“A balanced portfolio for retirement…”
His eyes remained closed but his jaw started to grind.
“I’m sorry, Wash. I’d like to interview the Jews who were present at the shootings. Then try to drum up a little information from the Irish side of the neighborhood. Nothing fancy.”
“You already been too fancy,” he said opening his eyes.
“I know and I apologize, really…”
“Shut up, Jacobs. I don’t want your voice ringing in my head the rest of the day. Go about your business, but stay away from the townies. You want to fuck with what’s left of the Avengers, be my guest. Even dog shit has to earn a living. But I don’t want you bothering no one except the Beards or the Avengers. And you don’t go telling anyone we talked. Not your mother, your father, or Roth. Especially not Roth. You understand?”
An insane voice protested. Hell, I understood less now than before, but a new-age respect for my body maintained control. “Nobody from the Irish side of the neighborhood will talk with me anyhow. Didn’t mean to get in your way.”
“I didn’t say anything about getting in my way, Jacobs.” As Clifford walked past me, he dropped the gym bag onto my lap. “Don’t forget to bring this Downtown.”
I held my breath until I heard the door shut then rifled my stash. I pulled out grass and a pipe and let the bag drop to the floor. I stuffed the pipe, lit the grass, and smoked until the first wave of calm eased my anxiety. But it wasn’t until after I’d had a cigarette that I trusted my legs to carry me to the bathroom. The lip cut wasn’t bad; a small Band-Aid would blend with the rest of my look.
I returned to the living room, gathered my supplies, and flopped on the couch. I reached out and pushed the bag of Fritos off the table. The sight of them brought on waves of nausea. For a while I just lay there numbly, giving my body a chance to shake the anticipation of another blow. The tea leaves read the rest of the day as a TKO between figure and forget. Between curiosity about Clifford’s appearance, and the memory of his fist. But before I could decide, the telephone rang and I answered the starting bell. I guess it was still too damn close to the past week for me to feel comfortable on the couch.
“I thought you were going back to work today.”
I tried keeping him distinct from Clifford by reminding myself that Simon never used his fists. “I’ve been working, boss. Even made some progress.”
“What do we have?”
We were going to keep it simple until I had a chance to ponder, and perhaps understand, Clifford’s visit. “About a half dozen pamphlets and tapes straight from the horse’s barn.”
“What barn? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Sean Kelly. I broke into his apartment, went through his stuff, and came away with a sampler. I left the porn there.”
“You broke into his apartment, huh?” Simon sounded impressed. “What did you find?”
“Wall-to-wall hate. Tee shirts, tapes, books, videos.”
“Anything else?”
“Poetry. A big fat history book. Underpants.” I was reluctant to mention the note. Very reluctant.
“I mean useful.”
“This is useful,” I protested. “You wanted confirmation that Kelly was a bigshot in the Avengers and that the Avengers terrorized the Jews. This stuff has them in bed with fucking neo-Nazis. You’re going to have a picnic sticking it to them.”
“It’s not enough,” Simon grumbled. “I’d like more.”
I had more to give. But my more wouldn’t give him what he wanted. My more would give him a migraine. And me another visit from Clifford. “Relax, friend. I’ll keep working.”
“It’s easy for you to say, but the Jewish community has its legs around my head. They are going to crack it like a fucking walnut if I don’t close this case soon. Right now the Never Agains are exerting enormous pressure on the traditional organizations. And believe me, I’m hearing about all of it.”
“You said the Never Agains weren’t big-time?”
“And like you said, this situation helps them recruit. Well, it does more than that. Reb Dov’s murder and the refusal to shut the book on Reb Yonah pushes everyone’s Jewish early alertsystem.”
“Almost everyone.”
“You don’t have an early warning system about anything, Matt. All of a sudden Never Agains are making angry sense to people who used to be disgusted by their rhetoric. People who know better. And the Never Agains are clever enough to make the most of it.”
