Harry Lipkin, Private Eye

by Barry Fantoni

  If I hadn’t seen it I wouldn’t have thought it possible. Like when you read Ripley’s Believe It or Not. The sleepwalker who crossed the Gobi Desert. The cow that gave birth to a koala bear. But the evidence was there. The kid’s head one place. The rest of him someplace else.

  And I wasn’t the only witness.

  The Maserati crackled into life. Backed up. Spun in a half circle and accelerated out of sight down Samuel Gompers Avenue. Zero to eighty in four seconds.

  I picked up the phone and dialed 911.

  · NINETEEN ·

  Lieutenant Voss Questions Harry

  The voice on the other end of the line told me I was speaking to Police Officer Loretta Gibbs. She asked who was calling and how she could help?

  I gave my name and said that a young man in my front yard had been involved in a fatal accident. She took my address and said someone would be there in twenty minutes. A fatal accident didn’t bother her. The how did it happen? The who was involved? The where was it? Those questions would be answered by someone in another department.

  I thanked Loretta Gibbs for her time and hung up.

  It was still raining. Not hard. But enough. I put on my hat and raincoat and went out to the yard and looked over the kid’s cadaver.

  His head was a few feet from his neck. His hat and glasses were just as they were when he put them on. I bent over his torso and took the gun and put it in my pocket. Then I searched him all over. There were a dozen small packets of cocaine wrapped in aluminum foil in his jacket pocket. These I also took. In another pocket was a small leather book of first names with codes next to them. The kid’s wallet had only money. A couple of hundred in bills. No ID. No credit cards. No dry cleaning ticket. No pieces of paper to tell you who he was. And no cell. Nothing to link him to others. The kid was a pro. I replaced the wallet in his inside breast pocket and took the leather book, the drugs, and the gun back to the office.

  The trick was to sell the Police Department a dummy. I didn’t want them poking around into my case. But it wouldn’t be easy. An accident? A tile? Off the roof? Sure. Mr. Lipkin. Be sensible. Come clean. I could hear it all. Like I told the kid. Sixty years ago I asked the same questions.

  I needed a whole new script.

  I put the kid’s things in the wall safe I kept out of sight with a framed print of a flamenco dancer. Then I went to the bookshelf and pulled down the Bible from my collection of religious books. The other two were a hardback copy of Exodus signed by Leon Uris I picked up in a thrift store on Bayshore Drive while I was down there for a checkup at Mercy Hospital and Betty Grable’s biography. The Girl with the Million Dollar Legs. One day I’d read it as well as look at the pictures.

  The Bible wasn’t a purchase. Not like the other books. It was a gift. More than a gift. Forced on me by a former client. Ralph J. Rawlston. Ralph was a salesman for DuPont and a devout Christian. Mostly a devout Christian. He wanted me to find out what his wife, Mona, did when he was on the road. Ralph suspected her of having an affair with the president of the local Lions Club. He also wanted me to know that by reading the Holy Word of God as proclaimed by His Only Son Made Flesh, not only would my Soul be Saved from Sin but I would have Life Eternal.

  It was time I put the Almighty’s Word to the test.

  I went back outside and found that the rain had eased off to a light drizzle. I took the shades and hat off the kid’s head and placed the Bible under his left arm. Then I made a final check that there was nothing to identify him. There was nothing that I could see. The labels on his suit and shirt and the rest of his outfit were designer names but not exclusive. You couldn’t trace the owner by them. There were no obvious marks. No signs of a medical history. Satisfied the kid was clean I went back to my office and waited for the police.

  The meat wagon arrived a few seconds before the squad car. Two men in protective clothes took a stretcher from the ambulance and two others began rigging up a plastic fence around the kid’s head and body. A photographer climbed out of the squad car and began snapping. He was followed by a uniformed officer and a detective in plainclothes. The detective gave the kid’s head and body a quick once-over and strolled to the porch. He didn’t need to ring the bell. I was ready for him.

  “Harry Lipkin,” I said. “It was me who made the call.”

  The plainclothes flashed his badge.

  “Lieutenant Voss. Miami Police. Mind if I come in?”

