The Terrorist's Holiday

by Andrew Neiderman

  Hamid lowered his voice automatically. Yusuf sat forward, great excitement showing on his face. This was going to be it—the big event, perhaps the biggest, and he would be there. Would be in on it!

  Clea had listened to every word, but she was frozen in her position, terrified of what was soon to be said.

  “Go on,” Nessim said.

  “They will all be together, in one room, for nearly an hour or more. They’re coming from all over. Not just New York. It presents us with a golden opportunity, don’t you see?”

  “Yes,” Nessim said.

  Hamid said no more. Yusuf was disappointed.

  Clea stared at Nessim, shocked suddenly by the realization that he understood and knew the unspoken words between him and Hamid. She knew them too, in her most wild and most horrible imaginings. Nessim’s stoical expression frightened her. She understood that he was capable of inflicting great death. She always knew he had the skill and the technology, but things had been soft between them. It had been hard to think of him as anything other than her lover these past months. She was fully aware of the fact that he had gone off to do some work for the organization, but from what she was told it was mostly sabotage of machines, sabotage of instruments, strikes against things.

  The abrupt way in which she had been jarred out of their little apartment, scooped up and out of the life they had created for a while, and placed in this automobile heading north with the men of hard faces, sent chills through her body. Her hands were cold and sweaty. It was like some button was pressed, and they were missiles heading for target. The metaphor was not as far-fetched as it might seem to her at the moment.

  Just about the time Nessim, Yusuf, and Clea were being driven north by the organization, Barry Wintraub slipped into the front seat of his police car. Baker turned in anticipation and waited.

  “Well?”

  Wintraub put the ice pick on the seat beside them.

  “Head for Pelham Fish Market, 218 White Plains Road,” he said.

  “I guess you Hebs do stick together,” Baker said with a smirk.

  “I guess we do,” Wintraub replied.

  Pelham Fish Market was run by a tall Hungarian named Gitleman. He had a pencil-thin mustache and long, gray hair that hung in loose strands down the back of his head and into the collar of his white shirt. His apron was stained with blood. It was a rather large shop, running in a rectangular frame down to the back freezer. Two women worked behind the counter, and Gitleman and another man trimmed and brought up stock from the back. The stench of fish began just outside the door to the shop. Baker and Wintraub got Gitleman off to the side and showed him the ice pick.

  “Yeah, that’s mine,” he said, reading the handle. Pelham Fish was engraved on the end. “So?”

  “We think it might have been used as a murder weapon last night.”

  “A murder weapon?” He looked around to be sure that none of his customers were in earshot. Instinctively, he knew it would be bad for business.

  “All your employees are here now?”

  “All my full-time ones. Actually, that’s my wife and my sister. Her boyfriend works with me in the back.”

  “How many part-time employees do you have?”

  “Right now, only one. A young man comes in to clean up.”

  “Is he here now?”

  “No, and he was supposed to be here more than two hours ago.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Joseph Mandel.”

  “Can you describe him for us?”

  “Do you have his address?” Baker asked.

  “What first?”

  “Give us a description,” Wintraub said, eyeing Baker. He smiled and stepped to the side.

  “A description?” Gitleman wiped his face with the dirty apron. The odor was beginning to turn Wintraub’s stomach, but he held on. “Tall, about an inch taller than you, dark, black hair. Not too thin, but not fat, either. He’s never smiling. Always unhappy about something, but he does his work. Doesn’t talk much. He’s got a gold tooth, all the way back here,” Gitleman said and pulled his mouth to the side and pointed.

  “Any sores or markings on the face?”

  “No. Wait, yes. A chicken pox hole in his forehead, near the temple.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He’d be a better-looking boy if he smiled more. Says he’s twenty-two years old, but he looks much younger to me.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Apparently doesn’t shave much. Skin’s so smooth. Hairless. Some savings.”

  “Savings?”

  “On blades. You know what a pack of single-edge blades sells for nowadays?”

  “What about his address?” Wintraub said, looking at Baker. Baker smiled.

  “I paid him in cash,” Gitleman said. “He wanted it that way,” he added quickly. “But I kept track on the books. Always kept track. Maybe my wife knows his address.”

  “No,” she said, coming around the side when he called to her and asked. “He never gave me his address. He never talked much or answered questions about his home.”

  “How did you reach him?”

  “We have his phone number,” she said.

  “Can I have that?” Wintraub said. Giving them a card, he added, “And if he should come in anytime, please call this number.”

  “He did something wrong? Murdered someone?”

  “We don’t know. We’d like to question him.”

  “I didn’t even realize the ice pick was missing,” Gitleman said as they started out.

  “We’ve got to hold on to it,” Wintraub said. He saw the way Gitleman looked at it.

  “I understand. He never stole anything from me. I can tell you that.”

  “Except this ice pick,” Baker said.

  “Possibly,” Wintraub added.

  “Yeah, possibly.”

  “Well, he was never near the register. Just comes in and does his work and goes.” Then he thought a moment. “If he only smiled more.” They left him standing in the doorway.