For a moment I wondered whether this was the pot Clifford was stirring. It seemed unlikely; after all, he hadn’t warned me off the Hasids. “Who are they going to blow up? Kelly’s already dead.”
“I don’t know what they’re thinking of doing and neither does anyone else. That’s what has everyone worried. People who aren’t soft on the vigilantes are afraid the Never Agains will do something to really bring the heat. Do something that will boomerang back onto the Jews.”
I fingered the new bandage on my face. “Well, Simon, I’m getting what there is to get.”
“What are your plans?”
That’s what everyone wanted to know. Me too. “Well…”
“Come on, Matt-man. What are you going to do now?”
“The Yeshiva.” I paused. “Then back to the Irish.”
That placated one of us. The wrong one. Him.
“Sounds good, I suppose. I don’t have anything better to suggest.” Simon groaned and added, “I’ll try to calm things at my end, but it would be a helluva lot easier if Downtown shits or gets off the pot.”
I hesitated, then, despite Washington’s warning, strung a line. “Simon, what if Clifford really is involved?”
“Use your head for a second, will you?” He sounded disgusted. “Do you see that man concerned about a Hasid’s death? Or some shanty Irish? This isn’t his kind of work.”
“What about Never Agains? What if they are planning some sort of action?”
This time he paused. “Okay, Matt, good question.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Simon ignored me. “But it’s off-base. Believe me, I’m taking a crash course in their operation. Never Agains always work through local organizations. People aren’t worried that something will happen up here.”
“Why not?”
“Because the group doesn’t have a local chapter. No, Goomba, people are afraid the assholes will do something rash, but not around here.”
“I suppose,” I replied dubiously.
“Look, Matt, I have enough to worry about without your paranoid fantasies. If you or Phil have something more than a rumor, tell me. If not, leave it alone.”
I had something more than rumor. But I would tell him later, when I knew what it was. Maybe. “Okay, Barrister, I was just wondering.”
“And I’m wondering how you’re feeling?”
“Like a million.”
He didn’t ask what a million felt like. I was glad because my million felt sickly green.
The fresh joint brought a rush of serious second guesses. I had withheld fairly pertinent information. Still, Clifford seemed completely disinterested in the Rabbi or the Avengers. His focus had been on Kelly. I’d gotten there myself; but something told me Washington hadn’t arrived on the same bus.
Two hours later I felt a little better. And knew it when I’d stopped thinking of my Fritos as Clifford’s. But only a little. I could eat the chips but couldn’t come unstuck. Something important enough to involve Washington Clifford, yet tangential to the shootings was happening around me. Something larger than the Avengers and irrelevant to any legal hassle facing Reb Yonah. I chewed on my deep-fat-fried and fervently hoped Washington Clifford was breaking The National Armored Car Theft Association.
It was a bind. I didn’t intend to tell Simon about Clifford’s visit until I had followed my nose and discovered something useful and connected to the case. Problem was: I wasn’t too excited about following my nose into Clifford’s fist.
&nbs
p; As my frustration mounted so did the need to do something. Only there weren’t all that many somethings staring me in the face. It took a little bourbon, darkness, and my unwillingness to remain in the house before I capitulated to the inevitable. It was time to re-visit the Yeshiva.
Walking through the door into their rundown hall was, once again, a walk back in time. Unfortunately, the retreat didn’t ease the soreness in my body or cause my bruises to disappear. It only made me feel older. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, my nose to the building’s musty smell, I felt a nerve-tightening anxiety. I leaned against one of the chipped walls, closed my eyes, and forced myself to relax. The anxiety was not the fearful dread of the past week’s, nor the expectation of another painful blow. My tension, I reluctantly admitted, was fathered by an undercurrent of anticipation. I wanted to see the kid.
This visit I searched for the voices. And found them in a large dining hall downstairs. I stood unseen in the shadows just outside the door. Like airport radar, my eyes scanned the room until I found him sitting at a corner table with a couple of older men. The men were engaged in an animated discussion but Yakov seemed content to toy with his food. The entire room boomed with boisterous conversations, creating an incomprehensible din. It didn’t help that none of the words were in English.