  I led him into the office and offered a seat. Voss sat down. He pulled a crumpled pack of Camels from his pocket, stuck half a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and set light to it. I took the chair near the window.

  He was short and heavy round the middle. His graying hair needed cutting. His tie needed a press and his shirt needed a wash. Needy. He had deep lines sunk into his forehead and his pale blue eyes told me that there wasn’t much he hadn’t seen apart from retirement.

  “Tell it as it happened,” Voss said and blew out smoke.

  “There isn’t a lot.”

  “As much as you can remember,” Voss said.

  “The young man called to give me the word of Jesus,” I said. “It was raining hard so I asked him inside. A shelter from the storm.”

  “When was this?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  Voss looked around for an ashtray. There wasn’t one. He let me know with a look. I got up. Shuffled into the kitchen. Found a saucer with a crack that I didn’t mind getting ash on and shuffled back to the office. I placed it on the arm of Voss’s chair and sat back down.

  Voss tapped ash into the saucer.

  “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You get a knock. It’s a door stepper selling Jesus. You invite him and he gives you the spiel.”

  “Here one minute. Gone the next.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “He talked,” I said. “I listened. It was about the Lord Jesus.”

  Voss sucked in some more smoke and let it out in a long stream.

  “There’s a mezuzah on your front doorframe,” he said. “Only a Jew puts a prayer rolled up in a tube by the place he goes in and out.”

  “A lot of Jews live in Warmheart,” I said. “People around here are mostly Semitic. There are around thirty thousand at a guess.”

  “Including Harry Lipkin?”

  “Including Harry Lipkin.”

  He thought about it. Let me think about it. Took in more smoke and let more smoke out.

  “So what was a Christian selling Jesus doing talking to you?”

  I shrugged.

  “Beats me, Lieutenant,” I said. “Maybe the young man figured I was ripe for conversion. Jews do. Convert. Sometimes. Not many. One in a million. Maybe two. Three at most.”

  Voss stared at me hard. To say otherwise he would have had to have been there. Seen for himself. He left it to one side and carried on with the routine.

  “Did you see the accident?” he asked. There was a heavy emphasis on the word “accident.”

  “Unfortunately.” I said. “I saw him to the door and we shook hands. He was standing just outside the porch. He was telling me that Jesus would always be there for us when lightning hit the roof. The tiles came down and he took one. It hit him direct.”

  I put my hand to my neck to show. “Right here.”

  The lieutenant killed his cigarette and got to his feet.

  “That will be all for now, Mr. Lipkin,” he said, looking down at me. “I will have to wait for the pathologist’s report before I do anything else. As it stands I suspect it will read accidental death. But in the meantime I would ask you not to leave town without letting me know.”

  “No plans to leave town,” I said and let Voss find his own way out.

  Then I took the saucer to the kitchen and emptied the dead butt into the trash can. It was time for a snack.

  I filled a bagel with lox and cream cheese, drank a glass of lemon tea, and gave some thought to the day so far. Progress yet. For a start my hunch about Steve fooling around w
ith narcotics was now a fact. He paid for his habit working part-time for a drug-dealing army of gun-toting pistoleros. Sure. He could have made extra robbing Mrs. Weinberger. She was a vulnerable woman and had plenty worth lifting. But finding a reliable fence is never easy. There is always a risk involved. The mob gave Steve steady work and offered protection.

  I went back to the office and took my list of suspects from the file. I put just a light pencil line through Steve’s name. So far I’d checked out Mr. Lee and I’d checked out Maria.

  Amos was next.

  · TWENTY ·

  Harry Tracks Down an Old Friend

  Rabbi Lionel Rifkin married my cousin Ira’s sister-in-law Pearl. Lionel often talked about the lost tribes of Israel. The Jews of Ethiopia were his speciality. If anyone knew about Ethiopian Jews in Miami it would be Rabbi Rifkin. The only problem was that we hadn’t seen each other since Pearl’s funeral. Five years ago. Or was it ten? He was ninety whenever it was.

  The last place I knew for sure Rabbi Rifkin worked was the Beth Jacob. I dialed their number.

