I finally understood his anger. The boy felt trapped; caught between his hunger for, and fear of, contact. “Yakov, I’m sorry if you expected me back sooner, but Simon did not order me back to the Yeshiva.”
“Then why has it taken so long? I expected you after our shiva.”
I considered telling him about Becky but couldn’t begin. Didn’t want to begin. Instead, I let go of my breath. “I ran into a little trouble on the case.”
“Your bruises are from my father’s case?”
“Yeah. The Avengers stopped talking to me.”
“What do you mean ‘talking to you’?”
“I masqueraded as a writer to get information.”
“Isn’t that dangerous? Is that what you always do on a case?” He might spend the rest of his life hauling heavy Jewish, but right now he had the excitement of a kid curious about the world.
“Slow down, boy. Detective work is mostly boring, plodding research. Believe me, I spend more time in libraries than on the street. The impersonation stuff is unusual.”
“But it must be dangerous,” he offered. “Look what happened to you. What if the Avengers had guns?”
“Nothing so exciting, Yakov,” I dodged. “Just a couple goons who jumped me. No big deal.” I couldn’t help myself and added, “They got the worst of it.”
Yakov nearly rose from his chair and said something in Yiddish.
“What’s gotten into you?” I asked.
“You were the person who beat up the Avengers!” he said excitedly. “We heard a rumor about that but no one knew if it was really true. Now it turns out you were the one who did it.” He wore a huge grin and looked around the room as if he wanted to shout the news.
I reached across the table and pulled on his suit cuff. “I’m telling you, Yakov, it wasn’t a big deal. And I’m not sure it’s something to be proud of. There are better ways to take care of business than fighting.”
Yakov’s head snapped back. “A moment ago you sounded pleased, now you sound like a teacher. This ‘better way’ didn’t work for my Rebbe.”
I’d struck another nerve. “No it didn’t, but that doesn’t change what I said. It reinforces it. Proud is part of the problem. All of us are brought up believing we’re strong and powerful if we can ‘beat’ the other guy. That’s tough to shake. Hey, when you told me about the basketball court I understood your frustration, but maybe your Rebbe had it right.”
“Or maybe Rebbe had it wrong,” Yakov said stridently. “At least about this,” he added quickly. “Nothing is gained by allowing yourself to be abused. Or by running.”
He drank from his cup and made a sour face when he discovered the coffee cold. I waited while he freshened both our cups, and then he continued. “Jews feel proud about the people who were killed in the Warsaw ghetto. We feel pride in those who would not die quietly. Even the atheist Zionists understand this. The rest of the world respects them because they refuse to be intimidated. We need the same attitude here so people will stop pushing us around.”
“I don’t agree with you, Yakov. Respect doesn’t mean much if it’s gotten through blood.” I paused then added, “Anyway, who are you going to stand up to? Right now the Avengers are out of circulation.”
He shook his head stubbornly. “They weren’t the first and won’t be the last. Anyhow, you say one thing but do another. You fought the Avengers. Our community must learn to protect itself. This, at least, is something my father and I agree upon.”
“Your father?”
“Yes. If the Rebbe had listened he would not have been sacrificed. My father has always wanted us to stand up for ourselves.”
“You’re talking like the Never Again people, aren’t you?”
“What do you know about them?”
“I’ve just heard stories. Yakov, they don’t sound very cool.”
“Cool? We don’t care about cool. We care about safety. The Yeshiva needs to be safe for us to have our life. We are different from everyone else and if we don’t take care of ourselves, no one will. The Never Agains provide strength and protection!”
“And you and your dad want them here?”
“Yes, but the Rebbe did not agree. Just like the basketball court.”
“What do the other Yeshiva people think about the Never Agains?”
“In the past most agreed with the Rebbe. Since his death it isn’t so clear.”
I shook my head, “I’ve heard that they do more than protect. I’ve been told they are a vigilante group.”
