Quest

by Richard Ben Sapir

  Claire nodded. Artie continued.

  “By not making what would seem like a reasonable deal to us, we are saying to these people, Hey, this is America. You know? I know you think I’m jaded, and when I told you to take that deal a couple of weeks ago, you thought I lacked some moral fiber or something. I was just telling you what I thought was best for you.”

  “I know that now, Arthur.”

  “But I am proud of being NYPD. You know. Yes, NYPD. We’re all right. I want these immigrants to know it, too. I want them to know an American policeman. Do you understand? Someday their kids will know this is a different country. And this arrest in a way will help. It’s important to me.”

  Artie saw a thin line of moisture rim Claire’s bright blue eyes.

  “That’s beautiful, Arthur. Of course I will not let the charges drop.”

  “There may be pressure on you,” said Artie.

  “What can they do?” said Claire. “Reasonably, what can they do to me?”

  Nuisance jumped up on her lap, and she cradled him, keeping him away from the spaghetti.

  Artie looked at this sweet young woman loving the furry little ball and wondered what he had let her in for. There were two dead already, and he really knew of no good way to get to the rest of the cellar without making Rawson’s kind of deal. He ate his spaghetti and listened to her talk about the course of history and nothing so grand as that cellar coming into the historical stream without a ripple.

  “You see, what I’m doing now is looking for the splash,” she said.

  He did not once tell her she was crazy. On the other hand, he did not kiss her good night either.

  XII

  His aggressors’ blades splintered and rebounded as if they had been hacking at an anvil, and they flailed away till their swords were shattered and they were weary and sore from their efforts and still they had not wounded him to the extent of drawing blood.

  —ROBERT DE BORRON

  Joseph d’Arimathie

  CLASSIFICATION: Maximum Security, for H. R. Rawson only

  SOURCE: Classified

  AUTHORIZATION: Classified

  SUBJECT: Avril Gotbaum, 47, Israeli citizen

  Gotbaum, born Jaffa. Served Israeli Army reserve until 42 years of age when heart condition made him ineligible for service. Became a diamond cutter in 1968, through uncle. Father of Uri and Rachel. Respected member of diamond community. No apparent weaknesses, like extramarital affairs or drugs. No criminal record. Major interests: soccer and his family, but doctor warned him against attending matches because of the hysteria in Israeli stadiums. No information available on contact for recent diamond purchases for last two weeks, but estimates are it was some respected dealer in some way, because one would not know of Gotbaum without being in the business.

  Exceptionally difficult working in Israel because of current tensions, therefore response to complete request impossible.

  Harry Rawson knew a word job when he saw one. The service was riddled with them. One got an assignment, did what was safe and easy, and then verbalized. What he had not gotten was what he wanted. And that was everywhere Avril Gotbaum, the cutter who had been arrested with Schnauer, had been for the last two weeks and every person he had talked to. He did not need a common recap of the diamond industry and neighbor gossip. His response was brief. It was three words: “Comply original request.”

  It was written down on the back of Sherry Netherland stationery, as an executive from a British trading firm waited for it. The executive would not know what was in the envelope as he did not know what was in the envelope he delivered to this suite. It could have been trading information. He would give it to someone else at the firm and go about his business for the day.

  The trading executive had once tried to start a conversation with Mr. Rawson in the hotel suite under the assumption that the man was important and that it would not hurt to get to know him. He had been put off with a simple word: “Please.”

  Now Mr. Rawson told him to leave with the ostensibly polite words “Thank you.” But the way he handed the envelope to the executive was a dismissal.

  Harry Rawson understood that good things as well as bad things happened by accident and that one who could survive the bad things and take advantage of the good things usually won.

  There was a precious link now to the remnants of the cellar, and there was the charge of theft, which might be traded away for information. But just in case, and just because the world did not operate in an orderly manner, he had pressed for some information on a contact with Gotbaum. These things always helped when trading for information, especially if the man suspected you might already know much of it anyhow, such as the list of contacts.

  He had hoped to have it in hand before he saw Mr. Gotbaum, just as he had hoped to have Claire Andrews in hand before he got to Mr. Gotbaum. Unfortunately, she had been quite cold.

  “He broke the law, and I am not willing to negotiate, Mr. Rawson. And I am afraid that has to be final.”

  “I’m sure you’re aware you don’t really have much of a claim. All the proof comes from my gem prints.”

  “We can let a court decide that.”

  “Miss Andrews, are you acting this way because you just don’t know what the world is like and have no idea how courts will decide?”

  “I’m not the one who is unwilling to go to a court,” she had said.

  “Miss Andrews, are you interested in vindicating your father, catching the thieves, and recovering financial reward, or in poking me in the eye like some nasty little girl?”

  There had been a long silence at the other end of the telephone.

  “Are you going to answer me?” Rawson had asked.

  “I don’t like to be talked to that way, by you or by anyone, Mr. Rawson.”

  “That isn’t an answer to my question.”

  “Mr. Rawson, even in New York City there is a right and a wrong.”

  “Catching a murderer is more right than catching someone dealing in stolen goods,” Rawson had replied.

