by Tod Goldberg
“Give it to me,” David said.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Rabbi Kales said.
“I wasn’t asking,” David said.
“When you’re at Temple Beth Israel,” Rabbi Kales said, “you work for me, Rabbi Cohen.” He answered the phone and turned his back to David. Rabbi Kales still had a full head of silver hair that he kept cut short in the back, so you could see three or four inches of neck between his hair and his collar. David could shoot Rabbi Kales in that spot, and he’d be dead before he hit the ground, his hair still perfectly coiffed while he waited for the Moshiach to come stomping back to collect all the Jews and bring them to the Mount of Olives.
With five pounds of pressure exerted on the trigger of his gun, David could end Rabbi Kales right here. That was it. Five pounds of pressure. Less pressure than it would take to slap the man. David could feel his gun pressing against the small of his back, beneath his now ever-present suit jacket. He could draw his gun in a second, second and a half if he really needed to take some time with it. At point-blank range, the bullet would take just a fraction of a second to pierce that spot between Rabbi Kales’s head and neck. And for what? The hubris of wanting to give his community a place to gather and of not realizing the consequences of his actions?
Yom Kippur wasn’t for another eight months, yet David couldn’t help but think of what he’d learned about the Day of Atonement, about how almost a hundred years earlier, Rabbi Hertz had written that sin was not an evil power whose chains one must drag behind oneself for the rest of one’s life. We can always shake off its yoke, Rabbi Hertz said, and we never need to assume the yoke in the first place.
The Talmud taught that Jews live in deeds, not years, and in that way, David understood the paradox of all the things he’d learned during these months of rabbinical study: You could never quite unfuck yourself, when it got right down to it, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t be a better person after making a bad choice.
Rabbi Kales turned back around then, the phone pressed to his ear as he listened intently to whatever was being said to him, so David very calmly took out his gun and placed it directly against the rabbi’s forehead. “We all have a boss,” David said.
David thought he saw the wrinkle of a smile begin to play at the edges of Rabbi Kales’s mouth, though he couldn’t really be sure. What he didn’t see was fear. And that, above all else, made David’s assumptions about the power structure between Bennie and Rabbi Kales crystallize. He wasn’t scared because he knew it wasn’t his time to die yet. If Rabbi Kales was found with a bullet in his head on the same day Bennie Savone was arrested, everyone would go down.
“You’re in luck,” Rabbi Kales said. “Benjamin’s lawyer would like to speak with you.” He handed the phone to David and then fished out another cigarette and lit up.
David stuffed his gun back into his waistband, cleared his throat, collected himself for a moment, tried to decide which voice he wanted to use, and then said, “With whom am I speaking?”
“Who the fuck is this?” Bennie’s lawyer said.
“This is Rabbi David Cohen,” David said.
There was a pause on the other end for a moment, and David thought he could hear Bennie’s lawyer thinking. “Okay,” he said. Another long pause. “Okay.”
“I am Mr. Savone’s rabbi,” David said.
Another long pause. “This is Vincent Zangari, Mr. Savone’s attorney. I wasn’t expecting you to sound like you sound.”
“How do I sound?”
“Calm,” Vincent said.
“Yes, well, I am very concerned about Mr. Savone,” David said.
“He said you might be.” Vincent chuckled then, or let out what amounted to a chuckle. There was something strangled about what the man found amusing. David wondered just how much he knew. Maybe everything. David had never met Vincent Zangari, but he knew all about him from the news and the papers and the commercials he had on television. That was one of the weird things about Las Vegas: You’d be watching the news, and they’d be reporting on some guy cannibalizing his wife and kids, and they’d cut to the scene in front of the courthouse, and there was someone like Vincent Zangari, ten-thousand-dollar suit on, telling everyone how misunderstood his client was, how it was a simple accident involving cooked humans. They’d cut to a commercial, and there was that same lawyer, wearing the same suit, striding the neon streets of Las Vegas, letting you know that if you got “jammed up,” he was the guy to get you unjammed.
Zangari’s commercials had slightly higher production values and always featured him getting in and out of a Bentley. There was one specific commercial that seemed to run on a loop during the eleven o’clock news broadcasts: Zangari’s Bentley pulls up to a crime scene, and the lawyer steps out of the backseat, cell phone to his ear, and approaches a line of cops standing in front of a band of yellow crime scene tape. As soon as they see Zangari, the cops lift up the tape and let him stride into the crime scene, like he’s chief of police. He turns to the camera, the phone still at his ear, and says, “Keep your mouth closed. You have rights.” That’s it. Keep your mouth closed. You have rights. Simple but effective, David guessed, since Zangari seemed to be the go-to guy these days for the crime family types now that Oscar Goodman was running for mayor. The benefit of Las Vegas being an open city, David imagined, was that there was always plenty of work for guys like Zangari.
“How long do you expect him to remain in jail?” David asked.
“Depends,” Vincent said. “They might not give him a bond hearing for another seventy-two hours, then they’ll arraign him after that. If there’s a bond, we’ll get him out right away. That’s no problem. But with a federal case, they might claim he’s a flight risk and hold him without bond, or postpone his arraignment for thirty days. Maybe even sixty, if they end up tacking on some RICO. I’ve seen worse. Could be ninety.”
