Justifiable Homicide: A Political Thriller (Robert Paige Thrillers Book 1)

by Robert W. McGee

  “Why did you get all those extra degrees that had nothing to do with accounting?”

  “I did them as part of my self-improvement program. I have this inner urge to keep busy and be productive. Going to Gannon University for my undergraduate degree is what started me down that path. They forced me to take a lot of liberal arts courses. I became interested and wound up getting minors in political science, philosophy, and history. After I graduated, I wanted to pursue all of those disciplines but didn’t have the time. Years later, when my schedule eased up a bit, I decided to pursue them systematically.”

  “You like history? Me too. Did you ever think about getting a PhD in it?”

  “Actually, I do have a PhD in history. Nineteenth century British and American economic history, to be precise. I got it from The Union Institute and University in Cincinnati. I did it as an external student living in New Jersey.”

  “That’s amazing. I’m beginning to think you’re crazy.”

  “You’re not the first one I’ve heard that from.”

  A waitress came over to take their order. Mid to late forties, medium height. Slender but shapely, with brown skin and medium length black hair that had a few gray strands in it. Attractive for her age. The two features about her that caught Paige’s eye were her high cheek bones, which served to emphasize the loveliness of her jet black eyes, and the fact that she had her belt pulled tightly around her waist, which made it appear that she had practically no waist beyond that required to connect the top and bottom portions of her body. Her shoes made noise as she walked. You could hear the click, click, click from thirty feet away.

  Paige ordered petite mignonetas, which consisted of two grilled three-ounce beef tip medallions served with sherry wine sauce. Steinman ordered puntas casina—eight ounces of grilled tender tip beef with butter and sautéed onions.

  “What are you doing, Saul? That’s not kosher.”

  They both laughed. “I quit being kosher a long time ago, although there’s a voice in the back of my head that says, ‘Don’t eat pork.’ I think it’s my mother’s voice, actually. I don’t mind having a little dairy with my meat.”

  Steinman paused for a moment, as though he was turning to the philosophy channel in his brain. “It’s really ridiculous when you analyze it logically. Some guy thousands of years ago wrote in some book that God says you can’t eat meat and dairy at the same meal. People just take his word for it and obey without questioning. They instruct their children not to do it either. Modern science tells us it’s not any more detrimental to eat meat and dairy than it is to eat just the meat, especially if it’s red meat.”

  Paige recalled some of his Jewish friends who still followed that tradition, and the famous line from the play/movie, Fiddler on the Roof. “Yes, it’s the tradition.”

  Steinman looked a little surprised at Paige’s comment. “So, you’re familiar with Jewish plays?”

  “Not all of them. I just happened to see Fiddler on the Roof at a time in my life when I was questioning everything. That line hit home.”

  “Have you stopped questioning?”

  Paige was enjoying the conversation. As an accounting professor, he didn’t have many opportunities to talk about this subject. Steinman’s question caused him to have a flashback to the days when he attended Our Lady of Peace School in Erie, Pennsylvania. Whenever one of the students asked the nun a question about Catholicism that she didn’t want to answer, she would say, “To question is to blaspheme.” That always ended the conversation, since any student who dared to ask another question was sure to be on the receiving end of corporal punishment, not to mention a note to the parents.

  “No, I haven’t stopped, but I have slowed down a bit.”

  Steinman leaned back in his chair and smiled. “It’s OK to slow down at our age. It’s tiring to question everything, but questions keep the brain lubricated. Let me guess. You’re Catholic, right?”

  “I used to be Catholic. How did you know?”

  “That comment you made about it’s Friday and wanting a meat dish was a giveaway.”

  Although Steinman was an atheist, whose parents were Jewish, he enjoyed studying about religions. He was especially fascinated with Catholicism and Islam.

  “When I was going to Catholic schools, the priests and nuns told us that we would go to hell for eating meat on Friday, which naturally led to several questions, like ‘Why?’ and ‘What if we’re eating meat and don’t remember that it’s Friday?’”

