The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

  “No problem. I’ll get you something good. Contributing Editor blah, blah, blah. Hang on to it in case you ever decide to switch professions.”

  “I need it by tonight.”

  “That’s the second time you told me. Do they scare you?”

  I stopped to think. “Not really. They look like bruisers but they’re too stupid to scare me.”

  “Good. I don’t have to worry.”

  “I always try to make things easy for you, Simon. What time should I come by?”

  “Just sit tight. I’ll send a messenger.” He paused, then added, “Unless, of course, you feel a need to fly the nest, McMurphy.”

  After replacing the receiver, I remembered another question. I lifted the phone back to my ear and dialed his office. The line was busy so I moved on to the sub shop. A steak, onion, and cheese later I was back inside my apartment with the prospect of a long, dull wait. I tried Simon’s office again, but this time there was no answer.

  I gathered a couple of newspapers and leafed through, surprised to find little mention of the shootings. I flashed on Cheryl’s intense desire to pursue the story and felt sheepish about the way I ran her off. Now that I was alone, her youthful optimism struck me as a refreshing relief after the hate I’d listened to. Leave it to me to chase away something I might have enjoyed.

  My perversity annoyed me and I didn’t want to hang around the house and dwell on it. I had plenty of time before Simon sent the plastic, so I rolled a joint and jumped into my car for an aimless ride around town.

  My former shrink Gloria would have questioned my aimlessness. And rightly so since I found myself touring past the Yeshiva. I didn’t intend to go back into the building until the following week, but told myself it would be nice to run into the kid. Maybe I wanted to make amends for my behavior with Cheryl. I drove by the Yeshiva twice, and Reb Yonah’s house once before giving up. But while I was driving I noticed an empty basketball court, guessed it was the one Yakov had mentioned, and parked within easy sight.

  I lit the joint, smoked, and let myself evening-dream. I imagined a group of kids, some Hasids, some not, playing ball, enjoying themselves. I let myself drift more deeply and saw a Rainbow team fastbreak the hell out of a bigot five. I was the coach of the Rainbows, urging them on to victory. I would see to it that nobody got hurt.

  Sometimes fantasy is the only place where the good guys win. Yakov, though not on the court, kept darting in and out of my consciousness. Eventually my pleasure faded and anxiety grabbed the reins. I’d done enough shrink time to uncover the source, but I didn’t want to. Instead, I started the car and quickly pulled away from the curb. This wasn’t the time to allow my imagination to run unchecked. I wasn’t frightened of my late night soiree with the Avengers, but there was no need to meet them all fucked up. And I wasn’t talking dope.

  The banging on my office door woke me from an uneasy nap. I looked at the clock, wondered who would want me at eleven, then remembered the messenger. I pulled myself off the couch and rushed to the door.

  Simon stood in the alley wearing a dug-in-for-the-duration look. A definite harbinger of his mood.

  “Where the hell were you?”

  “I was sleeping,” I said, nodding him into the apartment. “I go to work later, remember?”

  “I tried calling you earlier and there was no answer. It worried me.”

  “Your worry is losing its charm, Simon. I don’t need bed checks.” We gravitated to the kitchen and sat around my enamel-top table after I put up some coffee.

  “I didn’t come to harass you, Matt.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I had trouble getting the identification.”

  I lifted my hands. “No ticket, no work.”

  He shook his head impatiently. “Don’t get your hopes up. It was difficult, but I got it.” He handed me a couple of plastic cards. I looked at them as he added, “You’re supposed to be a free-lance so I got you a couple. Both of them are good.”

  That they were. I looked up. “You never have trouble with things like this.”

  His fingers drummed the table. “It’s this damn case. I’m getting pushed from the center. Out of the loop. All my usual contacts are polite and friendly, but no one comes across.” He shook his head. “I knew the situation was complicated. Hell, every Jewish organization across the globe is watching, but I can’t get anything to move.”

  “Why not?”

  “The State won’t charge, but won’t say they won’t either.”

  “Still worried things might blow up?”

  He shrugged dismally. “That doesn’t explain the extent of the shutdown. I’ve been cut off.”

