The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

  “No, you are most certainly not okay, Kid,” she mocked.

  “I’m not going to get anything right today, am I?”

  “You’re still alive, you fucker, I’ll give you that,” she replied, her tone softening. “Where the hell have you been?”

  I told her about Reb Yonah’s walk, my encounter with Blue and Clifford, the gun I found at Deirdre’s apartment. I almost told her about the pebbles, but wanted to speak with Lou first. As I listened to myself rattle I wondered why I kept talking. It wasn’t her reprimand; over time, I’d been battered with enough recounts of my inconsiderate behavior to no longer feel forced to explain or rebut. Truth was, I had no reason to tell her anything. I just wanted to. I wanted her to know I wasn’t sitting around watching Bogart and drinking beer.

  It would be an exaggeration to suggest she became entirely forgiving, but her tone lost its sarcasm. “Jesus. You’re not talking about a Saturday night special, are you?”

  “I’ve never heard of folks using a silencer for protection. You ever see an AMT Backup? Very slick, very small. Very sweet.”

  “I didn’t know you were a card carrying member of the NRA, White Man.”

  I chuckled. “Professional interest, that’s all.”

  “You say professional but you sound enthralled.”

  “Impressed. And gratified that my instincts cashed in.”

  “Your instincts? I had to blackmail you to stay on the damn case. So now you’re convinced the lady is shady. Do you understand any of it?”

  “I think you had it right. The padre and Deirdre use the Color It Green organization as a local front for the IRA. My nosing around the Avengers threatened them so they tried to scare me away.”

  “They weren’t trying to kill you?”

  “I don’t think they cared one way or another.”

  “And Blue?”

  “He gives them a protective layer if he does the shooting.”

  “What do you think threatened them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How does your friend Clifford figure?”

  “I think he’s moving in.”

  “What’s taking him?”

  “I don’t know that either. Maybe he doesn’t have enough evidence, maybe he wants bigger fish.”

  She took her time thinking about my explanations before she said, “What are you going to do now that you’re out of work?”

  I grimaced and lit a cigarette. “Who said anything about done?”

  “Stick a fork in yourself. The Rabbi is free and Clifford’s closing down the Provos. What’s left for you?”

  She sounded like Simon. “I’m surprised at you,” I chided. “You’re smarter than that. Hell, you asked the question.”

  “About the Avengers?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think it’s important?”

  “There’s a crossover that I just don’t understand, Cheryl. Kelly was connected to the Color It Green through Deirdre. Kelly starts the Avengers and shoots the Big Rabbi. What the fuck is that about?”

  “Matthew, Kelly’s dead, you’ve put the Avengers out of business, the Rabbi’s free. Even if you’re right and a few things are still cloudy, what difference does it make?”

  “This doesn’t seem like you, Cheryl. What happened to the importance of giving the people the truth, the whole truth? Didn’t I hear you once say something about pulling facts out of the dark?”

  “Yes, I said it. But I’m not sure these facts are worth anyone else dying for. Hasn’t there been enough blood?”

  “Too damn much. That’s why it’s important to get to the bottom. To at least understand why Rabbi Dov died.”

  “All of a sudden you’re hearing the angels sing? Or is it ego?”

  “No angels, no mission.” I was still confused by her attitude, only now my confusion wore a cuff of annoyance. “Sure there’s ego. The case isn’t finished and I’m a detective.”

  “You sound like a different detective than the one I first met.”

  “It just takes me a while to get started. What’s bothering you? I apologized for not calling.”

  “You apologized, but I was the one picturing your body bleeding on the floor.” She paused then said quietly, “This isn’t simply a story for me anymore. I thought it stopped being a job when they broke my hands, but it hadn’t. I was working when I had my mom drive me to your apartment the other night. But today, listening to hours of no answers on the phone gave me a few, anyhow. Matthew, the biggest regret I have about my broken hands is not being able to touch the lines in your face.”

