“Back?” Abe said.
“From Prague,” Jacob said.
“Prague?” Abe asked. “What’s going on? Why does nobody tell me nothing?”
Questions would have to wait: the retired-dentist-turned-gabbai banged the dais three times, the retired-lawyer-turned-cantor chanted the opening blessings, and Sam turned aside to put on his tefillin.
Blessed are You, Our God, King of the Universe, Who has given my heart the understanding to discern between day and night . . .
Jacob found his own seat and slung down his backpack. In it he’d packed a camera, junk food, sunglasses, flashlight; flex-cuffs and a Taser; his Glock, full mag plus one extra. To top it all off, the blue velvet bag, fished from his sweater drawer, containing his own tefillin.
How many years had it been? At least a dozen. He was afraid he’d forgotten how to put them on, but muscle memory guided him: he placed a black box containing the sacred writings on his upper arm, binding it there with black leather straps, mumbling the blessings as he went. He set a second black box at his hairline, centering it between his eyes, and finished by wrapping the arm-strap around his palm and fingers in the shape of one of the Divine names.
He glanced at his father and a chill came over him: Sam had settled into his seat, stock-still, in meditative silence, a life-sized version of the clay model. Then the cantor recited the kaddish, and Sam stood up, and the illusion dissolved.
—
PRAYERS PROCEEDED ROUTINELY: hymns of praise; declarations of faith; pleas for health, prosperity, and peace. During the recitation of the Shema, Jacob texted Mallick.
hear o israel the lord is our god the lord is one
After the song of the angels, the gabbai came around, rattling a tin charity box. Jacob fished out the hundred-dollar bill Sam had given him, folded it several times to conceal the denomination, and stuffed it into the slot.
During the final psalm, Abe excused himself, saying something about a breakfast meeting. Within a few minutes, the rest of the men had departed, leaving father and son alone.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” Sam said.
“Didn’t realize I had to.”
“Of course not.” Sam smiled wearily. “You’re back safely. That’s what counts.”
“What I said over the phone,” Jacob said. “I didn’t mean it.”
“It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t give it a thought. You needed to speak your mind.”
“That’s the problem. My mind is a bad place right now.”
A beat. Sam reached over and clasped Jacob’s hand. Squeezed once and let him go.
“Abe said you missed learning with him. You okay?”
Sam shrugged. “Everyone deserves a day off.”
Jacob had his doubts, but decided not to press. “I have something I want you to see,” he said, unfolding his transcription of the Prague letter and his makeshift translation, placing them side by side on the table.
Sam picked up the Hebrew text and held it close. His failing eyes shuttled busily behind his sunglasses. “It’s accurate?”
“I was going fast. But I think so.”
Sam felt for the translation and compared the documents.
“I found a website with the Loew family tree,” Jacob said. “There were several daughters and one son named Bezalel, but no Isaac. I’m guessing Isaac was Isaac Katz, who apparently was married to two of the Maharal’s daughters.”
Silence.
Jacob said, “‘Joy and gladness’ refers to a wedding, obviously.” He leaned over to read. “‘I say to you now, what man is there that has married a woman but not yet taken her? Let him go and return to his wife. But let your heart not grow weak; do not fear, do not tremble.’ That’s the priest’s speech before the Jewish army goes to war.”
Sam sat motionless.
“This business about clay and pottery, I found the source in Isaiah, but it doesn’t make much sense to me. The last line, about disgrace, I couldn’t find anywhere.” Jacob paused. “Bottom line, Abba, I’m lost.”
Sam adjusted his glasses, his chest cycling shallowly.
“On the contrary,” he said. “I think you did fine.”
He put the pages down. “The case is going well?”
“Pretty well. Can we talk about this for a minute, though?”
“I really have nothing to contribute,” Sam said.
He picked up his tefillin bag and started for the exit. “Focus on your work.”
“Wait a second.”
“Don’t get distracted,” Sam said, and disappeared around the corner.
“Abba.” Jacob grabbed the letters and his backpack and followed his father out to the pavement. Nigel had the Taurus curbside, the motor running. He got out to help Sam in.
“Abba. Hang on.”
“I’m tired, Jacob. I had a hard night.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“I need to go home. Let me think it over.” Sam climbed into the passenger seat. “I’ll let you know if I come up with anything.”
Nigel shut Sam’s door, ran around to the driver’s side.
“Where are you going?” Jacob said to him. “Hey. Man. Seriously. Come on. Hey.”
The Taurus pulled away from the curb, headed north on Robertson.
Half a block on, though, brake lights flared and Nigel jumped out and hustled back up the sidewalk, waving something.
“He wants you to have this,” he said, handing Jacob another hundred-dollar bill.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Fourteen ninety-one Ocean Avenue sat on prime commercial real estate. The bottom three floors belonged to a laser dental clinic, a talent agency, and a private equity fund. Pernath had the penthouse.
The office had an open plan, poured concrete floors and high windows that took advantage of unobstructed water views. Jacob approached the reception desk, counting three women and four men, all trim and chic, sketching in the icy glow of outsized computer monitors. He picked through their faces one by one, wondering who was Pernath’s current protégé.