  I thought back to my breakfast at Charley’s. It seemed like a long time ago. “This morning Phil implied that Washington Clifford might be involved.”

  Simon lifted his head. “Washington Clifford? What else did Phil suggest?”

  “That I give back the job.”

  “Thank you, Phil.”

  I smiled. “Don’t take it personal. He also told me where to make contact with the Avengers.”

  “What did he say about Washington Clifford?”

  “Nothing.” I couldn’t resist. “Why don’t you call Clifford up? You were friends.”

  Simon grimaced. “You’ll never let go. I’ve never been friends with Washington Clifford. We used each other, that’s all. Once. Just once.”

  “It was a helluva use, Simon. Hard to forget.”

  His face suddenly turned sour. “Don’t lecture me. I’ve lived with it, not you. You were the good guy, remember? If you can’t let go, just clam up about it. If Phil told you something about Clifford I want to know what it is!”

  I stood up to fix our coffee. Mine black, his with sugar and cream. I opened the refrigerator and peered inside. His with sugar.

  I returned to the table. “Phil didn’t say anything more than I told you.”

  Simon slapped the air dismissively. “Phil’s dreaming. This isn’t something Clifford would be involved with.” He raised his fist. “You have to bleed these bastards tonight, Matt! Every last drop! I want a case that no one can break.”

  I drained my cup and poured another. “Simon, the fix isn’t in for the Avengers.”

  “I can’t chance it.”

  “You’re paranoid. I’ve met with a couple of Avengers, remember? You might have to keep an eye on them because they are mean and violent, but they aren’t much use to anyone.”

  “The Nazis used plenty of people like the Avengers.”

  “Simon, please. Does joining a Temple mean you have to lose the rest of your common sense?”

  “Since when do you trust the criminal justice system?”

  “I’m not talking trust.” I waved my hand. “I don’t want to get into this with you. There will be enough dirt to make chopped liver out of ‘em.”

  Which reminded me of my question. “Speaking of chopped liver, who are the Never Agains? Or what is it?”

  For a brief moment the subject switch left him behind. Then Simon’s face darkened. “The Never Agains. A worldwide Hasidic self-defense organization. They started about thirty years ago in a Jewish and Black section of Brooklyn. Protection against the high number of muggings that were taking place. They were racists then, and worse now. Vigilantes, pure and simple, only now they are international. People say they have been involved with terrorist activities against Arab consulates. They also have their own ‘Nazi Watch.’ The Never Agains don’t get much respect throughout the wider Jewish community. Except, maybe from racist fanatics.” Simon stopped and shook his head disgustedly. “As much as I despise anti-Semitism, the Never Agains make me really sick.”

  “I guess the Big Guy’s death helps with recruitment.”

  Simon smiled. “The ‘Big Guy,’ huh?”

  I grinned back. “It’s hard work keeping all these Rabbis separate. They all look alike, you know.”

  “I hope you’re still staying clear of the Yeshiva. I don
’t think Reb Yonah believes you’ll turn Hasid.”

  “Well, he’s got something right, anyhow.”

  Simon glanced at the kitchen clock and asked, “Everything in this apartment is thirties and forties so what the hell are you doing with a black cat clock?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not as consistent as you, my friend.”

  He moved toward the office. “I have to get home. I should never have downed that shit you call coffee. I need sleep something fierce.”

  “So you don’t want me calling until morning?”

  “No,” he said as he waved goodbye, “I don’t want you to call at all. I’ll call you.”

  The rest of the wait went quickly. I considered bringing my gun as part of my free-lance apparel then decided not. The Avengers were tough and no doubt mean, but I couldn’t forget how vulnerable Joe had left himself in Buzz’s john. I settled on a pen and small notebook.

  I went for my stash and took inventory. It wasn’t a complicated decision. If something unexpected went down, I wanted to be up for it. And the only up in the gym bag was inside the vial I’d snatched from Simon. Rather than use the built-in snorter I opened the bottle, poured some coke onto the back of my hand, and nosed it down. Another toot, a little more coffee, and a fair amount of nicotine put me in a fine mood to boogie.