Yakov waved his young hand dismissively. “Are you a vigilante? What is the difference between what the Never Agains do and what you do? You work for people who need protection. If you have to fight, you fight. It’s the same, except the Never Agains is an organization for Hasidim. And you are an individual who can be bought by anyone.”
“Not anyone, Yakov,” I said mildly. “I don’t know enough about the group to argue with you, but when I first began working your father’s case, someone quoted, ‘Choose your enemies carefully for eventually you’ll resemble them.’ Well, it probably applies to friends as well.”
He started to retort but I didn’t want to continue the disagreement. “It’s time for us to work. It would be a big help if you could start with people who were right around the shootings. Maybe begin with the two or three who you think will be comfortable talking to me.”
For a second Yakov looked as if I had blown it. But his interest in the assignment grabbed hold. He nodded and left the table.
I lit another cigarette, and tried to get my head into the job. I felt good about Yakov and me, though I found his allegiance to the Never Agains disturbing. But right now I needed to put it away until some other time. I wanted to make up for having forgotten a pen and paper. I wantedthe boy to see a pro.
Maybe I was showing off, or maybe I was still smarting from being ID’d as homeless, but I interviewed the hell out of the Hasids. People, describing the night of the shootings said basically the same thing: Kelly caught their attention while he was screaming anti-Semitic slogans and curses; the crowd was too surprised and confused to react; given the chaos of the celebration, and the darkness of the night, no one had seen Kelly’s gun.
No one realized there was danger, or even that the Rebbe had been shot until Reb Yonah ran toward Kelly with his own gun. By then it was too late.
Eventually I changed horses and focused on the Avengers’ history of attacks on the Hasids. I had no trouble getting more specifics to bring to Simon. At one point I glanced up from my pen and notebook, surprised to see my table surrounded by a dozen Hasids, each intent on recounting still one more harassment. I struggled to keep up with my notes.
After the last person had finally finished his story, the crowd dispersed and I wearily dropped the pen on the table and closed the notebook. “The Avengers really worked you guys over, didn’t they?” I said to Yakov.
“Why do you think they have finished? These stories are the reasons we need to involve the Never Agains.”
“I’m too talked out to argue, Yakov.”
A sudden smile broke across his serious face. “You do this work well.”
I felt a flash of rare pleasure. “It wasn’t real difficult, kid. Everybody wanted to speak.”
“They wanted to speak because you wanted to listen.”
“That’s my job.”
“Will this help my father?”
“Simon says it will and he is a terrific lawyer.”
Yakov stood up and looked away, as if embarrassed about his concern.
“Look, kid, it makes sense that you’re worried.”
A small sour look darted across his adolescent face. “My worries leave sense far away.”
I waited but nothing more came. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing, Mr. Jacob.”
“Now that we’ve worked together, do you think you can call me Matt?”
“Sure, Mis…Matt.” The boy looked around the now deserted dining hall. “Is ther
e more you need to do?”
“Not tonight. Sometime I’d like to talk to your dad, and I may want to find someone who actually saw Kelly’s gun go off, but ‘that’s all for now, folks.’”
“So you will or won’t be coming back?”
He wasn’t asking about interviews. “I’ll be back, Yakov. You can count on it.”
“I have to leave now.” But he hesitated. “The lawyer Roth. Everyone says he is very good at what he does?”
“Simon leaves good in the dust.”
“Do you want me to show you out?”
“I know the way. Anyhow, I want to have another smoke.”
“Okay,” he said reluctantly. He started to walk away then turned back. “You know, cigarettes aren’t good for you.”
I smiled. “I know. Thanks for the concern.”
He blushed and mumbled, “Thank you for yours.”
I watched as he left the room, poured myself the dregs of cold coffee, and had just returned the pot to the tray when I heard someone enter the room from a door in back of me. I turned, somehow expecting to see the kid, but was met by his father.