  They called the phone number back to headquarters and received an address only a few blocks from Pelham Fish a short while afterward. As they started away, neither Wintraub nor Baker noticed the brown Gremlin parked a block behind them. Four members of David Goldstein’s section of the JDL sat quietly within, watching and waiting. The driver started the engine, and without saying a word, pulled out slowly to follow the police car.

  About ten minutes later, Baker and Wintraub stood before the doorway to Nessim and Clea’s apartment. It had been only a few hours since she was ushered out of it with only their necessary belongings. Barry knocked and waited. Calling on suspects had proven potentially fatal only once before in his career. He had gone to question a man who reportedly shot his brother. These family arguments that broke out in violence were most common. He had read a study once that claimed more than ninety percent of the murders committed in the country were committed by members of families against each other as a result of passionate controversies. The murderers weren’t psychotic killers, and in most cases were normal, gentle people in all other respects. A policeman didn’t feel as threatened when he approached the situation.

  Was Barry surprised! When the door of that apartment opened, he was staring head-on into the barrel of a .45-caliber automatic. The disheveled man holding the pistol was shaking and foaming at the mouth. He still believed he was in the process of arguing with his brother and he saw Wintraub as his brother. Barry recalled the way his heart hesitated and then began beating madly. He felt the curl of cold fingers on the back of his neck. At that point, he wished to God he had gone on to become a rabbi.

  Perhaps it was because of his feel for conversation and the ability to get to people—abilities a candidate for the rabbinical order would have to develop—that he was able to talk himself out of that potent
ially fatal situation. He took on the role of the man’s brother and apologized in general. It calmed the man enough for Barry to move in quickly and disarm him.

  Despite his size, Barry was an agile guy with excellent reflexes. He was the only one in the precinct who could line up a hundred pennies in ten stacks of ten on the underside of his arm while touching his shoulder and then flip them so quickly he could catch all of them in the air. It was one of the silly games the detectives played while killing time.

  Baker knocked again and then put his ear to the door.

  “I don’t hear a thing in there.”

  “Try the handle.”

  It turned and the door opened. None of El Yacoub’s men had taken the time to lock it. They saw no reason to care. The Claw’s orders were “get her out of there as fast as you can.” The apartment was still in its morning lived-in state. The couch was still opened and the blanket pulled back. A pair of pants was draped over a chair, and a blouse hung on a makeshift clothesline hung from the kitchen doorway into the living room. The sink was still filled with the breakfast dishes. An old refrigerator hummed with the irregular sound of a worn drive belt.

  Both the detectives moved cautiously through the apartment, their guns drawn. Wintraub pushed opened the door to Yusuf’s room and stared inside. The bed there was not made either; and shirts, underwear, and pants were folded and draped on chairs and over the dresser. He saw an interesting drawing on the dresser mirror­, taped up in the corner. It consisted of a hawk with a sword through it. The hawk seemed unconcerned about the sword. It was as if it were part of the hawk’s body. Barry studied it for a moment. Interpreting­ art had always been a mystery to him. The bottom drawer of the dresser was still open. He could see that it had been nearly emptied. It was the same way with some of the drawers in the dresser in the living room.

  “They’re here and they ain’t,” Baker said. “Whaddaya make of it?”

  “I don’t know. From the looks of things, someone left in a big hurry and yet didn’t leave.”

  “Yeah, the milk is still out on the table and the butter too.”

  “Could be just lousy housekeepers. Go down and see if you can locate the super to this building. I’ll keep looking around here.”

  “Right,” Baker said.

  Wintraub moved back over the apartment slowly. It was always interesting to him to come into another person’s living quarters and try, from the ingredients he saw within, to picture the individual both physically and mentally. Gitleman, the fish man, had given them a very general description. They could begin with it, but they needed more. Barry realized, of course, that a woman lived here too. He lifted the blouse off the dresser and held it up, gathering a mental picture of her bust and shoulders. Then he brought the blouse to his face and smelled it. Shirley was always putting some kind of scent in with the clothes—usually a bar of sweet-smelling soap. It wasn’t really a bad idea, but he would have never thought of doing it himself.

  There was a scent in this blouse. It wasn’t sweet or sour. It didn’t particularly smell like clothing bleach, either. It was unusual, like the odor of some incense. He dropped it and began going through the drawers. He found two different sizes of men’s clothes in the apartment, one size indicating a man somewhat taller and broader than the other. Just before Baker returned without a superintendent of the building, Barry picked up a newspaper that was still lying on the kitchen table. It was turned to the classified section. One of the small squares was circled. It read, “Lost, two Siamese cats. One with a red ribbon, one with a blue. Reward. Write to Apartment 4D, 498 East 93rd St.” Odd, he thought. Wouldn’t the individual want you to call?

  Walking back into the apartment, Baker said, “No super. They call a number when they have troubles. I got it from a tenant on the first floor. I called and asked about this apartment.”

  “And?”