The receptionist said that Richard was out with a client.
“I work for the city,” Jacob said. “We’re doing a zoning survey. I was hoping to talk to Mr. Pernath personally.”
The receptionist smiled, returned Jacob’s lie with one of his own. “I’ll be sure to tell him.”
Or you, pal. How bout it.
“Do you expect him in anytime soon?” Jacob asked.
“Gosh, it’s so hard to tell. I’ll make sure he gets the message, though, mister . . .”
“Loew,” Jacob said. “Judd Loew.”
The receptionist pretended to type. “Have an awesome day, Judd.”
—
JACOB HAD MISSED SOMETHING while loading his backpack. He searched for the nearest camping supply store, found it close on Fourth Street, and bought a seven-hundred-dollar pair of Steiner binoculars, charging it to the white card.
He texted Mallick a photo of the receipt, adding thanks.
The Commander didn’t take the bait: no reply.
Returning to Ocean Avenue by 11:15, Jacob parked adjacent to a strip of cliffside park offering an oblique but clear view of Pernath’s building.
He switched on the radio, twiddled between sports talk and scratchy jazz, ate M&M’s and a protein bar that claimed to taste like cookies ’n’ cream.
It might have if he’d had some bourbon to chase it with. In a nod to responsibility, he hadn’t had a drink since last night.
The problem with staying sober was that it felt to him like being drunk.
He raised the binocs at whoever entered or exited the building, killing time by guessing destinations.
Surgically enhanced bimboid briskly sashaying: talent a
gency, or a patient in search of perfect teeth?
Nerd in khakis and out-of-pants white shirt: the IT guy for the private equity firm.
Conspicuously well-dressed couple in their fifties: clients, either private equity, or checking on a remodel in Beverly Hills, Brentwood, Bel Air.
At 11:49, he propped the phone on the steering wheel, checking his e-mail to see if Divya had replied. She hadn’t.
He sent Mallick a text.
outside pernaths office
The response shot back.
eyeball?
not yet he wrote. will let u know
do that Mallick replied.
How long was he supposed to keep up this bullshit? It was distracting, and pointless, and he put the phone away. He’d write when he had something to say.
At 1:16, he chanced a quick trip to a nearby public bathroom.
At 3:09, his phone beeped with a text from Mallick.
?
nothing Jacob typed.
then tell me that
At 3:40, a meter maid parked her motorized trike behind him and took out her ticket pad. He showed her his badge. Tacked on a smile for good measure. She made a face and putt-putted off in search of other victims.
Thinking about parking made him groan. The building was sure to have an entrance in the back. Jet lag didn’t excuse being a dumb jerk-off.
His imaginary tweet to Mallick: duh.
Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he jogged around the corner to Colorado, finding the alley that ran parallel to Ocean. There it was, a gated subterranean lot, accessed via numerical keypad. He pressed his face up to the steel latticework, squinting in at a maze of cars, any one of which could have belonged to Pernath.
He jogged back to the Honda. The meter maid had left him a ticket.
Crumpling it and tossing it in the gutter, he drove to a loading zone on Colorado with a sidelong view of the alley.
Circa five p.m., cars begin to trickle out, windshields muddled by a plunging sun. A headache that had begun an hour ago, a twinge born of squinting and alcohol deprivation, had blossomed into a throbbing monster. He popped Advil. His upper back hurt from twisting. His lower back hurt from sitting too long. His stomach rumbled. A cop on a bike rapped his window and told him to get moving. He opened his badge on his lap. The cop pedaled off.
Dusk arrived, salty and electric. Sodium vapor lamps dyed every driver orange. Squawking tweens flocked the Santa Monica Pier. The Ferris wheel came alive, a smoldering neon saw. Jacob sent a series of identical texts to Mallick—waiting, waiting, waiting. It took considerable restraint not to embellish.
Waiting . . . for Godot.
Waiting . . . for a girl like you.
He’d just about made up his mind to head home when, at 8:11 p.m., a metallic-green BMW coupe rose up from the sub-lot, left turn signal stuttering.
Richard Pernath in the driver’s seat.
The architect swiveled his head, checking for other cars. For a moment his gaze lingered in the Honda’s direction, and Jacob was sure he’d been made.
But Pernath’s long face gave nothing away, and he raised a friendly hand to the driver of an SUV that had stopped to let him in.
Jacob jotted down the BMW’s tag. He waited for a Volvo station wagon to set a screen, then pulled out.
Pernath went east on Colorado, south on Twentieth, east again on Olympic, passing beneath the 405, at this hour frozen with red brake lights. As predicted, he proved himself a conscientious driver, deferential to jaywalkers and shy of yellow lights—qualities that made him a rare bird among the froth-mouthed street gang known as the L.A. Commuters.
Good behavior also made him a major pain to follow. Jacob, fighting back predatory excitement, had trouble maintaining the distance. Several times he lost his screen car and had to pull over and wait for another to overtake him. He might’ve lost Pernath, too, if not for a pretty solid theory about the architect’s destination.
His phone chirped: Mallick, wanting an update. The law demanded that Jacob ignore it, so he did.