  I pictured the casts on her hands and didn’t know what to say. Or even feel. “I’m a little lost for words,” I admitted.

  “Just don’t bring up the age difference, okay.”

  I hadn’t, she had. But it gave me something to hold onto. “You just did.” I rushed on before she could interrupt. “And it’s not just the years, Cheryl. Back in another life I had a wife and daughter who died in a car accident. Rebecca would be a teenager if she were alive. You play some of those chords and it really complicates things between us.”

  There was another long silence then, “You said your wife died too. Does that mean you can’t have relationships because all women remind you of her?”

  It wasn’t a question and I knew it. But that didn’t stop me from flashing on my arm’s-length connection to Boots, and her similar imputations. “I don’t know what it means.”

  “Anyway,” she continued, “no one on this here planet will ever think of us as kin.”

  I smiled despite myself. There was something about this girl, woman, that snuck through my Russian winter.

  Cheryl broke into my thoughts. “Are you being honest when you say you don’t know what it means?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you willing to find out?”

  “I don’t know.”

  After a moment’s hesitation she started to laugh. “You don’t make it easy, you know that?”

  “I can believe it.”

  “And of course you’re going to stay on the case.”

  “Of course.”

  “But we’re going to talk about all this when you’re finished. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  “No guesses about it. And no more guessing whether you’re dead or alive. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Take care of yourself, Matt. But you best keep in touch.”

  I always took care of myself. Only sometimes I did it better than others. Despite our having the kinds of conversations I usually abhorred and avoided, my feelings for Cheryl were warm and confused. Hopefully, a puzzle to solve without the standard coat of Teflon I usually wore to relationships.

  But only after I solved the case. At least I hadn’t told Cheryl I’d left a card at Deirdre’s. But I knew it, and also knew I had to keep the heat up.

  And on. Night had descended and the apartment was chilly. I roused myself from the kitchen table and tried Lou’s number. The line was busy so I found a clean shirt and jeans and changed clothes. I tried his number again but it was just as busy. As I replaced the receiver the telephone rang and I imagined it was Lou.

  “Lou, I’ve been trying to get you.”

  “This isn’t Lou.”

  Yakov’s voice caught me short. “Hello, boy. Back for another tour of a public institution? Or are you hankering for a little one-on-one?”

  “Matt, please don’t joke around. I have to see you.”

  I heard the tension in his voice but my first rush was impatience. I wanted to get on with my job. “It’s Saturday night, Yakov. Can’t it wait? I’m in the middle of something I’d like to finish.”

  “I can’t wait any longer than I already have. It’s been a terrible Shabbos.”

  I couldn’t ignore the urgency in his voice. “Okay, Yakov, we can get together. How about the Yeshiva in a half hour?” If Simon heard, he heard. At least I’d have a reason for the visit.

  “N
o, not the Yeshiva,” Yakov said. “I want to come to your house.”

  “Well, how about outside? The park you told me about, the one with the courts.”

  “No. I won’t meet anywhere but your house,” he said stubbornly. “It’s the only place I can be certain not to be seen.”

  “Can you tell me what this is about?”

  “When I see you. I must get off the telephone now. Goodbye.”

  No one had reason to harm him on his way into the building, but I didn’t want him in my apartment if someone came after me. I called Lou and asked if I could meet with Yakov in his place. Lou agreed but rushed me off the phone before I could ask him about the rocks. He was baking for Mrs. S. and had to go to her apartment. He told me to call when I finished using his place. He sounded pleased to have a reason to stay upstairs.

  Me? I was not pleased about sitting around. And less so when I realized the kid was probably taking public transportation. I couldn’t remember ever seeing a Hasid step out of a cab.

  I puffed on a joint to slow my growing irritation. As the grass soothed my jitters I thought about parenting in a way I had long forgotten. I thought about the unceasing demand to park my personal needs in the back of the bus. Rebecca’s death had completely overshadowed memories of dirty diapers, wet beds, late night crying jags. Marriage with Chana had been a real attempt to share our lives, our child, our work. But sitting at the table battling my impatience reminded me that a lot of that sharing had simply meant a perpetual stream of housework.