  “My name is Ruby,” a warm and helpful sounding voice said. “May I ask who is calling?”

  “You most certainly may, Ruby,” I replied. “My name is Harry Lipkin and I am trying to locate an old pal. Rabbi Lionel Rifkin. When I knew him he was working at the Beth Jacob. But that was some time ago. My guess is that he has possibly retired.”

  There was a pause while Ruby thought about it.

  “I’m going to make some inquiries,” Ruby said. “It might take a while. Miriam is out sick.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” I said. “Who is Miriam?”

  “Miriam is the person who would know about Rabbi Rifkin,” Ruby explained. “Julie won’t know any more than me.”

  “Julie?”

  “Taken over for Miriam while she’s sick. Would you please hold, Mr. Lipkin?”

  “Happy to, Ruby,” I said.

  While the phone played what sounded like a banjo band version of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons I killed time thinking about the Beth Jacob.

  Meyer Lansky and his Murder Inc. mob went there in 1936. Local Jews called it the Gangster Schul. But Lansky wasn’t bad all through. When the Nazis held rallies in New York and other big cities, Lansky’s mob went and broke them up. They beat them with sticks and the hilts of pistols. Beat them till they bled. Lansky made those damn Nazis run.

  When Ruby came back she had a number.

  “Thank you for holding, Mr. Lipkin. Julie was no help. She had to ask Rabbi Cohen who then had to ask Rabbi Pressler who then asked Rabbi Greenhouse. Rabbi Greenhouse knew Rabbi Rifkin. Not well, but well enough to have a note of Rabbi Rifkin’s last known residence. I have it right here. Are you ready to take it down?”

  “All ears.”

  “Have you something to write with?”

  “And to write on,” I said.

  Ruby spelled it out and I made a note. It was a Tampa exchange.

  I thanked Ruby for her trouble and hung up. Then I called the number.

  I didn’t have to wait long before a recorded voice answered and gave me a choice of options and numbers to press. I pressed three. The concierge answered at once.

  “You are through to the Heights Condominium. Mike speaking.”

  “My name is Harry Lipkin,” I said. “I am trying to contact a rabbi called Rifkin. I have this as his residence.”

  “It was,” Mike said. “Until six months ago. I am sorry to have to inform you that Rabbi Rifkin is currently hospitalized.”

  The news shook me.

  “Is it bad?” I asked.

  “I have no record,” Mike replied. “But I can give you the name of the hospital and their contact details. They are on our database.”

  “I’ll take them,” I said. “If you would be so kind.”

  There was a minute while Mike checked on his computer. Then he came back on the line.

  “Rabbi Rifkin is at the Mordecai Medical Center, in Sweetwater. The Association for the Health and Care of Retired Rabbis is the body looking after him. His room here has now been vacated and is occupied by another party.”

  There was a short pause. There was something on his mind. It was that kind of pause. I was right.

  “I hope you don’t take offense” Mike said. “But I have to ask the reason for your inquiry. It is a matter of routine, for security purposes only. We ask everyone who makes an inquiry such as yours.”

  “I am not offended,” I told him. “I am looking for information. Specialist information. The kind that only someone like Rabbi Rifkin might be able to supply.”

  Mike listened. Put it someplace. The database probably.

  “In what capacity?” Mike asked. “Sounds intriguing.”

  “I am a private detective,” I said.

  “A detective!” Mike almost choked. “How totally thrilling.”

  “A job,” I said.

  “But so dramatic. And believe me, I should know. I only do this part-time. I am actually a professional actor. Musical theater mainly. Did you see the Singing Detective? You must have. A lot of my friends thought it fabulous and of course it was, in a way, but I kept thinking to myself, Paul—that’s my stage name, Paul, Paul Granger—there is a whole lot more you would have done with this if they had given it to you. I would have taken my motivation from trees in spring. Color. Light. Freshness. Do you know what I mean?”

  There wasn’t room for an answer.

  “Anyway,” Mike carried on. “They are doing a Stephen Sondheim season at the East Tampa Arts Center through the summer, and there is just a teeny-weeny chance I might get something. I would just love to do Sweeny Todd, or Assassins, or A Little Night Music, or anything, even a Rodgers and Hammerstein, Oklahoma is fabulous, better still, the lead role, Robert, in Company.”