His angry father. “Are you finished with your intrusion?” Yonah stood glaring, fists on hips.
“Pretty much. I’d like to talk to you, though.”
He mumbled something in Jewish.
“What did you say?”
“I said I haven’t the time right now.”
“That’s what you said in your house.”
He ignored me. “Why are you sitting here if you are finished with your questions?”
I piled the debris onto the tray and stood.
“Leave all that there,” Reb Yonah commanded.
I nodded, slipped into my jacket, and stuffed the notebook into my pocket. I held the pen toward Yonah. “Would you give this back to Yakov? It’s his.”
Reb Yonah gestured as if to slap the pen from my hand but held himself in check.
“What’s the rub, Rabbi? How did I manage to get onto your bad side?”
“This is our Yeshiva, Mr. Jacob. Everyone here has work to do. Now that the Rebbe is no longer living the work is more important than ever. You waste our time.”
I started to move slowly toward the door. “It’s hard to understand why you think helping you is a waste of time. That’s what the people here were doing tonight. It wasn’t a party.”
“I don’t need any help!” He kept pace with me, making certain I was really leaving.
“You sound like your son.”
When we got to the dining room door Yonah suddenly reached out and grabbed my arm. “I don’t need you to tell me how my son sounds. I don’t need you filling his head with goyische ideas. I want you to leave him alone!”
I pulled my arm from his grasp. “I wasn’t filling his head with any ideas, Reb Yonah. I like him, that’s all. And my guess is he likes me. Is that what has you so upset?”
Yonah stared at me with venomous eyes. “You make me upset, not my son. You barged into my house without an invitation, you barge in here.” He glared. “I don’t need this help of yours!” Yonah pointed toward the steps. “The door to your world is that way. Leave ours alone!”
By noon the next day I’d finished my job. Using newspaper morgues and police complaint files, I’d corroborated enough Hasid and Avenger hostilities to call it quits. There was no reason to listen to Simon’s sermons or fear Washington Clifford. There was no need to exacerbate the tension between Reb Yonah and Yakov. No real reason to locate Blue. I could tinker with my Bakelite radios, go junking, visit with my tenants, or just get high. I was back in my own private New Jerusalem.
I settled down for the one o’clock movie—grass, cigarettes, and leftover Fritos close at hand. I was in luck, a non-colorized version of Out Of The Past. Unfortunately, Mitchum had trouble holding me. I found myself wandering around the apartment, looking for, then rejecting things to do. My antsiness refused to quit until I finally decided to visit Cheryl.
Simon wasn’t in his office when I dropped off the material. Once I yanked Sadie away from reading Alice Walker she was friendly as ever and gladly gave me Cheryl’s home address. She mentioned that Simon wanted to talk. I asked her when he didn’t.
Cheryl lived in an apartment building on the border of Dorchester and Mattapan. Her mother, a chubby, youthful looking, beaded-haired woman in her late fifties, let me through the door. I watched her large backside roll beneath an oversized flowered skirt as she went to get her daughter. The television voices from “Hard Copy” stopped in mid-sentence and a moment later the two of them emerged from a room in the back. With her fro’d-out hair Cheryl looked like a young Angela Davis. Though her rich skin was drawn and her hands in casts, when she saw me her lightly sedated eyes brightened and a smile lit her face. “This is the guy I told you about, Ma. You know, the man who kicked butt when he found out I was in trouble.”
The chunky woman, already on her way out of the room, turned back. “You were a little late, weren’t you?” But there was no recrimination in her voice.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hampton.”
She inclined her head. “No need to apologize. You did what you could, I’m sure. I tell this young lady that journalism is dangerous work these days, but she won’t listen.”
“Ma,” Cheryl complained, “do you have to start that again?”
The woman glared at her daughter. “I never stopped, girl.”
“I know, Ma. How about putting it on hold for a little while?”
Mrs. Hampton shook her head and asked me, “Is there something I could get you?”