“But what do you think?”
Another long pause. “I think Mr. Savone has a good reputation locally,” he said. “He has many, many friends in all parts of local government. I think that will help him, but it won’t save him from the feds doing their best to elongate the process. At this point, I don’t even know what he’s allegedly conspired to have done. On the outside, I would guess the feds will try to get at least thirty days on him and that they won’t give him bond, based almost entirely on his last name. I’ll need to make a fuss. Even still, thirty to sixty, then probably they spend the next year watching him. This isn’t going to be a cakewalk. We get him out, first things first, and then see what the government has. They probably have dick, if I know these guys.”
“Yes, well,” David said, “Mr. Savone should know that he has the support of Temple Beth Israel.”
“He knows that,” Vincent said. “That’s why I wanted to speak with you. Mr. Savone wanted to convey how important it was for you to make sure his wife and children were well taken care of while he’s away.”
“Of course,” David said.
“He’d like you to keep a close eye on Rachel, specifically,” Vincent said. “She might feel like Las Vegas is not a safe place for her and therefore might be considering leaving. You should make her feel safe.”
“Of course,” David said.
“That’s good,” Vincent said, “because Bennie was concerned that Rachel might be thinking of leaving town, but he knew you wouldn’t let that happen if she knew you were there to watch her. Keep her safe.”
“No,” David said, thinking: Fucking Bennie. He knew everything. Probably had his own fucking house bugged. “I wouldn’t let that happen.”
“Because Mr. Savone wanted it made clear that if he knew your wife was planning a surprise trip, well, he’d let you know well in advance, just out of common courtesy. In case you wanted to buy them travel insurance or something. You understand?”
“I understand.”
“He also wanted you to know, specifically, the faith he has in your work and that you shouldn’t be concerned about his d
evotion to the temple and to your work. And that you should absolutely stay in Las Vegas.”
“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” David said.
“It’s not always something people plan on,” Vincent said. “Sometimes, you just decide, what the hell, maybe I’ll take a vacation. That wouldn’t be the right course of action during this trying time.”
This trying time. For fuck’s sake. “Bennie doesn’t need to worry about that,” David said quietly.
“That’s good,” Vincent said. “He would also like you to keep a close eye on business affairs of the temple, for which he’s made such sizable investments. He trusts your judgment on the projects while he’s indisposed. Things Rabbi Kales probably isn’t quite as sharp on. You are in charge. Is that clear?”
“You covered all of this ground tonight?” David said.
Vincent Zangari chuckled again. It sounded like someone swallowing chicken bones. “Let’s just say we’ve had some discussions on the topic recently. Always good to have a contingency plan.”
“You mean other than ‘Keep your mouth closed’ and ‘You have rights’?”
“That’s the best contingency plan of all,” Vincent said. “One last thing. Mr. Savone did relay to me this evening how important it was for you to plan on an efficient way to clean the house. Not tonight, or even tomorrow, but shortly. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” David said.
“Very well,” Vincent said. “I’ll be in touch with news as it comes. And Rabbi? Answer your phone, okay? I don’t like having to call all over town looking for you. Seriously. You’re lucky to be alive right now.”
David found Rabbi Kales sitting behind his desk reading the Torah. Rabbi Kales’s office was twice the size of David’s and had a sitting area with two sofas facing each other, a low coffee table between them set with an ornate porcelain tea service, though David had never seen anyone drinking tea in the rabbi’s office, not even the rabbi. David sat down on one of the sofas and picked up the samovar. “Where did you get this?” David asked.
“It belonged to my parents,” Rabbi Kales said. “And before that, it belonged to their parents, in Russia.”
“Where in Russia?”
“Ukraine, to be exact,” Rabbi Kales said. “But I wasn’t sure you’d know the difference.”
“I know the difference,” David said, wondering if Rabbi Kales remembered telling him about his family once before, when they first met. Maybe Rachel was right. Maybe he was shedding some space. “When was this?”
“They came here in 1909,” Rabbi Kales said, though David remembered him saying it was 1919. Maybe it didn’t matter.
“And they brought this all the way over from the Ukraine?”
“Yes,” Rabbi Kales said.
“And you never drink out of it?”
“It’s very fragile.”
“How fragile could it be if it’s lasted all this time?” David asked. He picked up one of the teacups. It was decorated with a pastoral scene—a green field filled with blooming flowers, and in the distance, the blue of the sea—and was rimmed in what felt like actual gold. “You should use it. Your grandparents didn’t bring it all the way over from the Ukraine just to be a decoration.”
“One day, it will be Rachel’s, and she can do with it as she chooses,” Rabbi Kales said.
David set the cup down. “So that’s how it works? It’s an inheritance?”
“No,” Rabbi Kales said. “I received it when I got married, as did my parents. It did not seem right to pass it on to Rachel when she married.”
“Because of Bennie not being Jewish?”
“My wife didn’t approve, no.”
“You never talk about your wife,” David said.
“You never talk about your wife,” Rabbi Kales said.
Fair enough, David thought. “Listen,” David said, “there’s going to be a transition here.”
