“Told who?”
“The committee. I told them I’m no good at this sort of thing; none of my training has prepared me—”
“What committee?”
He shook his head.
I stuck the keys in the pocket of my jeans, went around to the passenger side, and got in the car.
“What are you doing?” He shrank back against his door.
“Neither of us is going anywhere until you talk.”
“Get out of my car!”
“No.”
He fell silent, staring down at his hands. He’d put up a token resistance, but there was very little real fight in him.
“Look,” I said, “I’m a detective. Whelan hired me because you’ve been bothering him. You can either talk to me, or to the cops. You pick.”
He remained silent.
“What committee?” I asked again.
He looked up, his face flooded with anger and frustration. “The Torah Recovery Committee. I told them it was ridiculous, skulking around like some kind of double agent, and now look what’s happened!”
“What’s your name?”
“I don’t have to tell you.”
“Like I said, you can tell me or you can tell the cops.”
“Oh, all right! It’s Levin. Jerry Levin.”
“And you’re a member of this… Torah Recovery Committee?”
“Sort of an investigator for them.”
And a poor sort at that, I thought. “Okay, Jerry, what have they hired you to investigate?”
“The Torahs… Maybe I’d better start at the beginning.”
“I wish you would.”
“Torahs are Jewish religious scrolls…” He paused. “There’s a lot of background; it’s complicated.”
“We have plenty of time.”
He sighed, glancing at his watch.
“As you were saying…”
“The Torah Recovery Committee is an East Coast organization. It was formed a couple of years ago, in response to a rash of thefts from synagogues back there.”
“Thefts of Torahs?”
“Yes. The scrolls disappear, and later they turn up in other synagogues around the country.”
“You don’t mean the other congregations are stealing them?”
“Oh, no. What happens is they buy them, not knowing they’re stolen.”
“I see. And your job is to find them and get them back?”
“Yes.”
“Where does this tie in with Willie Whelan?”
“I’ll come to that. Torahs are hand-copied parchment scrolls. They contain only the Hebrew words from the first five books of the Old Testament. But in 1982, a number of congregations instituted a practice of marking their Torahs with code symbols – in the margins, in invisible ink. The codes are registered so there’s a record of ownership. When a congregation is considering buying a Torah, they’re supposed to check under ultraviolet light for the code.”
“Does it work?”
“Sometimes, but not all that well. A lot of them are too trusting to do it; some are afraid of offending the sellers. Also, many congregations don’t want to mark their Torahs, even invisibly; they feel it’s a kind of desecration.”
“I see.” But I still didn’t understand what all this talk of religious scrolls had to do with Willie.
“Recently quite a few stolen Torahs have turned up in Bay Area synagogues,” Levin went on. “Some were detected right off, and that alerted other synagogues, who checked those they’d already purchased. There have been at least a dozen cases, and God knows how many others haven’t been uncovered.”
“And Willie—”
“There are indications that the Torahs may have been moved through his operation.”
“What indications?”
“I can’t say. It might give away the identity of our informant. But I can tell you that Mr. Whelan probably has several Torahs in his possession right now.”
“A Torah is a parchment, wound around two large wooden pegs with handles at either end, right?”
“Yes.”
I thought back to the jumble in Willie’s garage. I’d seen nothing remotely resembling a Torah there, but that didn’t mean much. Willie himself didn’t know for sure what he had back there. “What happens when you find someone is in possession of a stolen Torah? Do you go to the police?”
“If we feel the person is a thief, yes.”
“What about someone like Willie? Would you call the police or merely try to get the Torahs back?”
“All we really want is the Torahs. I understand Mr. Whelan has a large fencing business; I don’t suppose one arrest would stop him.”
“No, I don’t think it would.” I was silent for a moment. If Willie did indeed have the stolen Torahs, chances were he’d taken them in an odd deal, like the player piano. I doubted if fencing religious scrolls constituted a large part of his livelihood. “What if I can get the Torahs back for you and promise that Willie won’t trade in them again?”
“I think I could promise in return that we wouldn’t bother him anymore.”
I nodded. “I’ll have to talk to him, of course. But I don’t think there will be any problem. You’ve been annoying Willie by watching him, and all he wants is for it to stop.”
“We’d have no need to watch him, once the Torahs are returned.”
“Good. Then shall we go back to the market and settle this right now.”
Levin glanced nervously at his watch. “I’m supposed to meet with Rabbi Halpert in fifteen minutes.”
“Who’s he?”
“Rabbi David Halpert; he’s my advisor here in San Francisco.”
I’d heard of David Halpert; he was active in a number of social causes. “All right. What about this? You keep your appointment with the rabbi, and I’ll talk to Willie. Then we’ll all meet at seven tonight.”
“Where?”
I thought of Willie’s house, and then of the bar that took his messages. “The Oasis Bar and Grill, on Irving Street.”
Levin wrinkled his nose.
“Don’t worry; it’s a respectable place. Bring Rabbi Halpert, if it will make you feel more comfortable.”
“Maybe I will.” He held out his hand, palm up.
I stared at it.
“May I have my car keys?”
