”

  She had a point. “C’mon, honey. Tell Burton if I find your ass out here again, I’m gonna haul you in. The money you’ll make will just about square with bail.”

  She sighed. “All right, all right. I’m goin’, I’m goin’.”

  She’d turn back around as soon as I was gone.

  “How’s your son?” I asked her.

  Her smile was genuine. “Gettin’ bigger and bigger. Like his dad.”

  Her pimp, Burton,
had fathered her child along with six other children by four other women. In some regard, the extended family made it easier for the girls. While they peddled their asses, someone was home watching the kids. “Hon, you need to get off the street.”

  “I said I’m goin’.”

  I pulled away and hit the pedal until I was going around forty. At the corner of La Cienega Boulevard and Sunset, I turned left, my car tobogganing down the steep hillside as I headed toward home.

  Home was Culver City, a small throwback just south of L.A. The hamlet still contained free parking and one-of-a-kind shops. I could walk the streets and pick up just about anything—from discounted clothing at designer outlets to exotic spices from the Indian markets. The area held a salad of ethnicities and maybe that’s why I felt comfortable with Koby. There was safety in diversity, with no one race thinking that it owned the world. Maybe it was naive, but to me, that was what America was all about.

  5

  Darkness surrounded him, yet it was emptiness that he sensed, that caused his body to break into a cold sweat. Four A.M. and he was alone. Where’d she go?

  Clad only in pajama bottoms, Decker bolted from the bed, too panicked to bother with his robe and slippers. He found Rina at the kitchen table. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “When did you get up?”

  “Actually, I never went to sleep.”

  She hunched over dozens of Xeroxed papers and duplicates of black-and-white photographs. The initial burst of artificial light had caused him to squint. When he realized what his wife was looking at, he felt his eyes go wide.

  “Good Lord, what in the world!”

  Rina stood up, pulling her terry-cloth robe tightly around her body. “You’re shivering. Go put a robe on.”

  Ignoring her, Decker picked up a picture. It was a head shot. The eyes were closed, the mouth slightly agape, the hair pulled off the face. The woman appeared to be around forty. Even without benefit of color, he had seen enough postmortem photos to know what he was studying. “Rina, what’s going on!”