“Maybe a glass of water, ma’am.”
“Listen up, young man. Don’t be calling me ma’am. In fact, don’t call me Mrs. or Ms. My name is Charlene and if my daughter had remembered her manners, we’d have been properly introduced.”
“Matt, Mrs…, I mean Charlene.”
“All you want is water? Someone your size…”
Cheryl interrupted. “The man said a glass of water, Ma. If he wanted something else he’d ask.”
“How do you know, girl? This is his first visit. Maybe he’s bashful. Matthew, I cook a mean homemade ham.”
I tried to keep the sudden rush of hunger from my voice. “No ma’am, I mean Charlene. I’m not shy. I’m really not hungry.”
“See?” Cheryl said.
Her mom didn’t answer, just strode toward the kitchen.
After a moment’s awkward hesitation, Cheryl said, “Why don’t you come with me?” She led us to a small, fake wooden paneled room and pointed to a large couch.
I sat and looked around. The room was dominated by a furniture model television and a modern stereo system. Records were piled high along each side of the television and on either side of the speakers. “Someone likes music,” I said.
Cheryl smiled ruefully, “Yeah, both of us. She likes the big old bands, Ellington, Basie, stuff like that. I like different groups.”
“Like who?”
“Like Eddie Palmieri. You ever hear of him?”
“Sure. I have ‘La Verdida’ and a ‘Best of.’”
Another grin split her delicate features. “That must be why I do better with you than her.”
I felt another bolt of desire. And this time it wasn’t hunger. “Well, you both like good music,” I said lamely.
Cheryl frowned. “I guess. But cooped up together like this makes the two of us crazy.”
“That’s the damn truth.” Mrs. Hampton entered the room carrying a serving dish piled with sandwiches. She also carried a pitcher of iced tea.
“Ma, Matt said he wasn’t hungry.”
“He said one thing, his face said another. Sheesh, girl, you’re supposed to be the reporter.” She winked at me. “This is my homemade. You’re not going to get ham like it anywhere else.”
“Leave him alone, Ma.”
“Now quiet, Cheryl. You were talking about us driving each other crazy, well, you’re doing it to me right now. I’m getting out before you s
ucceed.” With that she snatched a sandwich from the plate, smiled, and left the room.
Cheryl shook her head. “She means well.”
I grabbed a sandwich and munched. “She cooks good too. This tastes terrific.”
“Making a liar out of me?” Cheryl grunted.
“I’m a sucker for pig. You’ve been inside too long.”
“No maybe about it. I haven’t thanked you for stopping by.”
“There’s no need to thank me, I wanted to see you.”
My words hung taut in the air between us. Cheryl glanced at me. “Are you still working on the case?” she asked finally, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
“Off the record?”
“Okay,” she agreed.
“You promise?”
“You’re talking to me like I was a child.”
So I told her. Told her about everything except the depression. When I told her about the redheaded woman I could see the curiosity in her eyes. When I told her about Clifford’s visit she grew indignant.
“Basically, he told you to make yourself scarce, to get off the case?”
“Not really. He told me to stay away from a piece of it, that’s all. I think we just overlapped. My guess is he’s working the armored car angle. Nothing to do with the Hasids and the Avengers.”
“Bullshit,” she said, her eyes flashing. “There’s no such thing as an overlap. If he told you to stay away from Kelly, he’s telling you not to do your job. Running you off.”
“I don’t think so, Cher. Anyway, Simon has everything he needs to plaster the Avengers to the wall. That was my job.”
“And you’re not the least bit curious? About the woman? About Kelly calling attention to himself? About what’s got your friend Clifford slapping you around?”
“He isn’t a friend.”
“You really don’t give a damn about what’s going on, do you?”
“I understand Kelly’s outburst, Cheryl. The area was crawling with people. To get a decent shot he had to clear people out of the line of fire.”
The Complete Matt Jacob Series Page 68