  “I have faith that the New York City Police Department will get them all. Deals do not have to be made.”

  “And who assured you of that?”

  “Detective Modelstein.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that he is in the jewelry squad and that he would naturally be more interested in jewelry arrests than homicide arrests?”

  “Not for one minute, Mr. Rawson.”

  “These people have a world to themselves and neither you nor I are part of it. We’re outsiders.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “It may come as a great shock to you, Miss Andrews, in this great melting pot of a country, but I daresay you are not part of the jewelry squad or a Linzer Hasidim, nor would I imagine they would be part of Carney, Ohio. Everyone has his own interests.”

  “I trust the people I trust, Captain Rawson. Don’t think you can take advantage of me because I’m vulnerable.”

  “You are hardly that, Miss Andrews. You certainly don’t have to prove anything to me along those lines,” Rawson had said.

  “I neither know nor care whether you really mean that,” Miss Andrews had said.

  Gotbaum was more reasonable. He was unshaven and talking in Hebrew. He lay on his bed in an undershirt and gesticulated with a piece of pastry he was eating. First, he motioned Rawson to sit down, then he made a point with the pastry to the person on the other end of the line. His voice rose and lowered. Rawson picked up a couple of Arab words that had filtered into Gotbaum’s speech.

  Roughly translated, the words dealt with a sea of grief, something that may or may not be maneuvered through, and the wherewithal was in the room with him now. Rawson did not let on he had made out the rough contents of the conversation in Arabic.

  “All right,” said Gotbaum. “You say you’re the owner, Mr. Rawson. Fine. What do you want?”

  “I want to let you know that I personally have nothing against you. As a matter of fact, you may
have been taken in by the same person who stole my property to begin with.”

  “Innocent, you mean,” said Gotbaum. He took another bite out of the pastry.

  “Yes, how would you know they were stolen? What I am saying is that our interests do not necessarily diverge. You were in all innocence betrayed by someone who sold you stolen goods. I was robbed. I think the guilty person should pay, not you.”

  Gotbaum finished the pastry and wiped his hands on the bedsheet.

  “Mr. Rawson, this is all horseshit. I am guilty as sin. I didn’t think there’d be gem prints on a polished diamond. I thought that I was dealing with artifacts and that I could get away with it. Our angel of a rabbi’s son, Baruch Schnauer, thought so, too, or he wouldn’t have set this thing up in a hotel room like this.”

  “You don’t sound like you are confessing,” said Rawson.

  “I’m not. I just don’t have time for games. You talk like you’re in some Arab tent where everyone waltzes around everyone else’s feelings. Look, that’s not a bad way to do business. I don’t do business like that. It wastes time. If I want friendly company, I got friendly company. And that’s not you. So I’ll tell you what I told our blessed little Baruch Schnauer, whose father has influence in this city. You get me off, I’ll get him off.”

  The Israeli was right. Bluntness to the point of rudeness or, more importantly, ignoring questions of politeness certainly did speed things up.

  “I want the person who sold you the diamonds.”

  “How do you know I’m not the thief?”

  “Because the thief brings them to a diamond merchant. That’s the logical course of events.”

  “You got a point. Look, I really have no desire to hand up this person. But I have less of a desire to do time in an American jail or pay a fine. And even less to be an outcast in this business that the good Reb Schnauer could arrange with one rabbinical decree. But it’s going to cost me to hand up this person, in ways I won’t tell you.”

  “You want money as well?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Not a penny,” said Rawson.

  “I got lawyer costs, everything. Phone bills to Tel Aviv.”

  “Five thousand,” said Rawson. It was not the money of course. He understood bargaining. If he gave in too quickly or easily, the price might balloon. And still it would not be the price, but the deal, and very possibly a threatening inquiry into why he would be willing to pay so much. So Rawson bargained to save time and protect the royal secret.

  “A little more than airfare, please. Do you know what I’m losing on this? I should get something from the stones,” said Gotbaum.

  “Were you selling them on consignment?”

  “This is all shit for me. It’s just the degree of it now and what I can escape with.”

  “Ten, when I get everything I want. Who sold you the diamonds?”

  “First, the charges get dropped. From the other owner, too. My lawyer told me about her. Says she’s got to drop charges, too, until your and her ownership are settled. I need you both.”

  “The thief may get away,” said Rawson.

  “Then hurry,” said Gotbaum. He was making another call.

  CLASSIFICATION: Maximum Security, for H. R. Rawson only

  SOURCE: Classified

  AUTHORIZATION: Classified

  SUBJECT: Baruch Schnauer, 23

  U.S. citizen. Member of the Linzer Hasidim sect, orthodox Jews, traditionally led by his family line, founded in Linzer, Poland, 1770. Part of sect moved to New York, other to London, in 1880s. Extremely tight-knit group, but able to determine the son may be somewhat less than the father, in eyes of community. But an attack on son considered an attack on father. Father member of rabbinical board that settles disputes in diamond district. Linzer sect a small power in New York City itself. Influence with mayor and local congressman. Sect votes as a bloc. Settles own legal disputes among themselves. Great disgrace that crime should be judged by outside authorities.

