“Wants to be. The Big Guy wouldn’t let the group near the place but now that he’s dead…”
Lou sighed. “They aren’t decent, those people, those Never Agains. The boy is bothered by all this?”
“Mixed.” A piece of the conversation with Yakov came to mind. “Lou, what exactly does Mazel and Berucha mean?”
“Mazel, like ma, not may,” he corrected. “It means luck and blessings. Who do you know in the diamond business?”
I was surprised. “How do you know it has to do with diamonds?”
“It’s a traditional saying at the conclusion of a deal. Goes with the handshake. Among the Jews in the industry there are rituals to close a buy or consignment.”
“Consignment?”
“Everybody fronts all the time. It’s a way of life.”
“Is it usual for people up here to go to New York to do business?”
“York is New York, you know what I mean? I know someone who has been in the business forever, a macher in the Diamond Club. You thinking of changing trades?”
“It might not be a bad idea, but no. I’m interested because the kid’s father seems to be involved. What’s this Diamond Club?”
“It’s like a self-regulating commission. They settle disputes that come up between traders. Like I said, very few deals are written down.” A thoughtful look crossed Lou’s face but he remained silent.
“What are you thinking?”
“This Rabbi has fingers in many pies, is all.”
“Too many. Might be better if he saved one for his son.”
Lou nodded and we sat quietly for a couple of minutes giving my fatigue a chance to catch up. Lou noticed the yawn and pushed himself to his feet. “You’re exhausted, Matty. Talk about tonight can wait.”
I walked him to the door where he turned and gave me a hug. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt,” he said. “I can’t stand the thought of outliving you.”
I hugged him back. “Get used to it, old man. You’re an ox.” I let go and wagged my finger, “As long as you watch the sugar.”
He smiled as I closed the door. I leaned my head against the wooden frame. I was tired. I bypassed the couch, grabbed my cigarettes, stash, and retired to the bedroom. I kept the light off and stared into the shadows.
I wasn’t proud of my night’s violent behavior but I wasn’t ready to accept that my job was finished. Finished without any resolution. Okay, psychotic break complete, now back to regular life. As if all the beatings and broken bones had been tossed into a meaningless void. I went into the kitchen, grabbed the bottle of bourbon, and washed down a couple of Valium. A way to toss myself in along with everything else.
Ride, Matty, ride, still had its spurs dug deep when I awoke the next morning. If only I had a horse. What I had was bacon and eggs. And, of course, coffee, and tobacco, and newspapers, and eventually television and dope. As long as I lingered over the first few I was okay. Trouble started when I resisted the eventuallys.
It started small. As promised, I called the building’s protective society. But when I explained the situation, and why we were no longer under siege, their questions simply collided with more of my own. By the time I lamely finished each conversation mouthing Washington Clifford’s assurance, I could taste my annoyance along with the nitrite.
This wasn’t gonna be a day to lump on the couch. Instead, I found myself at the kitchen table when the telephone dragged me out of mental gridlock.
“Yo, bro,” the voice boomed inside my head.
“Let the air out, Simon, will you? I want this ear,” I grumbled testily. “You just discover another trust in Fran’s inheritance?”
“Aren’t we a little surly today?” He was in one of his moods where nothing could disturb or deter.
“What’s so different about today?”
“Well, for one thing, it’s time to tote up your abacus.”
“The Reb walked?” I asked covering a sudden bolt of suspicion.
“Sprung. Just a matter of bureaucracy and paper pushing. Got the call this morning, Matt-man.”
“And you trust it?”
“Why not?”
“You haven’t floated a bone for the criminal justice system up ‘til now.”
“Up ‘til now they haven’t said the right things. This morning they did. Very apologetically, let me add.”
“And the explanation?”
“What’d you’d expect. Wanted everything to ice down before they made their move—yada, yada, yada.”
“You’re stealing my vocabulary.”
“Well, I’m not going to steal your time. It didn’t hurt for them to know I was planning to bust chops. If I had a chance to use the information you gave me, the anti-Semites would be holding their groins for a real long time.”