Now that I’d managed to force myself to return, I wondered about my next move. So I just kept standing there. Aside from the population, the room was colorless, painted a plain ancient gray. Along one side was a half wall that set apart a large working kitchen. The kitchen workers, all white-aproned, yarmulked, and bearded, were now at rest. Once in a while someone brought their plate to the counter and one of the bearded aprons would interrupt his own meal to pile the plate high with chicken, potatoes, and gravy. Frequently, people carried mugs to a large metal vat where they ladled out steaming coffee. I didn’t see anybody add milk, but more than a few dumped serious sugar. Even so, as soon as I noticed the jo, I could almost smell it.
When the pale white hand touched my shoulder I realized I was smelling it. Not from the urn across the room, but from the cup I bumped when I whirled around. “I’m sorry,” I said reaching for my handkerchief. I quickly stuck it back in my pocket when I saw the blood from Clifford’s visit. “You gave me a scare,” I explained.
“Then I should apologize, not you.” The man reached into his suit pocket for his own handkerchief. “Did any of my coffee spill on you?” he asked.
“If it had I would have licked it off.”
He stuck the handkerchief back into his pocket, stroked his stringy black beard, and looked at me quizzically. He suddenly smiled. “I get it. Most people won’t come into the building.” He looked at me with regret. “We don’t have room for people to stay here, you know.”
I hoped it was my bruised face that spurred his compassion. If it wasn’t I’d have to change tailors.
“Thank you, but I don’t need a place to stay. Or food. I just had a sudden hankering for coffee.”
“Please don’t be shy. I can tell by your face things aren’t easy for you. We are always happy to share our good fortune. It’s called a mitzvah.”
The GAP could rest easy about my trade. “Well, things aren’t easy, but it doesn’t have anything to do with eating.” I smiled. “Do I look undernourished?”
He glanced past me and I turned just in time to see Yakov arrive waving his hand and speaking in rapid-fire Yiddish. The man listened intently then looked at me. He responded to Yakov who shrugged and nodded. The man shook his head, drew back a step and said, embarrassed, “I made a horrible mistake. Yakov tells me that you work for Mister Roth. I thought…”
I rushed to reassure him. “That’s okay, lots of people make the same mistake.”
He nodded without meeting my eyes and rushed past me into the dining room. I turned back to a glaring Yakov. “You didn’t have to make a fool of Eliezer.”
“I wasn’t trying to embarrass him, Yakov.”
“I saw the two of you speaking. You had plenty of time to tell him who you were.”
“I was starting to when you interrupted. What’s going on? The last time I left we were friends.”
“Friends?” He shook his head. “We were never friends.”
“Okay, Yakov, friends might be a stretch, but now you want to tear my head off.”
I reminded myself of the pressure he was under. “Look, maybe I dredge up your father’s legal hassle, but I’m here to help, that’s all.”
The mention of Yonah cut through his anger and a pained look crossed his face. It was gone by the time he said softly, “Thank you for your reassurance, but I’m not worried about my father’s legal problems.”
“Then what’s got your back up?”
He abruptly changed the subject. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I told you I was going to return. I need to interview some of the people who were at the shootings.”
He nodded. “Yes, so you said.” He started to add something but changed his mind, standing silent until he waved his arm. “Do you intend to interview everyone?”
“Everyone was there?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I probably only need to talk with a few.”
He smiled without a trace of his mad. “I can help.”
It wasn’t professional, but then, neither was I. If this was his way of working things through, I wasn’t going to squelch it. “Thanks, I could use the help.”
“Do you need a quiet room?”
“It might be easier to set up camp at a corner table here. Unless you think it will disrupt people’s dinners. This way I won’t feel like a high school principal calling folks into the office.”
“Wait here,” he commanded. He ran into another room and returned with a yarmulke. “Put this on,” he said, shoving it into my hand.