  Instead of throwing me, the revisionist thinking actually helped stem my annoyance. I considered bourbon but went brew instead. The house was completely dark because I kept the lights off. Not for protection; the lights were off because it was comfortable to sit in the black, sip my cold beer, and think about the way my life had really been, not the way I usually painted it.

  Yakov’s insistent finger on the doorbell sliced through my head like a bloody Texas chainsaw. I hopped from the chair and nearly ran to the building’s front door.

  “You have a heavy hand, my boy,” I said, leading him back downstairs.

  “I walked around to the alley but didn’t see any lights. I thought you left.”

  “I haven’t budged since your call,” I said reassuringly.

  “Why were you sitting in the dark?”

  He was reluctant to enter the unlit rooms so I pulled the lamp chain. “Come inside for a moment. I want to get my things. Aren’t you cold just wearing that suit?”

  “I don’t think about the cold. Why can’t we stay here?” he complained to my back. “I told you I didn’t want to go anywhere else.”

  I didn’t want to add to his tension with my concerns. “We’re not going far. Just upstairs to my father-in-law’s place. If I sit here any longer I’ll go nuts.”

  Yakov looked thoughtful. “Your apartment is still not safe, is it? That’s why the lights were off and why you’re taking me upstairs?”

  “That’s not why the lights were off. It is why I’m taking you upstairs. I don’t think there is any danger. But as long as I’m responsible for you I can’t take chances.”

  “You are not responsible for me,” he flared. “No one is but me, and Hashem.”

  “Hashem?”

  “God.” He spoke a very quick sentence in Hebrew or Yiddish then blurted out, This is an incredible mistake. I should never have come here.”

  I stopped gathering my cigarettes and keys, turned, and took my first real look. His face was pale and exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept. A slight tremble danced along his lower lip and he kept pulling at the strings that ran down his pant sides.

  “Well, I don’t know whether you made the right decision or not,” I said gently. “But you’re here and we might as well go upstairs while you decide.”

  Yakov nodded stiffly. I thought he was afraid to trust his voice. I resisted a temptation to place my hand on his shoulder as I passed by. I didn’t know what clawed at him, but I did know he’d resent any hint of condescension. Yakov deep-breathed to regain his composure as I led us up the hall steps. I made sure not to turn around until we were inside Lou’s apartment.

  “Do you have a preference? Kitchen? Living room?”

  “Which room looks most like yours?”

  “The kitchen.” I smiled. “Does that mean we go to the living room?”

  “No.”

  I walked toward Lou’s kitchen, Yakov in tow. Despite the empty oven, the room was fragrant with the delicious smell of a bakery in overdrive.

  “Somebody was cooking here?” Yakov asked once we were seated at the table.

  “Lou was baking.”

  “My coming has sent him from his house?”

  “Stop being paranoid. He’s delivering the goods to a friend upstairs and cooking with her. You’re not putting anybody out.”

  “Lou is your father-in-law?” he asked as if he had just understood what I’d said downstairs. “I didn’t know you were married.”

  For the second time that night I spoke of my past. And for the second time, spoke of it without my usual quake, tremor, or defensive shell. I wasn’t exactly eloquent, but my relative ease andhis recognition of some parallel experiences proved settling. For both of us.

  “I didn’t know any of that about you.”

  “I don’t talk about it very often.” Or as well.

  “I still don’t know if I belong here,” he said.

  I looked at his shiny black suit, his quarter-inch crew-cut, his earlocks. I looked at his faded open-necked white shirt, his black velvet yarmulke. “Belong, you don’t,” I said with a grin. “But that doesn’t mean being here is a bad idea.”

  “I don’t know,” he answered shaking his head. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth.

  “Neither do I. And won’t, unless you tell me what’s going on.”