“I’m aware of that,” Rabbi Kales said.
“Whatever you and Bennie have, that’s between you two. I’ve got a job to do.”
“As you indicated earlier,” Rabbi Kales said. He rubbed at his eyes and then walked over to the sofas and sat down across from David. “How long do you expect it will take?”
“It’s already happened,” David said.
“No,” Rabbi Kales said, “I mean how long until you’re expected to kill me?”
“I guess that will be up to you,” David said.
“You think that?”
“I don’t see you running to the cops. I trust you will help me keep Rachel’s mouth shut,” David said, though he wasn’t convinced she hadn’t already run her mouth. “I don’t have any orders right now.”
“But you are aware that the orders are coming.”
“Rabbi Kales,” David said, “they are always coming.”
“How would you do it?”
“Painlessly,” David said.
“I believe you,” Rabbi Kales said. He shook out another cigarette and lit up right there in his office.
“Might be the best thing would be to get cancer,” David said. But then he had an idea, something that was already right in front of him. “Alzheimer’s wouldn’t hurt, either.”
Rabbi Kales cocked his head. “Pardon me?”
“Maybe not Alzheimer’s, exactly,” David said. “Maybe just dementia. You got any history of that in your family?”
“They used to just call it being senile. My father was senile. His mother was senile, I remember that, her babbling in Russian about going back home to where she felt comfortable.” Rabbi Kales sighed. “Half of the people in the parking lot at Smith’s, at any given time, are probably senile. It’s very sad.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” David said. “Could be that you just wake up one morning and you’re a little confused. Not sure where you are, go outside with two different shoes on, whatever. Think of it as an early retirement.”
Rabbi Kales stared at David for a long time without speaking. “How much time will that buy me?” he said finally.
“Could be forever. If Bennie doesn’t think you’re a liability, there’s no need to get rid of you.”
“Is that what he thinks? That I’m a liability?”
“You know too much,” David said flatly. “That’s how it works. One day, he’ll decide I know too much, and someone will come for me, too.”
“You’re too valuable,” Rabbi Kales said.
“For now,” David said. “But this whole place is changing. Whole world is changing. Not a lot of room for gangsters anymore. Everything that used to be illegal is legal now.” David hadn’t minded being a hit man—it was a legit job in the field, as it were—but the idea that now he was, for all intents, also an undertaker was showing him just how little a skill set like his was really going to be needed in the future. You didn’t need a gun to rob someone anymore, you just needed a spreadsheet.
“How old are you, David?”
“Thirty-five,” David said. Shit. No, that wasn’t true. He was thirty-six now. He’d had a birthday in September. How had he forgotten to celebrate his own birthday? And now he was halfway to thirty-seven. Damn. Time fucked with you in Las Vegas.
“You talk like you’re my age.”
“I’ve seen some shit,” David said.
Rabbi Kales stubbed out his cigarette on the underside of the coffee table and then picked up one of the teacups. This one was covered in vines that spun out from the handle, where a fine drawing of a tree sprouted. “This one was always my favorite,” he said. “My nana used to let me hold it for one minute at a time, but only if I was sitting and only on carpet.” Rabbi Kales chuckled lightly. “She’s been dead for sixty years, and I still think about her. Isn’t that odd?”
“Not so much,” David said.
“But you see, she wasn’t given a choice about when she was to die, so every day could have been her last.”
“That’s true for everyone,” David said.
“That is not true,” Ra
bbi Kales said. “I can’t tell you how many of my relatives died in the camps, David. Do you think they had any choice?”
“They could have fought back,” David said. “Maybe they did. You don’t know.”
“They killed the entire village my family came from in Ukraine. Not a Jew left standing. Unless they had tanks and planes, no amount of fighting would have saved them from that.”
“All respect,” David said, and he actually meant it, “this is a choice you made to enter into this life, with Bennie, with me, with all of this shit. And now I’m giving you a choice of how to leave it. You can either wait for me to show up one day with a gun, or you can fade away and buy some time.”
“That’s not a choice. It’s an ultimatum. Act like I’ve lost my mind, or you’ll kill me?”
“Call it what you want, Rabbi Kales,” David said. David knew that Bennie wouldn’t have anyone else take out Rabbi Kales, so if it came down to it, he’d see about implying to the rabbi that a nice cocktail and a handful of Percocet might be a good way to leave the world. “I’m offering you a lifeboat.”
“You’re taking everything from me,” Rabbi Kales said.
“I’m giving you a chance,” David said. “It’s more than I need to give you.”
Rabbi Kales considered this. “When would this madness have to begin?”
“Depends on how long Bennie is locked up,” David said. “A stressful time like this, a psychotic break wouldn’t seem that unusual. So let’s say a week from today, you maybe tell Rachel that you’ve been feeling disoriented.”
“She’ll take me to see a doctor,” he said.
“Great,” David said. “Even better.”
“Won’t the doctor know that I’m lying?”
“Rabbi,” David said, “how old are you?”
“Seventy-two,” Rabbi Kales said. And then he nodded, getting it. “And that’s it? Am I still allowed to come here?”
“Of course,” David said, though he suspected Bennie would feel differently.