  “Been rented to a Mandel, all right. Mrs. Clea Mandel. As far as managers of this building know, the Mandels are still living here. Rent’s paid up through the next three weeks anyway. What’s that?”

  “An address with an ad for lost cats.”

  “So what about it?”

  “They don’t ask you to call. They ask you to write. And we’re pretty far away from East Ninety-Third Street. What did these cats do, take a bus?”

  “I got a cat,” Baker said, looking around. “And there’s usually a bowl on the floor most all the time for food or milk.”

  “I doubt that they found cats, but they appear interested in this.”

  “So what’s that got to do with anything?” Baker said.

  “I don’t know, but let’s take a ride to East Ninety-Third anyway.”

  10

  This time Wintraub and Baker went to the super first and inquired about the occupant of apartment 4D. The super was a tall, middle-aged man with a Charles de Gaulle face. His stomach protruded like a volleyball just above the groin, and he slouched so terribly that he appeared to have a hunchback.

  “4D?”

  “Yes, sir, 4D,” Wintraub said.

  The super scratched his face and stepped out of the lower-level apartment.

  “4D’s been unoccupied for two weeks. The man got caught up in one of those city layoffs and left the area. It’s for rent. There’s been a few people looking at it, but no one’s taken it yet.”

  “Are you sure?” Wintraub said. “Because there was this ad in the papers.” He showed the super the circled block in the classified section.

  “Well, that must’ve been some kind of mistake, misprint.”

  “He could be right,” Baker said.

  “Look, we’d like to take a look around apartment 4D, okay?” Wintraub said. He was bothered by all this and held on to the vague suspicions teasing his mind.

  “Sure, if it’ll make you happy. No problem. Let me get my keys.” He went back inside.

  “What’s the point, Barry?”

  “Maybe someone’s been using the place right under this guy’s nose, or maybe he’s full of shit.”

  “The JDLs got you thinkin’ everybody’s part of a conspiracy against the Jews, huh?” Baker said, smiling.

  “No harm in checking things out completely. If you want, wait in the car.”

  “Don’t get so touchy. Okay, okay, we’ll check it out.”

  They followed the super up the flight of stairs and waited while he found the key on his key chain.

  “It’s a furnished apartment,” Barry said on entering.

  “Yep.”

  “Has it been cleaned up since the other party left?”

  “Sure. We do that right away. Can’t show a dirty apartment to new tenants, can we?”

  Wintraub walked in slowly. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he felt he should give the place his usual once-over. Why were the occupants of the Mandel apartment so concerned about this address? He looked about the living room while Baker stood by the entrance staring indifferently.

  “When you’re finished,” the super said, “just close the door. It’s set to lock.”

  “Thanks.”

  Barry pulled out a dresser drawer and looked. Baker wandered into the bathroom. He opened the medicine cabinet and then came back out.

  “Looks like he was telling the truth.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What now, Sherlock?”

  “I guess we’ll get an APB out on Joseph Mandel and stake out the Mandel apartment.”

  “Right. We’ll pick him up when he returns.”

  “If he returns,” Barry said, sitting on the couch. “You agreed you got the impression someone left in a hurry.”

  “Yeah, but they left stuff there. Maybe the other occupants will return.”

  “Maybe.” Barry’s eyes drifted down to the easy chair before him and then to the small table beside it. There was a colorful broch
ure lying there. Seemed like a travel folder. “Some cleanup,” he said, bending over. It was an advertisement from the New Prospect.

  “What’s that about?” Baker asked.

  “Catskills. Big resort,” Barry said, tossing the pamphlet onto the easy chair. “I wish I was there now.”

  “Let’s go,” Baker said. Barry nodded and stood up. When they got outside, he stopped and looked up the sidewalk.

  “Get the car and meet me up at that corner phone booth,” Barry said.

  “What now?”

  “Just do it.”

  Baker shook his head and started away. He noticed the brown Gremlin parked across the street, but the four men in it seemed involved in their own conversation. He did not see that they all wore small yarmulkes.

  When Baker got up to the corner, he waited a few moments. Then Wintraub stepped out of the booth and got into the car, a look of deep thought on his face.

  “So?

  “I just called the paper and asked about this ad.”

  “And?”

  “There was no mistake. It’s the address whoever placed it wanted.”

  “Who paid for it?”

  “The person used a money order.”

  “So what?” Baker said, a look of real annoyance on his face.

  “I don’t know,” Barry said. “But it bothers me.” He thought about Rabbi Kaufman’s intense eyes.

  A group of nearly thirty people had gathered at the Goldstein house to sit shiva, but other friends and relatives were dropping in and out all day. Most of the people stayed in the living room and the kitchen, talking in soft, low voices, shaking their heads with dramatic emphasis and greeting one another with gentle handshakes. The women kissed cheeks. Everyone was comforting one another. There was the impression that all this regret and condolence would touch the Goldsteins. Everyone behaved as though he was the immediate family. All were a direct part of the tragedy. All shared the great sorrow.