  His trace of a smile disappeared. “I’ve been worrying about my father.”

  I waited, but he sat silent.

  “Simon, the lawyer Roth,” I teased, “called me today.” I thought it was today; my days were still running together. “Except for the paperwork, everything is okay for your dad. He has absolutely nothing to worry about.”

  “Your friend is a good lawyer?”

  “I told you, he’s the best.”

  Yakov stood up and paced the kitchen, moving his lips silently all the while. If my news dented his anxiety, it sure didn’t show.

  “Yakov, your father has nothing to worry about. Do you hear me?”

  He stopped his silent chanting but kept walking back and forth. “I hear you. My father no longer has that to worry about.”

  “What else is he worrying about?”

  The boy stopped pacing and rocketed me with a withering look. “You have no conception of our Yeshiva’s loss! No idea of the weight that has fallen on Reb Yonah’s shoulders. We have become a community in disarray.”

  He surprised me by calling his father Reb Yonah. “Of course your Yeshiva is confused. No one anticipated Rabbi Dov’s death. You have to give it time to settle. Your dad is a smart man. As soon as things get back to normal, he’ll realize how much he needs you.”

  Yakov returned to the table but stood behind his chair. “I’m having a terrible time sleeping,” he said.

  I waved toward the chair. “I can tell. Why don’t you sit down?” I lit a cigarette and waited while he decided. Good old Lou. A reformed smoker, he still left an ashtray on the table. “Are you having trouble fitting back in with the rest of the students?” I asked once he was sitting.

  “No, no”—waving his skinny hand dismissively—”I’m not here for any of those reasons.”

  “Then why, Yakov? What’s got you so upset?”

  He rubbed his hand across his face and left it in front of his eyes. “Do you remember our discussion about the Never Agains?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, the Yeshiva is starting one.”

  “You mean your father is finished setting it up, don�
��t you?” I asked softly, making certain there was no recrimination in my tone.

  He kept his hand over his eyes and nodded.

  “Why does this keep tearing at you, Yakov? Your father has wanted them around for a long while.” I stopped, then added with a smile, “Even the last time we talked you didn’t think the Never Agains were a totally lousy idea.”

  “It’s not them exactly.” He stood up again, grabbed the back of the chair to steady himself, then walked toward the kitchen door. For an astonished second I thought he planned to keep on going. But when he got to the door he leaned face first into the frame, and started to sob.

  I walked up behind him and placed my hands lightly on his shoulders, half expecting him to shrug them away. He didn’t. Instead, he leaned back against me.

  “I think my father was involved in the Rebbe’s murder,” he cried out between sobs.

  Though some of my mind catapulted into furious activity, I forced the rest to stay in the eye of the storm. I hugged Yakov closer, kept my arms around his chest, and rested my chin on his velvet yarmulke. We stood like this through his tears, through his long, tortured gasps of breath, through the shudders and shakes of his skinny body. We waited until he was steady enough to walk and I was able to talk through the cacophony in my head. We may have been there a long time.

  I walked him, hand in mine, back to the table. My cigarette had long since extinguished itself so I lit another. It wasn’t going to be my last.

  “You’re hitched to a heavy piece of luggage there.”

  He nodded.

  “Been carrying it long?”

  Another downcast nod and more silence.

  “Does your suspicion have anything to do with your father’s diamond business?”

  He kept his eyes on the table. “No. I don’t know, maybe.” His head tilted south but he glanced at me from under hooded eyelids. “What do you know about his diamond business?”

  “Only what you told me. I just don’t know what else to ask.” Truth was, I was torn about asking anything. I wanted to comfort him. To absorb the fear and dread from his scrawny body and add it to my own. I was older, bigger, and suddenly aware of extra room. I wanted to find guiltless words to explain “projection,” grant permission for his anger, blow away his tears. I wanted to send him home relieved, a well-adjusted Hasid looking forward to the rest of his Hasidic life.