  “What answer did they give you?” Steinman was curious. “In all my years of studying Catholicism, I never encountered any text that answered those questions.”

  “The answer to the first question is that it’s because God says so. Jesus died on the cross on a Friday, and we should honor that day by not eating meat. That led us to ask, ‘Where does it say that?’ We knew it wasn’t in the Bible, which the nuns discouraged us from reading because they said doing so might confuse us. Their answer was that, after Jesus died, rose from the dead and was about to ascend into heaven to sit at the right hand of his father, he gave the apostles some instructions. When he appointed Peter to be his successor, he gave him the power to forgive sins but also said he didn’t have to forgive them if he didn’t want to.”

  “And that’s it? That’s the justification they gave for going to hell for eating meat on Friday?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. We have to extrapolate that Peter and all future popes have the authority directly from God to make new rules and new sins if they think it’s appropriate, and that we are never to question their decisions.”

  “But that Biblical passage doesn’t say any of that. I’ve read the Christian Bible cover to cover. I don’t recall reading that.”

  “That’s because it’s not there. But we dared not point that out to the nuns, because questioning them would be blasphemy.”

  “What about the other point you raised … eating meat on Friday because you forgot it’s Friday?”

  “Ah, that’s an easy one to answer. If you forget it’s Friday, you’re off the hook. Mortal sins are like intentional torts. You have to intend to commit the crime before you can be found guilty. But that’s not the end of the story. Another question we asked, as budding little grade school Catholic philosophers, is ‘What do you do if you remember it’s Friday while you’re chewing on a hamburger?’ Since it’s a sin to waste food, and since it’s a sin to swallow a hamburger on Friday, what should you do?”

  Steinman leaned forward. “That’s a great philosophical dilemma. The level of philosophical discussion Catholic grade school students are exposed to is fascinating. Although the whole premise is bullshit, the reasoning process is somewhat sophisticated for a ten-year-old.”

  Paige nodded in agreement, then continued. “If you swallow, it’s intentional, and therefore a mortal sin. But if you spit it out, you’re off the hook. And you should rinse out your mouth and spit again, just to make sure you don’t swallow any meat later. One question we never thought to ask is, ‘Where does it say in the Bible that it’s a sin to waste food?’ It’s too bad those nuns aren’t here now to answer that question. They’ve probably all died and gone to hell by now.”

  Steinman smiled. “If I had said that, you’d accuse me of being anti-Catholic, or at least insensitive. But you can get away with it. Having a former Catholic say it makes it a valid topic for philosophical discussion.”

  Steinman took a sip of water. “That’s a fascinating story. Growing up Catholic must have been quite an experience.”

  “Yes, it was. If you had a few more hours I could give you more details. As I think about it, some of those details are coming back to me.”

  “Actually, there’s another spinoff to that meat-on-Friday story. Another question we asked is, ‘Why is it that only Catholics go to hell for eating meat on Friday? Why don’t non-Catholics also have to live by that rule?’”

  “What was their answer?”

  “It’s an interesting one, and eminently logical if
you buy the underlying premise. It’s based on the Biblical passage that says, ‘To whom much is given, much is expected.’ Since Catholics—actually only Roman Catholics, since there are a few other kinds of Catholics—are the new chosen ones—the Jews used to be the chosen ones but they blew it by not recognizing Jesus as their savior—more is expected of them. One of those extra things is not to eat meat on Friday. Non-Catholics don’t have that same burden. They can eat anything they want on Friday. Since they can’t get into heaven anyway, it really doesn’t matter what they do.”

  “Non-Catholics can’t get into heaven? Does the Catholic church really teach that?”

  “It did until they had one of their Vatican Councils. At the Council, the church leaders took a vote. They decided that non-Catholics would henceforth be technically able to get into heaven, although they would have to take the dirt path, while Catholics would be able to take the four-lane highway. I don’t know if it was a simple majority vote or if they required a super majority.”