“You mean I’m not on your shit list for alienating the Jews?”
“Not all the Jews, Matt, just my client. Now, it would be different if you pissed off Rabbi Sheinfeld, but you didn’t. And, I don’t plan on working with the Hasidim again.”
I was reluctant to puddle on his shoes but finally said, “I still think there is something wrongwith this case.”
Instant uptight. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you ever like to win? I’m telling you we did it. Reb Yonah won’t even have a paper trail. The Jewish organizations are taking a deep breath, happy for Yonah and relieved…”
“There won’t be another pogrom.”
“You don’t get it, do you? This is a good thing.”
I almost told him just how good it really was. Almost. But I knew Simon wasn’t going to snuff his victory cigar over an incoherent assortment of miscellaneous facts. Or even shootings.
“I thought you’d be pleased,” he complained, interrupting my thoughts.
“I am, Simon,” I lied.
“You’re lying,” he retorted. “You’re still pissed about Reb Yonah pulling you off the case. Is that it?”
I half-heartedly gave it another shot. “A little, but that’s not what bothers me. Something is working under the surface.”
“Come on, Matt. Shit, you were the one who insisted this was a no sweat deal. Well, you were dead right!”
No, I was almost dead wrong. “Simon, what kind of information did Downtown finally send you?”
“What are you asking?” he snapped, his annoyance showing.
“Did you get the usual package?”
“No.”
“What do you think that means?”
“It means no case against my client,” he replied curtly.
“It doesn’t bother you a little?”
“It bothered me a lot. What do you think I’ve been bitching about all this time? But it doesn’t bother me now. Reb Yonah’s case is finished, done.”
He added, “You are a piece of work. We finally sew it up and you complain. Look, I wasn’t born yesterday. If they try to put something past me I’ll be over them like a bad suit.”
I let it go for both our sakes. Hell, I was supposed to put the case behind me too. “You’re right, friend. It’s probably nothing. I just need to get a life.”
He hesitated, apparently mollified by my retreat. “Look, I know you said you weren’t interested, but maybe you would like to come with me to the Temple sometime?”
I stifled my snort but he got the message.
“Don’t be an asshole, Matt. It sounds like you’re looking for something to sink your teeth in, that’s all,” he said defensively. “How many hours a day can you watch TV?”
“Television works twenty-four, Boss. God’s show doesn’t cut it for me. If there was a question, I got it answered with my close-up of Saperstein.”
“The Hasidim aren’t all Reb Yonahs. You like his kid, don’t you? Anyway, Sheinfeld’s temple is nothing like the Yeshiva. The focus is on social and political issues.”
“Yeah, like fundraising for Israel. Sorry, it’s not my side of the street.”
“If Israel didn’t bother you, Matt, you would find something
else that did. The truth is, you’re like the Groucho joke. You won’t join a club that will take you.”
“I’m just not the marching type.”
“Well, what type are you? Listen, we can continue this over a beer. Right now, I’m gone. Send me the numbers.”
I hung up and lit up. It was another good question: what type was I? If you went by my Cheryl dream and drug habits I was just a passive middle-aged primitive. But Simon’s case had aired other aspects. Revengeful, violent, sadistic. For no fucking reason. Now I was supposed to relax on the couch, worse for wear, but satisfied. Hell no.
I thought about smothering my surge of anger with smoke, but instead decided to stay with the job. Groucho had me nailed about enlisting in the search for Big Truths, but I sure as hell could join myself in looking for the little ones.
I lit a cigarette, cleaned my gun, and decided on the only path available. I couldn’t wait for things to come to me. I had to squeeze the tube. Both ends if necessary.
Word would toboggan back to Simon if I looked for the link between Clifford’s case and Simon’s client at the Yeshiva. I might be forced there eventually, but it didn’t have to be first out of the box. I had other suspicions to diddle.