  I agreed that Mike would be just fabulous playing Robert and he gave me the phone number of the Mordecai Medical Center. I called it.

  Reception confirmed that Rabbi Lionel Rifkin was a patient. I could visit him anytime between three in the afternoon and eight in the evening. I didn’t need an appointment. I said I would be there in a couple of hours and got ready.

  · TWENTY-ONE ·

  Harry Drives to the Mordecai Medical Center

  The traffic was flowing easily until I turned south onto the interstate, where it slowed almost to a standstill. Ahead I could see a number of police cars with flashing lights. Three lines of traffic were being merged into one. A highway sideshow.

  Drivers in front of me were slowing down. Hoping to get a better look. At the point where we filed into a single lane there was plenty to see.

  Men in bright yellow protective clothing and hard hats were sweeping broken glass and bits of metal to the side of the highway. A couple of medics were talking to each other and shaking their heads. A couple more were lifting a stretcher on wheels from the back of a meat wagon. Another was unwrapping a body bag. Cops were everywhere talking on cell phones. Giving orders. Taking orders. At the center was a team of firefighters with oxyacetylene torches. They were cutting the burned-out buckled shell of a black Italian coupe from the fender of a heavy-duty dump truck. If someone was laying odds on who built the car I’d take them. However short. Maserati.

  With the show over I picked up speed and arrived at the Mordecai Medical Center in late afternoon. I parked in the lot they set aside for visitors and I made my way to the main entrance.

  The sky was now more or less uncluttered apart from a few flamingo-pink streaks crisscrossing on the horizon to the west. I walked under an arch made by two rows of American elms to what was originally a Colonial mansion. The entrance had been added on sometime in the 1930s. Pastel-paint concrete and glass doors.

  I made my way to the reception desk where a plump middle-aged woman with her dark hair tied in a bun was staring at a computer screen. I took off my hat.

  “I’m looking for Rabbi Rifkin,” I said.

  She responded without looking up.

  “Are you a
visitor?”

  A star of David as big as a doughnut hung on a gold chain over the top of her white uniform. The name engraved on the badge was Bettina de Vries.

  “I called earlier,” I told her. “My name is Harry Lipkin. I believe Rabbi Rifkin is a patient here.”

  Bettina de Vries entered the information on her computer and waited. Then she read out what was on the screen.

  “His room is 106, in the Sherman Wing,” she said. “But he usually spends this time of day in the garden. You get there through the main corridor. Make a left by the catering area and then a right. You’ll find him easy enough. He sits by the aviary.”

  Bettina de Vries handed me a plastic visitor’s card and a ball point with the name of the medical center embossed on the side. She had used her left hand. I looked for a wedding ring. There wasn’t one.

  “The garden is security sensitive,” she said. “You will need the number printed on the back of the card to get back into the building. You just press the buttons in sequence. One. Nine. Zero. Nine. Please sign the visitor’s book, print your name under the signature, provide your driver’s license number, and fill in the time and date you arrived.”

  “I got a passport back home if you need it,” I said, filling in the page. “The photo’s a little out of date but you can tell it’s me. I’m wearing the same tie.”

  Nothing to that. Bettina de Vries was busy checking through my entry.

  “Hang the ID around your neck,” she ordered. “If you get lost, call out. There will always be a nurse somewhere close. They will help you.”

  “I’ll manage just fine,” I said and put my hat back on. “I’m pretty good at finding my way around places I never been before. Last Sukkoth I hiked alone through the Big Cypress. Six days wandering in the swamps with nothing but a compass and a bowie knife.”

  Bettina de Vries’s mouth did something funny. A sort of twitch like when you suffer a minor stroke. But she didn’t speak.

  She pressed a button under her desk. Doors opened. I gave her the Oliver Hardy Kiddy Finger Wave and shoved the ID into my pocket. A silk scarf I put around my neck. Not cheap blue ribbon with a lump of plastic hanging from the end. To hell with ID cards.