“Why would I hang up?” she asked. “I want to know if everything’s okay. If anyone showed up.”
“No one showed.”
She waited for me to speak but I didn’t. After a minute she asked, “You want me to go away, don’t you? I’m disturbing you?”
Other than the gunmen, the only person who really disturbed me was me. “I need a little room to get out of this mess, that’s all.”
“So I am bothering you?”
I didn’t answer.
“Well,” she said, “at least call once in a while so I know you’re alive, okay?”
“Sure, Cheryl, I’ll call.”
“Thanks,” she said sarcastically, slamming down the phone.
I replaced the receiver and was stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray with an angry twist of my wrist when the phone rang again. I imagined it Cheryl, thought about ignoring it, then yanked it to my ear. “Yes. Who is it?”
The thin voice surprised me. “Mr. Jacob? Matt? Is this Matt?”
“Uh-huh.” I had a sudden hope and asked, “Yakov, did you call earlier and hang up?”
“I did,” he answered. “I thought I woke you and I got nervous. I’m sorry.”
He’d gotten the two of us nervous. “No problem, Yakov.” No problem, no evacuation. I thought about my crawl up the hill behind the rink. What was I thinking, no problem? “What can I do for you?”
“Can I come over? I’d like to talk to you about something.”
It wasn’t how I needed to spend my time, but there was something in his voice that made it impossible to refuse. “We can get together. How about the Yeshiva? I don’t want to meet here.”
“If you come to the Yeshiva word will get back to my father.”
I chuckled grimly. “I don’t want that to happen either.”
“Even though he’s out of town he would find out. Somebody would tell him that we met.”
I was curious about Yonah’s trip but didn’t want to ask. “Then we’ll meet somewhere else.” I thought for a moment, “How about the main library? If it’s warm enough we can sit in the courtyard.”
“I’ve never been there,” he said. “The courtyard?”
“No, we’ll meet inside that library. Do you know where it is?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the clock. “Can you meet me on the Boylston Street steps in about an hour?” That would leave me the rest of the day to do something about staying alive. “Good,” he said. “Mr. Jacob…”
“Matt.”
“Thank you.”
He hung up the phone as the recorded voice of Ma Bell demanded more silver. I wondered what drove the kid to a public telephone. I replaced the receiver and lit another cigarette. I’d find out.
Sooner or later I had to confront the mess I was in. But right now, mañana seemed soon enough to me.
I telephoned Julius and asked him to hang around the house. Then a call to Charles and Richard to suggest they do their normal boogie. Charles begged me to define normal. I couldn’t, but told him to relax anyway; Julie was staying home. That worked better than any definition and he asked what I was planning to do. When I told him I had no plans he giggled nervously before wishing me luck. I appreciated it.
The skin-tingling traces of my freaky dream receded as the reality of my situation grabbed center stage. I pushed aside my automatic panic and forced myself to think like a detective rather than a prisoner on Death Row. It helped that I managed an idea or two before leaving the apartment to meet Yakov.
The trek to the library was an exercise in stealth. Forward, back, around, back again, then forward. Like an acid-injected rat let loose in a labyrinth. It took nearly forty minutes to travel the fifteen-minute walk. By the time I approached the Copley Square library I was pretty sure I hadn’t been followed. Any other time I’d have been certain.
Yakov was an easy spot. Once again he was reading his large leather-bound book. But this time he kept raising his head, looking uncomfortably at the derelicts who called the broad concrete steps home. Every now and again he’d combine his nervous sideway glances with a stand-up gaze down the block.
I stayed out of sight until his head was buried, walked quickly next to him where I knelt tying my shoe. “Don’t look at me,” I warned softly. “Just get up and go into the new building. There is a men’s room downstairs. I’ll meet you there.”
“I can’t do that,” he whispered. “It’s forbidden to take this book into a bathroom.”
“Then once you’re inside just go to the information desk,” I said impatiently.
He glanced at me with the same expression he’d had when he looked at the bums. “You can’t take the Talmud into a toilet. It’s a…a…”
“Sacrilege, Yakov,” I supplied in a gruff, quiet voice. “Just go inside. Now! I don’t want to party on the steps.”
Yakov shook his head as if to argue, but closed the book and retreated into the library. I turned, sat on the steps, and lit a cigarette. Halfway through I tossed the cigarette and entered the Philip Johnson building.
I found the boy where he was supposed to be, placed my hand on his shoulder, and watched the door. No one sat in the chair inside the information booth. The library couldn’t afford it. After a moment or two I removed my hand from his shoulder. “Hello.”
Yakov had it figured. “We went through a detective routine like somebody was after you?”
“Someone may be following me and I wanted us to be alone.” I held up my hand to stop his flood of questions. “You’ve never been in here, right?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
It had to do with ridding him of his growing nervousness. “Not too much, but the place is worth a quick look. Is there any other room besides the john your book can’t travel?” I asked with a grin.
Yakov began to protest but changed his mind. “Just bathrooms and churches.”