  The night had turned October cold and windy. I was glad I’d worn my leather. Collar up not only kept me warm, the look reflected my fantasy of a literary stud journalist. I just couldn’t shake my man Norm.

  This time around I cruised the neighborhood at a faster clip. Though I agreed with Simon’s assessment of Washington Clifford’s involvement, I still felt “watched” and couldn’t put his mean face completely out of mind. But the area was deserted except for cats pawing through garbage.

  When I arrived at the front door the tavern was still unlocked. For a moment it was a relief; the outside was so chilly and miserable that any port in a storm…Once I got deeper inside the dank, smelly joint, I knew the aphorism was a lie.

  Buzz stood over a sink behind the bar, carefully washing a long line of glasses. He looked up when I entered and asked, “Mind locking the door? Just twist the bolt. I don’t want anyone accusing me of serving after hours. I pay off too much as it is. What’ll you have?”

  I locked the door, then turned. “Same as my original. Bourbon straight, no beer.”

  Buzz turned to make my drink, picked up a glass placed by itself on an upper shelf, turned to me, and said, “Shit, I almost forgot.” He held the glass out in front of his body and let it fall to the floor where it shattered. “Had us a jig here.”

  I knew what he’d had because I’d seen it too many times before. A Black or Hispanic wanders into the wrong bar and drinks despite the bad vibes. As soon as they finish and leave, the glass is broken. In full sight of everyone else. But I’d never heard of a bartender forgetting, or saving it for later. Unless, of course, Buzz was sending me a message.

  I didn’t have a chance to ask.

  “Take it with you,” Buzz said handing me a generous double. “Through the door and downstairs. They’re waiting in the cooler.”

  “The cooler?” I asked.

  He tilted his head toward the back of the bar. “Nothing to worry about as long as the red light over the door is blinking,” he said. I nodded, sipped the bourbon, and slid off the stool.

  It didn’t take long to juice my anxiety once I walked downstairs and pulled on the stainless steel bar that opened the refrigerator door. Six or seven guys stood in front of the cases and kegs that lined the walls. Even with the blinking red light and body heat, the medium-sized room was tight and uncomfortable, retaining its chill. The only thing missing was a slab of dead cow hanging from the ceiling. I pulled my leather tight around my body. And regretted not bringing my gun.

  The Avengers wore long-sleeved khaki shirts and khaki pants. A cliche, but a cliche that wasn’t on television and was armed with saps. Blue sat alone at a cheap card table in the middle of the room. He was dressed differently from his crew, wearing jeans and a sweater. His billy club lay on the table in front of him. I gently placed my drink next to it. For a second I questioned my decision to coke up, but knew if it came to using my fists, forenosed was forearmed.

  At a nod from Blue, three of the khakis moved in and roughly frisked me, pulling my pen, identification, and notebook from my jacket’s pockets, tossing them down next to the bourbon.

  “Where’s your tape recorder?” Blue growled.

  “I don’t use them.” I let my mind race. “Makes people uptight. I’d rather take notes.” I looked around the icebox. “No place to plug it in, anyway.”

  Blue shrugged and pointed to the seat across from his.

  I nodded and sat down.

  Blue looked up over my head and I felt a couple of his boys gather behind me. I resisted the desire to turn around, instead found and held Blue’s eyes. “What’s going on here?” I demanded.

  “We have a couple of questions, but first I want to look at this.” He lifted the plastic identification very close to his eyes. “It looks real,” he grudgingly said to his friends.

  “Of course it’s fucking real,” I said, grabbing it from his hand in a feigned motion of anger. “All you had to do was ask me to show it to you—instead I get cop-house treatment! I’m fucking out of here.”

  I started to stand, felt a hand clamp down on my shoulder, and let myself be pushed back into my seat.

  “I said a couple of questions,” Blue commanded.

  “Ask.”

  “What were you doing with the spear-chucker?”

  Buzz had saved the glass for me.

  “She’s a writer, I’m a writer. She sees me coming out of the bar, bang, wants to know what I’m doing. This is what you got shoved up your ass?”