  “That’s fascinating. You mean Catholics actually believe that bullshit?”

  “Apparently, they do. Or at least the nuns did. But that’s not the end of the story. The logical follow-up question was, ‘What about all the non-Catholics who died before the vote? Can they now get into heaven?’”

  “How did the nuns respond to that question?”

  “They pointed out that the change was prospective only, not retroactive. Any non-Catholic who died before the vote was taken had to stay where they were.”

  “That’s fascinating. I never read any of that stuff.”

  “I didn’t either. You had to be sitting in a Catholic grade school classroom to get that information.”

  They both laughed and took sips of their drinks, which had just arrived.

  “I still haven’t explained why I like to eat meat on Friday, but you can probably guess. It’s to prove to myself that I’m no longer a Catholic. I have to commit affirmative acts to prove it. Just thinking it isn’t enough. In fact, I don’t consider Friday to be a success if I haven’t had meat.”

  “I’m sure the nuns would be pleased.” Steinman sliced off a piece of tender tip with butter and sautéed onions and put it into his non-kosher mouth. “Bob, you seem like an interesting guy—for a goy, I mean,” pointing his fork at him for added emphasis. “I’d like to invite you to a little unofficial gathering I have from time to time with a few friends of mine. We don’t have any particular agenda. We just talk about anything that comes into our heads, which usually includes current events and how the government is turning the country into a police state.”

  Paige smiled. “That sounds like a pleasant topic.”

  “We haven’t scheduled the next get-together yet. I’ll let you know. If it’s on a Friday, I’ll try to remember to serve hamburgers.”

  “Thanks. And don’t forget to put cheese on them.”

  ***

  They finished their meals, paid the bill, and headed toward the door.

  Paige had enjoyed the lunch and the conversation. It was a success, from a business perspective, because he got himself placed on the list of invitees to Saul’s next meeting. He achieved his goal, but he didn’t feel happy about it. In fact, it spoiled his otherwise successful Friday. Wellington would be pleased to learn he had infiltrated the group, which probably placed Steinman one step closer to possible extinction.

  Paige didn’t want Wellington to kill Steinman. In fact, he was now more determined than ever to make sure that didn’t happen. The problem was that he couldn’t figure out a way to prevent it, unless he did something drastic.

  On the way home he thought about his options and came up with an idea that might work, but it was extremely risky.

  41

  “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t sell you that gun. You didn’t pass the background check.”

  James Young was at one of the local gun shops. He’d finished looking at their inventory and decided which gun he wanted to buy. The guy behind the counter had just finished doing the background check required of anyone who wants to purchase a gun.

  “Why didn’t I pass? Did they give a reason?”

  “Yeah. They said you’re on a terrorist list.”

  James looked the dealer in the eyes. He swayed back and forth out of nervousness. “Do I look like a terrorist to you?” He saw his reflection in the mirror. White. Pasty-faced. Swaying back and forth. He didn’t look like a terrorist, but he did look mentally unbalanced. He felt that way too. The last few weeks had put a strain on him mentally. The walls were closing in on him. He no longer lived in a free country. His own government was making his life miserable.

  He had had enough. No more.

  “Nah. You don’t look like a terrorist to me. It’s probably just a mistake. I read that there are a lot of people on the terrorist list who aren’t terrorists.

  “You might try getting one at a gun show. If you buy from a dealer you’ll have to go through a background check, but you don’t have to go through a licensed dealer. Some people go to gun shows to sell a gun. If you buy a gun from one of them, there’s no background check. Or you could find one on the Internet.”

  “Thanks. I didn’t know that.” James hadn’t fired a gun in more than forty years. He’d never had much of an interest in them. But that was before. Now it was the number one item on his list of things to buy. “Do you know when the next gun show’s going to be? Where do they hold them?”