Driving to Deirdre’s three-flat, I realized that both Cheryl and Yakov hovered in the outskirts of my mind. My resolve to keep truckin’ was, in some measure, a reply to both of them. To show my vision. Yakov had his strict religion, Cheryl her desire to elevate people’s thinking. Well, Matt Jacob finished what he started.
This time I picked my way into the downstairs door and rapped loudly on hers. I listened as the door chain locked into the holder, then stared eye to eye with a wary Deirdre. The heavy links of metal looked like a tarnished slash across her throat. She didn’t jump to invite me inside and kept the chain where it was.
“How did you get in the building?” she asked, her crow’s-feet cracked deep with unhappy surprise.
“Someone left the door open.”
“That’s strange. I was the last to come inside. I don’t usually forget to lock up.” Deirdre worked to keep the suspicion from her face.
I smiled politely past her braided necklace. “Well, maybe you should thank me, then. I locked it before I hiked upstairs.”
She returned my empty smile with a grimace. “This isn’t a very good time for me.”
I wasn’t ready to walk. “Deirdre, during the past two weeks I’ve fought in a brawl, been a target for hit men, and beat the living hell out of someone. This isn’t a very good time for me either.”
My troubles didn’t melt her heart. “It sounds terrible,” she lied. “Any other time I’d invite you in, but right now I’m tied up. Would you mind coming back? I don’t know what any of those things have to do with me, but I’ll be glad to discuss them with you. Just not now. I’m sorry, Mr. Jacob.”
The necklace sagged as she shut the door in my face. For a moment I considered shouldering through but didn’t think it would help our relationship. I trudged downstairs, locked the front door behind me, and walked back to the car chewing through my options. The other end of my tube was Reb Yonah, but I just wasn’t ready to jump in Simon’s face.
I drove around the block, parked, and walked back to a small apartment building stoop near the corner of Deirdre’s block. I had a decent view of the house from behind a high hedge. I’d trade a Bakelite radio for more information and my gut told me Deirdre had some.
I couldn’t stop my nod of satisfaction when I saw a jeaned and jacketed Father Collins step out of her building. He wasted no time leaving the porch and headed quickly, on foot, in the direction of the church. For an instant, I wondered whether I’d interrupted a forbidden affair. Unlikely. Deirdre hadn’t looked or acted like someone in the middle of a religious experience.
I waited another forty-five minutes before I gave it up. I ground out my cigarette underfoot, then immediately sank back down as her door opened. Deirdre stepped out and took a cold, hard look up and down the block before she left the porch. I was well hidden but still breathed a sigh of relief when she chose the opposite direction. That look was nasty.
It was a good thing I stayed where I was. Deirdre disappeared around the corner, then doubled back and acted like she was waiting for someone, peering intently in all directions. I still-lifed until she took off again. I imposed patience, then delayed a little longer, before I stretched and crossed the street.
For the second time that day I let myself into her building. For the first time, her apartment. I stood and smelled for recent sex, but the apartment was as close-mouthed as its tenant. And her belongings just as sparse. The kitchen wasn’t in the paper plate and plastic fork category, but close. It did have a well used Mr. Coffee machine.
I walked rapidly through the apartment to see if the other rooms matched the kitchen’s minimalism. By the time I returned to the living room I was certain I’d b&e’d an under furnished furnished apartment.
At least it was easy to keep my foraging neat. I had begun worrying about Deirdre’s return, so I worked quickly. It wasn’t difficult. Her personal belongings were as meager as the apartment furniture. And just as neutral. Her clothes were simple; one black skirt, one gray. A long down coat, some jeans, khaki work pants, three white blouses. A few winter sweaters on a shelf in the closet, a pair of black flats and a pair of cross-trainers on the closet floor. This was not a woman who went sport shopping. Even for basics. Her dresser turned up a half dozen army/navy woolen socks, underwear, heavy leggings, and a few pairs of black sweatpants, sweatshirts, and tights. Nothing from Victoria’s Secret. The top drawer held her jewelry, highlighted by subdued clip-on earrings.