  Blue stuck his face a couple of inches from mine. “I told you this afternoon we watch our backs. You didn’t say nothing about talking to no other writer. Especially a mud.”

  I grabbed my pounding nerve endings. “She approached me, asshole, not the other way around. Same as you and Joe. Fuck your freezer, Blue. I’m outta here.”

  This time I shook off the hand and turned to face the khaki clad crowd. They looked tense, ready to fight.

  “I told you, we have to be careful,” Blue said to my back.

  “Yeah, well as far as I’m concerned, you’re too fucking careful.”

  “Just tell us what you talked about and that will be it.”

  I turned, lifted my drink, and slammed my palm down on the shaky table causing the pen, notebook, and billy club to jump. “I’ll tell you. Get the live beef out and I’ll stay. I’m not here for a Miller commercial.”

  I heard some heavy breathing and hoped I hadn’t overplayed. I stared at Blue who finally nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Everybody upstairs. If I need you I’ll shout.”

  There was grumbling and sotto voce protests, still, one by one the overgrown boy scouts filed out of the refrigerator.

  Which left me with Blue.

  “I don’t like this,” I said.

  “Nobody likes nothing right now. You think it’s easy for them to leave me here with you?” As had happened earlier, without an audience Blue’s attitude lost some of its macho. Taking its place was something like worry. He grabbed at a loose thread on his worn wool sweater.

  “You gotta understand, I’m new at this. When talking needed to be done it was Sean who did it. Stepping up this way is something I got to do now whether I like it or not.”

  “Well, lesson number one is you catch flies with honey, not bazookas.”

  Blue scowled. “The way the country is going we need the bazookas.”

  “I’m not the whole country. If this is the way you deal with people who want to get your story out, no wonder no one likes you.” I caught my breath, and looked around the fridge. A bright two-hundred-watt bulb hung from the middle of the ceiling but gave off no heat. “It’s cold down here. If you have more questions, ask.�
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  “What did the mud want?” His voice held none of its earlier threat.

  I let my hard-guy recede. “She wanted to know if I found out how to reach you boyos.”

  Blue’s face tightened. “And you told her?”

  “Of course not. I’m not going to blow an exclusive.”

  “Did she see me show up? She wonder what you were doing in the bar for so long?”

  I tried to lighten his concerns. “I told her I was drinking. Hell, I have a reputation to uphold.”

  A small grimace, maybe a smile, shuddered across his face. “You got any smokes?” he asked.

  I pulled the Newports from my shirt pocket and flipped them on the table. Even with three they hadn’t done much of a search, but Blue never noticed. He grabbed the pack, offered me one,and sat back smoking with obvious pleasure.

  “You trying to quit?” I asked.

  “Sort of. Sean wanted us healthy. No smokes, workouts, shit like that.”

  “Why?” I asked as I reached for my notebook and pen.

  “He thought the whole country was going soft. Going that way for a real long time. If we were gonna take it back we had to be stronger than everyone else. Strong bodies, minds. He used to tell us The Beatles said it in one of their albums. Something about get back, get back.”

  I didn’t think Abby Road had much to do with fascism, but then, I’d been surprised by Manson’s affinity for The White Album. “Who is this ‘we’ you keep talking about?”

  Blue sat back in his metal folding chair and took a deep breath. The interview he’d been wanting had just begun. I clicked my pen and leaned over my notebook.

  “White people is the ‘we,’” he began. “Ever since the Horns got control of immigration they opened the doors and let in anyone who ain’t White. Browns, yellows, it don’t matter so long as they ain’t really white.”

  Blue leaned forward in his chair. “I can still remember when the country wasn’t like this. We had homes where women took care of kids instead of shipping them out, or letting ‘em run crazy. Where sitting at the table eating together meant something. We want it like it was when I grew up. My old man worked near Gary, Indiana. He worked every fucking day and a hell of a lot of overtime. Never missed a shift. We didn’t get rich but we had something. A place, enough food, some spending money.” He stopped suddenly and asked, “Are you writing this down? I ain’t telling you all this for nothing. I want you to understand what’s going on here.”