  The meeting in the home of Reb Schnauer was more formal and sedate than with the cutter. He was an old man with a long white beard, and an assistant with a longer black beard seemed to hover around his desk. The study was dark but for a small muted yellow light from a single lamp. Books filled the room from floor to ceiling on three sides, almost blocking out the shaded window. Not all the books were in Hebrew, and one of them Rawson recognized as Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

  “So, you are the owner of the six diamonds, Mr. Rawson. This is what I am told. Gem prints are not things that lie. Of course you will understand that my son’s lawyers must examine everything as though the claims are false.”

  “Rabbi, I share with you the grief that has come to your son. It is an unfortunate thing of great magnitude, and I have not come here to press a claim. I perhaps most of all am aware your son could have acted in complete innocence.”

  “The courts judge guilt, and He who knows all decides innocence,” said Reb Schnauer.

  “I seek the person who sold the stones to Avril Gotbaum, who weighed upon your son to sell this property.”

  The rabbi raised his hands as though surrendering. But Rawson saw that his head was shaking also. He did not want to know any more information about this matter.

  The assistant motioned for Rawson to get up. Rawson felt the surprisingly strong and rude grip of the assistant guide him from the room. The rabbi had his hands now over his ears, and his head was bowed so that the white beard lay on the desk.

  “It’s horrible, horrible,” whispered the assistant. “I’m so glad you came. We are doing everything. The Reb is stricken by this. Seven generations, seven. And this. The name Schnauer in the world is more pure than flawless. A stone should be as pure. And now this. But we are not fools and we are not helpless.”

  The study was behind them now, and the assistant talked pointedly.

  “You are willing to drop the charges, I take it?”

  “I have nothing against that good man,” said Rawson, nodding to the study. “But there is a problem of—”

  “Claire Andrews and Detective Modelstein,” interrupted the assistant. He had very black eyes. Rawson had not seen eyes that black since the Arabian desert. Somewhere in the house someone was cooking something heavily laden with beef fat, not fried, rather a mellow boiling smell.

  “Yes, I think the detective influenced her.”

  “We know Artie. He can be handled. What do you know about the woman?”

  “I don’t know, not too much. She’s from your midlands I guess. I’ve tried to reason with her,” Rawson added in a polite whisper.

  The assistant made the common symbol of money, thumb pressing against inside of forefinger.

  “No, she has no price in this thing. She’s not after money in this, trust me. I felt her out during a dinner,” said Rawson.

  “All right. All right, there are other ways. The rabbi must be kept out of this, you understand. He is a sacred man. A learned man. I am sure you understand our needs, and we yours. After that, everything else is details.”

  “Of course,” said Rawson. He wondered whether knowledge was considered as hereditary as divine right to rule. It seemed that there was nothing man wouldn’t try to pass down to his heirs.

  He was sent to a law office in the Twin Towers in downtown New York City, with expensive paintings and subdued furniture, all set under track lighting. The rabbi’s son was there with three lawyers. He was as pale as his father, but there seemed to be more tension than dignity. He was more than ready to make a deal, but unlike the cutter, he was not open about it.

  “I am looking for the man who stole this piece the diamonds were in,” said Rawson. He noticed several Harvard degrees framed along the walls.

  “What about your claim to the diamonds?” asked one of the lawyers.

  Baruch Schnauer quieted his own lawyer with a hand. He had taken off his black jacket and was wearing a white shirt with suspenders and prayer shawl sticking out fr
om underneath the shirt, and, of course, a black yarmulke covered his head. But he lacked his father’s dignity. He spoke quickly, almost without thought.

  “Let the diamonds rot. You are willing to drop any charges, but there is another supposed owner who will not. What is her claim?” asked the rabbi’s son.

  “It’s complicated and emotional,” said Rawson.

  “Is it valid?”

  “She doesn’t have proof she ever bought it, and I have proof it was stolen from my family.”

  “She doesn’t have gonished then. But, okay, I think we can all work something out. Gotbaum is a liar. A liar. And he is sitting there in his hotel room, waiting for me to get his slimy ass off the hook. All right, we’ll do it. Everyone will deal. You’ll drop charges because he’ll give you what you want, and the lady will go along because we’ll give her whatever she wants. Okay?”

  Baruch Schnauer looked around the corner office with the view of New York Harbor. He checked with everyone.

  “We’re just left with the details of what everyone is going to do now that we know everyone here is on the same side, right?” he asked.

  “They do have to be worked out, though,” said one lawyer.

  “Yes, work them out. Work them out. I should have known. Six stones, did I need more warning than six? The son of the seventh son, needing more than six.”

  Outside the inner office, Rawson stopped by a secretary and inquired what was the significance of six stones, or the number six. She didn’t know, but a passing lawyer asked if this came from the situation with the rabbi’s son.

  Rawson told him it did.

  “Numbers in Jewish tradition are symbolic. Seven stands for perfection. The closest thing to it is six, which is absolute evil, hence the devil being represented by six-six-six.”