I tried screwing it onto the top of my hair, but I still had to hold it while I followed him through the cafeteria. He led me to a table in the rear. “Would you like something to eat before we begin?”
“Just coffee, please. Black. Oh, and Yakov, I’d be really grateful if you could bring me a pencil and some paper.”
He looked surprised at my request, shook his head skeptically, but left the room. This wasn’t a day I inspired a whole lot of confidence. I glanced around relieved to see people smoking, reached for a small tin ashtray, and lit up. I sensed that Eliezer had passed the word since no one ran over to offer me alms. Also, the decibel level was a little lower. Now the place just sounded like Fenway during a World’s Series instead of the Humphrey Dome.
I sat back in my chair smoking to the chorus of singsong voices, a constant tugging of wild beards, the de rigueur black or gray suits shiny with use, the rocking back and forth in their chairs. The men, and there were only men in the dining hall, occasionally stopped their incantations to pore through oversized, leather-bound books held on their laps. Many people were so intensely engaged by their discussions they barely touched their food. Dinner at the Baal Shem Yeshiva was not a kick-back, chill-out affair.
Actually, I appreciated the din. The noise created an illusion of privacy, allowing me an opportunity to eyeball an alien world. When I realized that it had only been a short while since I sat in a freezer interviewing neo-Nazis, the sensation deepened. I was a Stranger in a Couple of Strange Lands.
Yakov, returning, pen and notebook in hand, reminded me of a young colt, all legs and head, as he moved toward the half wall. A couple of minutes later he was toting a tray toward me that was filled with cups and a large pot of coffee.
“Sit down,” he said as I stood up to help. “This should start us off. There is more if we want it.”
Though pleased by the implied partnership I said, “Aren’t you a little young for coffee this time of night?”
My remark scored a dirty look. “I’ve been drinking coffee since my bar mitzvah. Everybody does. It keeps you awake.”
“I know what it does, but why do you want to stay awake
?”
“To learn.”
“The last time we met you said something about this learning. What exactly are you studying?”
“Mostly Gemorah, Halacha.” He stopped, looked at me, then said, “Our laws.” Yakov waved his hand. “You have to think about it differently. The learning itself is everything. To spend time with our Rabbis’ teachings, to have the privilege of studying Holy Words is a lifetime’s joy. Every moment we learn brings us a great deal of pleasure.”
“So we’re talking God’s work here?”
Yakov smiled. “Those of us who can will spend our lives learning.” He added, “I’ll spend my life here, living like I do now.”
“You know that already? What if…”
“There is no what if.”
I thought about his desire to do the interviews, and wondered whether I was an unconscious “what if.”
“Will hanging around here with me get you in trouble?”
“Of course not.” He seemed offended by the question. “No one tells me what to do. That’s up to me.”
The words jumped out before I could reel them in. “What about your dad? Doesn’t he have anything to say?”
Yakov’s mouth tightened. “I don’t question my father and he doesn’t question me.”
“I’m not talking about questions or explanations. I’m talking about interest.”
Yakov didn’t answer. I drank my coffee and lit another cigarette. I was in no rush to work. It was comfortable feeling protective without my past getting in the way. “Yakov, I get the feeling that you were closer to Rabbi Dov than you are with your dad.”
The boy’s face darkened. “What difference does that make to you?”
A fair question that deserved an honest answer. “Maybe it’s poking in where I don’t belong, but I’m a little worried about you. You seem cut off from everybody else. Earlier I saw you sitting at a table. The other people were talking and eating but you weren’t doing either. I know you were close to Rabbi Dov, but who are you close with now?”
Yakov’s eyes flashed, and he shook his head defensively. “You say you’re worried, but why should I believe you? You also said you were coming back to Yeshiva but you waited until the lawyer Roth made you return. Anyhow, I can take care of myself.” There was a hurt, bitter tone to his voice.
The Complete Matt Jacob Series Page 67