We walked through the new building, across the courtyard, and into the old. Yakov tried to appear disinterested, but I caught him sneaking looks at the different pictures on the walls. “Check out the ceiling,” I suggested, as we walked through the Elliot Room.
He glanced upward then blushed. “Are you teasing me?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Telling me to look at a naked woman.”
He was serious. “We’re talking art, here, Yakov. It’s called The Triumph of Time. Been here since the turn of the century.”
The boy shook his head. “Art,” he sneered. “What’s the difference how long it’s been here? Naked is naked.”
I’d intended to show him the Edwin Austin Abby murals, but The Quest of the Holy Grail would only goose his anger. I glanced up the stairs toward the Sargent Hall and rejected that idea as well. It was easier to just lead him to the outdoor courtyard. The air was chilly but the sun bright, so we sat on a corner bench where I kept an eye on both entrances. Yakov looked around, an amazed expression on his face. “Yeshiva students who go to night school sometimes use this library, but I never imagined this.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Our library doesn’t look anything like this. It’s just a large room with shtendals and books.”
“What’s a shtendal?”
“You know, tall wooden bookrests where you stand and learn. How does anyone keep their mind on what they’re doing when they are surrounded by all this beauty.”
I’d never thought of beauty as a deterrent but it was a treat to look around through Yakov’s fresh eyes. Tall marbleized columns, a stone walkway alongside the center square garden—the garden’s last green hangers-on protected by the double building’s walls.
“Why are there long nails in the tops of the pillars?” Yakov asked.
“To keep the pigeons from landing.”
“The animals aren’t allowed to rest?”
“So people can.”
Yakov shrugged unconvinced. We sat quietly watching an occasional passerby stroll between
buildings. It was cold enough to keep anyone from stopping.
“What’s bothering you, boy?” I finally asked.
He wasn’t ready to say. “Why couldn’t we meet at your house? Is it the way I look?”
I reached over and tousled his bristly, crew-cut hair, almost knocking his velvet yarmulke from his head. “I don’t even notice the way you look anymore.”
“What did you mean when you said someone may be following you? Are you on another case?”
“Not really.”
“Then why are you acting so mysterious?”
“I ran into a little trouble last night and have to be careful. Right now my house isn’t completely safe.”
“What kind of trouble?”
I compromised with the truth. “Some guys in a car hassled me.”
“Because of my father? The Avengers?”
I looked at his face and said, “Probably not. I haven’t figured everything out yet.”
Yakov looked at me with a worried expression. “Are you frightened?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Were you frightened last night?”
I hesitated. “Yeah. I’m scared whenever I’m involved in a confrontation.”
“Did you use your gun?”
“No. I didn’t have my gun.”
“I bet you have it now, don’t you?”
I smiled ruefully as his enthusiasm and curiosity overcame his usual seriousness. I’d have preferred this response when we were looking at the murals.
“Do you think they’ll find us here?”
“No. Tell you the truth, I really don’t think anyone is bothering to look.”
“If that’s so, why did you do all that on the steps?”
“Yakov, my friend, we didn’t meet to talk about the detective business. Come on, why did you call?”
But he wasn’t finished with his questions. “Do you believe this had something to do with my father’s case?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you working on something else?”
“Yakov.”
He looked earnest. “It’s important to me. Did the people in the car look Jewish?”
“Jewish?” I asked, astonished. “What do you mean?”
“Did they look like Hasidim?”
“No, of course not.”
Relief crossed his face.
“Yakov, why are you asking me this? What are you thinking?”
His worried look deepened and he anxiously rubbed the book in his hand. “Do you remember our conversation about the Never Agains?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said. About them being vigilantes and how maybe that wasn’t okay.”
I sat quietly, giving him time. He was trying to tell me something but right now he could only skirt the edge.
“What you said made me think. It bothers me,” he said worriedly.
“Say more.”
The kid’s complexion was pale and drawn, his mouth a rigid line carved into his face. “I told you that my father was involved with the Never Agains. But I don’t think I really said how much. I’ve begun to worry about it.”
“Why?”
“He’s spending more and more time with it. Now that the Rebbe is no longer with us, my father is using all of his energy to convince people of the necessity for self-protection.”
“That makes sense, Yakov. You told me he wanted them in the neighborhood before Rabbi Dov was shot. I’m sure he believes it’s even more crucial now. Not too long ago you were saying the same thing.”
“You don’t understand. This has started to take all his attention. It’s all he talks with anyone about, all he thinks about. This is the first time in my life that I’ve ever seen him devote so little time to learning, to the Halacha. It’s almost like he’s not a Rabbi anymore.”
I buried my antipathy toward Reb Yonah in my affection for the kid. “I see why you’re concerned, but I have a different take. Remember when I told you your father had mentioned the camps? Well, I think Rabbi Dov’s murder has stirred all those memories. He’s frightened and trying to combat it the only way he knows. It makes sense that he would turn to a group he trusts.From what you tell me, he trusts the Never Agains.”