  “You’re in luck, my friend. The next one’s at the Dade County Fairgrounds this weekend. Saturday and Sunday. It’s on Southwest 24th Street. Do you know where it is?”

  “Yeah, more or less. Thanks for the information.”

  42

  Paige called Wellington’s cell phone, since it was more likely to be secure than his phone at the Commerce Department. “Hi, Bob. Do you have good news for me?”

  “Yes. The meeting went well. He invited me to their next get-together, which hasn’t been scheduled yet. I’ll keep you informed.”

  Paige felt apprehensive about making the call. Ever since meeting Steinman, he’d been thinking about how to make the mission fail, yet all his overt actions to date had been in the opposite direction – that Steinman probably would be killed, like Shipkovitz and Kaplan, in spite of Wellington’s assurances to the contrary.

  “That’s great. Keep me posted.”

  ***

  Wellington was happy he could tell the Boss things were progressing as planned.

  He decided to make a courtesy call to Mossad. Since Steinman was a strong and vocal supporter of Israel, he thought he should inform them that one of their supporters was about to meet with an unfortunate accident.

  His local contact was Sergei Turetsky, a Russian Jew from Moscow who had moved to Brighton Beach, Brooklyn with his family as a child. During his high school years they lived in the Winston Towers complex in Sunny Isles Beach. A few years after he graduated from college, his mother moved around the corner to a smaller apartment in the Porto Bellagio building, where she still lived.

  His main assignment was to make sure Islamic terrorists didn’t attack any Jewish targets in Miami, one of the nine cities Al-Qaeda listed as being targeted for a nuclear attack if they could find a way to smuggle the devices across the Mexican border. His cover as a real estate agent gave him the flexibility he needed to move around. Mossad occasionally threw some business his way so he could show some legitimate income at tax time.

  “Hello, Sergei? It’s John Wellington. How are you?”

  “Fine. Just enjoying another fine Miami day.” He spoke from an outdoor café in South Beach, admiring the sights as they walked by, often in high heels and short shorts.

  “I’d like to meet with you. Are you free around five this afternoon?”

  “It sounds important. I have a ton of paperwork, but I think I can sneak away for a few minutes.”

  “Yeah, right. All that paperwork’s from selling houses, I suppose.”

  “Of course. You know that�
�s all I do.”

  “How about if we meet at Bayfront Park, by the Anton Cermak plaque?” Less than a mile from Wellington’s Commerce Department office on SW 1st Avenue. A convenient walk for Wellington. He didn’t care if it was convenient for Sergei.

  “The Anton Cermak plaque? Are you trying to tell me something?”

  Anton Cermak, former mayor of Chicago, got assassinated in 1933 at the site of the plaque while riding with the newly elected president, FDR. Giuseppe Zangara, an Italian immigrant, took aim at Roosevelt but missed. Historians speculate about what the United States might be like today if Zangara had been a better shot.

  “Maybe. I’ll let you speculate about it. It will give you something to think about besides shiksas.”

  “You’re a funny goy … I mean guy. I’ll see you at five.” Sergei hung up, took another taste of his coffee and enjoyed the heat of the Miami sun on his face. But he felt a little worried. He had a feeling that whatever Wellington had planned would complicate his life.

  Wellington arrived first. Turetsky arrived a few minutes later. Tall, just under six feet, slender and athletic looking, with short black hair, in his early thirties, he had a five o’clock shadow, which seemed appropriate because it was five o’clock. Wellington could hear the sound of traffic in the distance and smell the hot dogs and sausages being cooked by a vendor fifty feet away.

  “Hi, Sergei.” Wellington extended his hand.

  “Hi, John. What’s so urgent? Is something about to happen?”

  Wellington looked serious. Turetsky sensed that he didn’t want to hear what was about to come out of his mouth.

  “I don’t know quite when it will happen, but yes, something is about to happen. Do you know who Saul Steinman is?”