A small sitting room off her bedroom doubled as a makeshift office. Though jumpy about getting caught, I carefully went through each drawer of the small student desk. Other than a few cheap pens, all I found was the same stationery I had discovered in rifling Kelly’s apartment. Without any interesting notes. I also found a writing pad imprinted with a bright Color It Green. I didn’t find a checkbook.
I returned to the living room and sat on the bench of her body building torture machine. Despite my buzz of frustration, I urged myself to search her john. Hell, I might find a couple aspirin for my burgeoning headache. I pushed myself into the bathroom but emerged without the pills. Without needing the pills. Simple, friendly, unassuming Deirdre kept a loaded .380 Backup and a Maxim Subsonic silencer taped to her toilet’s interior.
The gun didn’t answer any questions. But seeing the careful tape job, looking at the beautifully crafted stainless steel, imagining it combined with the silencer, had instantly renewed my intensity for the hunt. Raw red meat in front of a hungry dog.
Headache all but gone, I recalled Deirdre’s trip to the bathroom and change of clothes the first time I’d visited. Nickel to dime bags she’d come out holding; and I didn’t mean dope. Her palmsized weapon would barely wrinkle skintight pantyhose. But the gun was powerful enough to put a permanent wrinkle in anyone’s mortality. We were talking modern firearms here.
I walked to the front windows, lifted a shade, and looked carefully in both directions. The street was empty so I returned to the exercise bench, sitting there scanning the apartment, looking for places I hadn’t searched. In a moment of curiosity, I swung a leg over to the other side of the body builder and pulled on the weight handle. The first thing I noticed was the heavy poundage. The second was the loose grip under my left hand. I quickly worked the rubber off, stuck my finger inside, and felt it rub against a ball of paper. I went to the kitchen, returned with a knife, and slowly edged the ball free. I unwrapped the unusual paper and stared at two dull stones, each covered with a grayish film. I hoped they were diamonds, but had trouble believing jewels could appear as lifeless as the pebbles in my hand. These stones looked like they belonged in a fish tank, not floating in Liz Taylor’s cleavage.
Thoughtful, I replaced the rocks, then the rubber grip. After another rapid, fruitless run through the apartment, I left
the building and trotted to my car. As I lit a cigarette I looked at my shining eyes in the mirror. Part of me wanted to rush the good padre and keep the pressure on, but I forced myself home. I wanted to give Deirdre time to discover that her rooms had been searched. I had left small items out of place but hopefully no clue that anything had been found. Though worried that my action reopened the possibility of another hit, I figured raising the stakes was the play. Anyway, Washington Clifford had vouched for my safety, hadn’t he?
I paid close attention as I took a long, circuitous route. I couldn’t shake the tingle on the back of my neck, but made it home and inside without mishap. Even had the courage to score a large Italian from the corner sub shop. It would be supper time in a couple of hours and I wasn’t going to cook. I preferred my cholesterol straight out of wax paper. I placed the sub in the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of Negro Modelo. I had hours to kill before I paid a return visit to Deirdre, or went looking for Father Collins.
For the first time in a long, long while I enjoyed the late afternoon movie. Though Bogey’s face was the color of pink putty, his search for the black bird reminded me of my situation. Sam Spade hadn’t known or understood what he was involved with either. Still, he came out on top. Of course, Sammy busted someone he had fallen in love with, but hey, I didn’t fall that easy. Lucky me.
I was sitting at the kitchen table eating Italian and drinking Mexican when the telephone rang. “You’re a real fuck, you know that?” Cheryl snarled the moment I lifted the receiver. “You think I can ask my mamma to chauffeur me around town to look for a dead man? You might have been, for all I knew.”
After a moment’s guilt I scratched for something to say. But I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her I’d been spooked by her middle of the night transformation into Rebecca. “I’m sorry, kid, I blew it. I should have called. I’m okay.”
The Complete Matt Jacob Series Page 77