“Oh, sure.” I dug in my pocket and gave them back to him. “Don’t forget – seven o’clock.”
“I won’t. We’re as anxious to straighten this out as you are.”
6.
Willie was mystified by the story of the stolen Torahs.
I wouldn’t know a Torah if I tripped over one. And I sure as hell wouldn’t fence religious stuff anyway. Jesus, I was brought up a Catholic; I got too much respect to do a thing like that.”
“Well, some informant claims you have been.”
“I’d like to get my hands on the son-of-a-bitch—”
“That kind of talk isn’t going to help us. We don’t even know who he is.”
“So now what do we do?”
“I think we should keep our appointment with Jerry Levin. Maybe you can convince him to tell you who the informant is. Or you might be able to convince him you don’t have the Torahs, and then he’ll go away.”
When I left the flea market a few minutes later, Willie was muttering angrily to the parrot. The bird sat on its perch, regarding him with calm beady eyes.
As I parked in front of my house, Don’s antique gold Jaguar pulled up behind my battered MG. He jumped out, looking exceptionally cheery, then hoisted a sack of groceries. “That was good timing!” he called.
I waited for him on the steps. “How was the concert?”
“Great. I love Stern Grove – all those eucalyptus trees… How was your day?”
“Confusing.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Not right now.” I unlocked the door and went down the hall to the kitchen. “I want to relax; I have to go out again at seven.”
“That’s fine with me. We’ve got the fixings for a feast here.” He patted the grocery bag. “There’s salami and some anchovies with capers and mozzarella.”
“Sounds wonderful.” I cleared the Sunday paper off the table and got out glasses and a bottle of red wine. The fog had started billowing in over the hills, and I went to change into a heavy sweater. When I came back, Don had the food spread on the table and was pouring wine. He hummed happily, some lilting tune that they must have played at the concert.
“You’re sure in a good mood.” I sat down and began to cut the salami.
“I know. I ran into an old friend at the Grove.”
“Oh? Who?”
“Tony Wilbur, a guy who used to work at KPSM.” KPSM was the station in Port San Marco where he was a disc jockey. “Tony’s up here now, program director at KSUN.”
“KSUN – that’s the station that calls itself ‘the light of the Bay.’”
“Right.”
“It’s a rock station. Sort of like KPSM.”
“Worse. Louder. It’s pretty horrible.”
“Does your friend like working there?”
“Loves it. He’s a nut, like me.” Don paused. He looked like a little kid who had spent all his allowance on your birthday present and couldn’t wait another minute to give it to you. “Babe, there’s a job open at the station. Tony wants me to apply for it.”
I picked up my wineglass, then set it down again. “A job as a disc jockey?”
“Yes.”
“Doing the kind of show you have now?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought you hated that show.”
“I do, but…” He shrugged.
“I’d think if you made a move, you’d want to get into something you’d like better. Like a job with a classical station.”
“Babe, there aren’t that many classical stations around. Or many jobs for d.j.’s, period. This is a bigger station, in a major metropolitan area. It’s better exposure, and the pay would be higher.”
“I see.” I felt a prickle of annoyance with myself. Why was I being so unenthusiastic? I picked up my glass and raised it in a toast. “Well, here’s to good luck. If you want the job, that is.”
“I do.” But there was an uncertain look in his eyes.
“Then I think it’s wonderful.” I sipped wine and winked at him, then felt even more annoyed with myself. I never winked at anyone.
With a relieved grin, he winked back.
“So,” I said, “What do you have to do, go in for an interview?”
“Demo tape?”
“A sample tape of a show. For a d.j., it’s like a resume.”
“Oh. How do you get one made?”
“I have one.”
“You have one. You mean with you?” A strange, flat feeling was stealing over me.
“Yeah, I had one made before I came up here.”
“Why?”
“Just in case.”
“Just in case you ran into someone who offered you a chance at a job?”
Don frowned.
“I mean, were you planning to look for a job here?”
“Not really. I just had the tape made…” His voice trailed off and he began to cut some mozzarella.
I was being horrible and spoiling all his pleasure. Why? I liked having Don around; I should be pleased he wanted to move to San Francisco. If he did it wouldn’t necessarily mean… I reached across the table and took his hand.
“I think it was a great idea to bring the tape with you. And it would be terrific if you got a job up here.”
He set the cheese cutter down. “Do you mean that?”
“Of course. Can I listen to the tape?”
“Sure.” His enthusiasm rekindled, Don got up and bustled into the bedroom to get the tape from his suitcase. And I sat there, an odd, hollow feeling in my stomach.
The Oasis was a country-and-western bar. When I entered, a bunch of urban cowboys were rolling dice for drinks, and Waylon Jennings’s voice boomed from the jukebox. I spotted Willie at the back of the room, behind a potted palm that seemed to be the bar’s only concession to is exotic name.
I got myself a beer from the bar, then joined my client. He nodded perfunctorily. “You’re early.”
“Only fifteen minutes.” I hadn’t wanted to stay at home after Don had played his demo tape. It was very good, and chances were he’d get the job. He had wanted to talk about the possibility, something I couldn’t do with this inexplicable flat feeling growing inside me.