—
THEY KEPT ON OLYMPIC as far as Century City, where Pernath signaled right and got onto the half cloverleaf that ramped up to Avenue of the Stars north.
The street was wide and divided into six lanes that terminated at Santa Monica Boulevard. The BMW’s detour into the pickup lane for a glass office building caught Jacob off guard. He had enough presence of mind to keep the Honda moving, roaring through a right at Constellation and flipping a U-turn to await a green arrow.
When the light changed, he reversed direction onto Avenue of the Stars south. Cruising opposite the office building, he spotted the BMW among the scrum of cars vying for position.
Driving another half block, he U’d again, returned for a third pass. He’d completed the same circuit twice more when he saw the green car nosing from the end of the pickup lane, preparing to turn right.
Jacob slowed, waiting for Pernath to pull out ahead of him. The architect stayed put, ever so politely, so as not to cut Jacob off.
No, please, I insist: you first.
No, you.
You.
Alphonse, Gaston . . .
Damn your manners, mon ami!
Jacob rolled past, allowing himself a peripheral glance at the BMW.
There was a second person in the car.
Speed and glare and darkness reduced the figure to a vaguely human shape. He couldn’t tell if it was male or female. Nor did he have time to work through the implications of either, because the avenue was about to end and he had to make a turn.
He guessed a right on Big Santa Monica.
Pernath came along behind him.
It was stop and go for several blocks through Beverly Hills. Crossing Rexford, Jacob looked back and saw the BMW shifting into the left turn lane.
Jacob jerked left onto the next side street, Alpine Drive, disregarding boulevard stops and eliciting the finger from a woman walking a Yorkie in a sweater.
He waited at Sunset Boulevard, praying his intuition would come through.
Fifteen seconds later, the BMW zipped past, a luminous green vapor trail.
Pernath wasn’t driving so casually anymore.
Now he was in a god-awful hurry.
Jacob turned onto Sunset.
—
HIS PHONE CONTINUED TO NAG HIM as he worked his way eastward behind Pernath. More traffic as they entered West Hollywood, the Strip shimmying and glittering like a whore, pedestrians seizing the right-of-way whether or not it was theirs.
Jacob did not dare get close enough to see the passenger. Could be that it was Pernath’s wife, and he was tailing a dutiful couple headed home to watch DVR’d Jeopardy! Web searches had produced nothing about the architect’s family, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one. Jacob, eager beaver, hadn’t looked very long or hard. A more cautious cop might’ve taken a couple more days to gather intel, get to know his subject, identify weak points.
A more cautious cop would’ve missed this chance.
If the passenger was an innocent, Jacob had to make sure nothing bad happened.
If the passenger was an accomplice, he could grab them both.
The boulevard stabbed rapier-straight into the soiled heart of Hollywood. Any doubt as to where they were headed evaporated as Pernath slotted into the left turn lane at Highland.
Jacob hooked left on Cahuenga and ran parallel to the 101. South of Barham, he veered eastward into the hills, skirting the reservoir, switchbacking minor roads, scaling the night.
He kept his speed moderate. They would arrive well before him, but he had no choice: the road was isolated and unlit, and it was an unusually clear night, his headlights bleeding everywhere. He cut back to parking lights, creeping along in a weak amber bubble. Anyone coming down the hill toward him wouldn’t s
ee him until it was too late. A small risk, worth taking.
The phone spit out a text.
He shut it off.
The intervals between houses lengthened—civilization gasping for breath, and dying, and he was alone, finding his way forward without aid. Far below, the diminished city gassed off a jaundiced haze. He kept driving, stalking, counseling himself patience, until he edged around a hairpin and his faith was rewarded: half a mile ahead, a pair of cherry-red holes appeared in the landscape. They swished left and right and left and were swallowed up in gray folds.
He realized that he’d begun to speed up again and eased off on the gas. No sense slaloming through the flimsy barrier. He’d get there soon enough. He knew. He’d been this way before. They were going to Castle Court.
THE SHATTERING OF THE VESSEL
The thought of the tall men—terrible serenity—haunts her as she and the Rebbetzin hurry to the shul and ascend to the garret.
She sets the box of fresh clay beside the pottery wheel. Perel unpacks her toolkit and begins rolling up her sleeves.
“Oh, oh, oh. Curse me. We need water.”
Dazed, she reaches automatically for the bucket and starts toward the ladder.
“Wait,” Perel cries.
She freezes.
“You can’t go out there.” Then, soothingly: “They can’t come in here. It’s not allowed. Do you understand, Yankele? Here, you’re safe from them. I promise you that.”
She nods. The Rebbetzin’s certainty bewilders her.
“It’s not them you need to worry about. Yudl doesn’t know you visit me here, does he? Has he ever asked you about it?”
She shakes her head.
“Good.” Perel rolls down her sleeves and snatches up the bucket. “I’ll be back soon.”
The floorboards whine as she paces.
I said he’d get attached, and I was right.
It’s not them you need to worry about.
And her mind fills with images: a nodding tribunal; black fire on white fire.
One thing at a time.
The implication devastates her.
They are not the danger.
Rebbe is the danger.
He who has been a father to her; who has blessed her like a son.
The Golem of Hollywood Page 41