Yakov shook his head. “He doesn’t act scared. He is angry all the time. He even uses you and the lawyer Roth as examples of why we need the Never Agains. Why we need to watch out for ourselves,” Yakov blurted, a stricken look on his face. He hunched his skinny body forward, pulling his arms in tight as if to ward off a millennia-old blow.
“I’m not upset that he uses us as examples, Yakov,” I said gently.
“He says the fancy lawyer and detective haven’t been able to help him. That all you can do is disrupt the Yeshiva and cause trouble. We would be better off if you went away and we learned to take care of ourselves.” By the time the boy finished his voice was a mixture of guilt and relief.
“Look, there are a lot of ways people mask their fears. Especially from themselves. It’s not unusual to turn it into anger. So he lashes out. No big deal. Simon and I make for nearby targets, that’s all. Eventually, maybe with the help of these people, he’ll settle down. Leave some of his fears behind. Yakov, the camps left deeper scars than just the numbers.” I paused, then asked, “You were worried it was Never Again people who hassled me last night, weren’t you?”
Yakov nodded keeping his face averted. “I don’t know what I was thinking. You don’t understand how angry my father is at you and the lawyer Simon.”
For an instant I sensed he had more to say but he remained silent. “Listen, kid, the Never Agains had nothing to do with last night. Put it out of your mind. Where did your father go, by the way?”
“New York.”
“New York? Why?”
“Berucha und Mazel.”
“What is that?”
The boy looked perplexed. “I keep forgetting that you are a Jew who knows nothing.”
“Thanks, kid.”
“You know what I mean. About Jewishness.”
“So, nu?” I smiled. “What does it mean?”
“My father went to New York to return diamonds.”
“Diamonds?”
“Yes.”
“Is your father in the business?” I knew the Hasids had an enormous foothold in the diamond industry and New York was the center.
“Not really.”
“But he had diamonds to return?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why he had them in the first place?”
“No.”
“But something about it bothers you.”
“Of course not.” His answer was swift and emphatic. And untrue.
“Okay,” I said, backing off.
We sat quietly watching the occasional pigeon approach the tops of the pillars and fly away. I felt the churning of my own loneliness, but I was free of the foggy depression that usually accompanied it. Yakov leaned forward as if to speak, changed his mind, and sat back.
“What is it?” I asked.
Yakov hesitated then shook his head. “Nothing.”
This also wasn’t true, but talk had been difficult enough for the kid. I felt the warmth of our increased closeness and realized our conversation was difficult for me too. “It’s time to go, boy. You all right?”
He nodded despite a worried frown. I waited to see if he was going to add anything. When he didn’t I stood up. “Do you remember the way out of here?” I asked.
Yakov nodded.
“Good. It’s time to get your butt back to the Yeshiva.”
“You’re staying here?”
“I’ll leave in a few minutes. I don’t want us to walk out together.”
“Are you going to be okay?” Yakov asked.
“I’m going to be fine,” I smiled.
Yakov stood and clutched his book tight against his gawky body. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“Of course I’m sure,” I replied w
ith more confidence than I actually felt. Now that our conversation was coming to a close, the rest of my life was circling.
The boy started toward the entrance then turned back. “Can I call you again if I want?”
“Anytime. Hey, we got hoops to shoot.”
Yakov tried to smile, gave up, and left the courtyard to me and a frustrated pigeon.
I deked, feinted, and deked my way to the Auto-Caribe. And while I didn’t spot anyone who looked ready to kiss me a fond farewell, I couldn’t escape the sensation of eyes on the back of my neck. Anyway, I hoped it was eyes. If it was a scope, I’d never have a chance to play that game of hoops.
I finally understood what it meant to feel truly “under the gun,” but it was growing impossible to draw a distinction between fact and fantasy. Right now, to imagine was to believe. The best I could do was continue evasive maneuvers and pretend to pray. If a conservative is a liberal whogot mugged, a religious convert had to be someone almost finished off the night before.
The news I received at Manuel’s did nothing to buoy my optimism. He’d moved my car to the lot behind his garage and the two of us stood staring sadly at the damage. Manuel waggled his head though he didn’t ask any questions. He told me that it would take time to fix and offered me a loaner. That was the good news. The bad came when I asked if he had removed the bullet from the door and he said no. I rushed Manuel back to his office then played Green Beret, trying to spot sniper positions. I found positions but no snipers, returned to the lot, and hunted the grounds fruitlessly. I expected to come up empty; my gut told me the bullet hadn’t simply fallen out. Eventually I got sick of crawling around on my hands and knees, thanked Manuel for his tired,oversized sedan, and drove out of the lot.
There was no comfort inside the big gray metal box. I still felt naked. Only now it was time to do something about it. But if I was going to function effectively, I needed to rid myself of long range rifle fantasies. I had enough trouble with my normal life to imagine living like this. Always on guard, fearful that my head was a centerpiece in anonymous crosshairs. I pulled a joint from my pocket and smoked until my nerves settled into a dull background rumble.
Quiet enough to allow focus, loud enough to keep me from huddling on my couch. Quiet enough to hear my anger. Loud enough to force the action.
The Complete Matt Jacob Series Page 74