There was a leather pouch on the table in front of Willie. I motioned at it and said, “What’s that for?”
“The weekend’s profits.”
“From the flea market, you mean?”
“All of them. Sunday night, my runners check in and we divvy up the take. Usually they come to the house, but I left a note on the door for them to meet me here. All of them except old Sam have been by.”
“Do you really expect him?”
“Yeah, Sam’ll make it. Maybe.”
We fell silent. From the jukebox, some singer whose voice I didn’t recognize was complaining about lost love and loose women.
“So what do you think?” Willie said. “Is this Levin guy giving you a straight story?”
“I think so. Unless you’re an awfully good actor, it’s hard to come across as confused and inept as he did.” But as I said it, I closed my eyes, reviewing my encounter with Jerry Levin.
“Huh.” Willie was silent again.
I looked at my watch. Five to seven.
“Willie!” A woman with long blond hair stuck her head through the leaves of the potted palm. I jumped in surprise. “Sam told me you’d be here.” She looked at me, a quick, appraising glance.
“Hi, honey.” Willie took her hand and pulled her out from behind the plant. She was tall and very slender, and the tight jeans and T-shirt she wore accentuated it. Her Nordic face was deeply suntanned, almost flawless, and free of makeup.
“This here’s Alida Edwards, my lady,” Willie said. “Honey, this is Sharon McCone, the detective I told you about.”
The tight lines around her mouth relaxed. “Thought he was stepping out on me for a minute there.” She grinned and reached across the table to shake my hand. “Appreciate what you’re doing for Willie.” Her accent was Southern – Texas, perhaps.
“You said Sam told you I was here?” Willie took his feet off the other chair and turned to scan the bar.
“Yeah. Ran into him over at your house. He’d seen your note.” She reached into her fringed leather purse and brought out a large manila envelope. “Said for me to give you this.”
“Damn! He’s gone and taken his cut and split. Every week I tell him to let me divide it up, and ‘most every week he pulls something like this.”
Alida put a hand on Willie’s shoulder. “Sam wouldn’t cheat you, baby. He’s just in a hurry to drink up his pay.”
“Yeah, I know. But his arithmetic isn’t so hot sometimes.” Willie stuffed the envelope in the pouch and sat back, propping his feet on the chair again. “So what’re you up to right now, hon?”
“Thought I’d join you… and Sharon.”
“I wish you could, but this is business. Maybe we can get together later on, okay?”
Her hand dropped from his shoulder and the lines around her mouth went taut. “Business, huh?”
“Yeah, Sharon and I have to meet a guy—”
“I’ll bet you do.”
“Well, that’s how it is. I’ll call you later.”
“Sure. You do that, Willie.” She turned and stalked toward the front of the bar, fringed bag bouncing. One of the urban cowboys spoke to her, and she tossed her blond mane and snapped at him. Whatever she said made him slop his beer and turn back to the bar, shaking his head.
Willie watched her go. “That woman can get madder at me than anyone I’ve ever known.”
“Some people just have short fuses, I guess.”
“Maybe. I don’t know, t
hough – sometimes I think it’s me. All my life women have been getting mad at me for practically no reason, no matter how good I treat them. Sometimes they get violent. My ex-wife tried to bust my head with a quart beer bottle the day she split.” He stared moodily into his glass.
I looked at my watch. Seven-fifteen. “Levin’s late.”
“So have another beer.”
“I think I will.” I went and got it, and fell to brooding about Don and the demo tape. In spite of his living several hours down the coast, Don and I saw a lot of each other already. What would happen if he were here in town all the time? Would it be even better? Or would it spoil things? What if…?
At seven-thirty Willie said, “I don’t think Levin’s coming.”
“Maybe he’s having trouble finding the place. He is from out of town, you know.”
“Is there any way you can check?”
“No. It was stupid on my part not to at least get a phone number. Wait a minute, though – he did say where he was going. Why don’t I check and see if he’s been delayed?”
I went to the rear of the bar, where I’d spotted a pay phone, and checked the directory for Rabbi David Halpert. When his phone started to ring, I stuck my finger in my ear to blot out Kenny Rogers’s rendition of “The Gambler.”
A little girl answered, told me she’d get her daddy, and went away. I listened to a baby crying in the background. Then a strong male voice said, “David Halpert speaking.”
I gave my name and explained I was looking for Jerry Levin. “I understand you had an appointment with him late this afternoon.”
“With whom?”
“Jerry Levin. He’s with the Torah Recovery Committee.”
There was a pause. “I’m familiar with the committee, but I don’t know Mr. Levin. And I certainly didn’t have any appointment today; we just now got back from Marine World.”
“You’re not the local advisor for the committee’s investigator?”
“No, I have no connection with them.”
“I see.” I thanked him and hung up, then went back to Willie. “It seems Levin’s story isn’t so straightforward after all. The rabbi he said he was meeting has never heard of him.”
“So what now?”
I paused, thinking I should have asked Rabbi Halpert to put me in touch with the committee. “Let’s go back to your house. I want to phone the rabbi back, but I don’t want to have to talk to him with the jukebox blaring in the background.”
Leave a Message for Willie Page 5
