On Deception Watch

by David H Spielberg

  He lay there and tried to breathe short, narrow breaths squeezed through tight lips. But each breath he took set off a quick, hot explosion in his chest. He didn’t know there could be such pain, as if knives were being thrust into him. He tried to breathe without using his chest.

  He remembers thinking even at that moment how strange the room looked from the floor level, his wet cheek against the cold tile. Everything had a new reality for him from there. Things were no longer merely part of the floor, but could be clearly seen as separate objects resting on the floor. The money was gone. The splintered wood from the shattered door frame lay scattered near the entrance. The pile of dirty clothes and towels behind the door seemed to be growing out of the floor. There was broken glass creating an angular and mysterious skyline. He must have thrown the shampoo bottle by the tub at Johnny, but he didn’t remember.

  Once, his mother looked in the doorway. His eyes caught hers and locked on them as he watched her trying to decide what to do. Then Johnny called her from the living room and their eyes unlocked, but not before he saw something he had never seen before in his mother’s eyes. He saw her weakness, her willingness to make the wrong choices, her self-destruction. At that moment his disappointment in his mother and her life and the life she had given him turned to hatred. She turned and walked away.

  Jeremy had a lot of time to think before he was able to move enough to drag himself to the tub, fill it with hot water and somehow get his screaming, stiffening body into it.

  Johnny was a mean son of a bitch. He never asked Jeremy how he got the money. And he did not care. He just took it and that was that. It would be three weeks before Jeremy would be able to move without furniture around for support. But he knew as he lay on bathroom floor what he had to do.

  At fifteen years old Jeremy Leach started over again. Except this time he had a plan. He was leaving and he needed a stake and he needed a gun. He had been clumsy the first time. This time he did not bring anything to the apartment.

  He knew which houses had guns. He knew where he had not left any sign of his being there. Quickly and quietly, four weeks and three days after his beating and the loss of his stash he had a gun and a box of shells.

  He waited until night, a week later, five o’clock, at the little Indian-owned convenience store in his cousin Albie’s neighborhood, about a half-mile from Jeremy’s apartment. He had watched patiently for several days to understand the routine. He wanted to get the full day’s receipts but not be interrupted by the new shift. A half-hour before the shift changed, before the day’s receipts were deposited, he struck.

  When he entered the store he soon found out what it felt like to be six feet tall. He waited until everyone in the store—the clerk, two customers and Jeremy—were all by the cash register. He quickly displayed his gun.

  Then, no arguments and no bullshit. He told the customers and the clerk to raise their hands; told the clerk to slowly lower one hand and open the cash drawer; told the clerk to get away from behind the counter and stand near the customers; got around the counter to the cash drawer; took the cash; told everyone to lie on the floor; checked the front door; grabbed a box of plastic sandwich bags; and made his getaway.

  Three hundred and seventy-five dollars. More than he had hoped for. More than he needed. He stayed out that night. He wouldn’t take any chances with Johnny. He also had some unfinished business with Johnny.

  Jeremy savored his recollection of the next day.

  He waited until his mother had left for a part-time job she had downtown and Johnny was alone in the apartment. Quietly he entered the apartment, picked up a pillow from the sofa and quickly headed to the kitchen, knowing Johnny would still likely be in the bedroom.

  “Johnny?” he called out tentatively from the kitchen. Then louder, “Johnny, you here?” He picked up a pot and a spoon and started banging the pot.

  “Johnny, you no-good, useless, stupid son of a bitch. You in here?” Very loud, then more banging.

  Jeremy remembered with satisfaction the kitchen door slamming open as Johnny staggered in, unshaven, eyes bloodshot, beer breath, skinny, awkward body having no discipline. Seeing Jeremy he began typically: “Yuh little asshole. Whadayuh think yer doing with all that racket? Where the hell you been?” He leered at Jeremy who calmly stood his ground, pillow under his left arm, holding a paper bag in his left hand, his right hand behind his back.

  “I got something for you Johnny,” Jeremy said.

  “You ain’t got shit. You ain’t worth shit. Whadayuh got for me?” Johnny lunged at Jeremy, but Jeremy easily stepped back a pace and coolly brought his right hand up and forward toward Johnny’s face. Even in his boozed-out state Johnny’s instincts worked well enough to recognize the stainless steel working end of a .36-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver. He froze, a surprised, cautious, awakening look forming on his face.

  “Jeremy, Jeremy. What’s this? What are you doin’ with this. You know what your mother will say when she finds out you got a piece. She’ll be heartbroke. And she’ll blame me. What are you doin’.”

  Jeremy listened to the slight change in tonethe beginning of focused attention.

  “Come on boy. You ain’t still mad about the money? It’s the money ain’t it? Come on, Jeremy. I was drunk. You know how I get when I take a little too much of the sauce.”

  Jeremy just listened, waiting for the right moment, still pointing his gun at Johnny’s head.

  “Jeremy, put the gun down before you hurt yourself. Where’d you get that thing anyways. Is that what they learn you in school? What do you want? We’re a family, huh? Sometimes we fight. That’s the way families are. You forgive and forget. Put down the gun. I was out of my head. You know what I’m like when I drink. I don’t mean nothin’.”

  Jeremy stared at Johnny, expressionless.

  “Jeremy, this ain’t right. It ain’t respectful. You gotta stop this now and I won’t tell your momma. Now. I mean right now. Put that fuckin’ gun down right now. You hear me?”

  Jeremy just watched Johnny.

  “That’s it. Cut this shit. What are you gonna do asshole, shoot me? You ain’t that crazy. Fuckin’ kid never did have no sense. I’m tired of your bullshit. I got a paper to finish readin’. You never was worth shit.”

  Johnny started to turn, tentatively, but that gave Jeremy the opening he was waiting for.

  “Well . . . we’ll see what I’m worth and what you’re worth. Stay right where you are,” Jeremy said. Deliberately, he placed the paper bag on the table. Reaching into his pocket he took out the money from the Seven-Eleven store. He placed it on the kitchen table carefully fanning the bills.

  “I’m worth three hundred and seventy-five dollars, Johnny. Surprised, huh? When were you ever worth that much, Johnny? Want to take it now, Johnny? Want to kick me now? What’s the matter, Johnny? You ain’t so fast right now.”

  “Jeremy. Don’t. I’m telling you. You got to forgive and forget. I was drunk.” Johnny’s voice was getting that higher-pitched, whiny sound that Jeremy was waiting to hear. A smile started to form on Jeremy’s face. “You know, it’s just the booze. You gotta move on. Forget about it kid.”

  “I don’t have to forget. I got too much I remember. You’re not going to forget either. I’m gonna see to that. This gun makes me a lot bigger, a lot taller, don’t it, Johnny. Tell me again what you see, what I’m worth now, Johnny.”

  Johnny’s eye’s became scared now for the first time. They grew wider as he looked at the money and the gun, the gun and the money. His right hand began to twitch.

  “You know what you’re worth, Johnny?” Jeremy waited, staring coldly into Johnny’s wet, boozy eyes, challenging them, capturing his eyes and holding them. His finger caressed the trigger of the revolver.

  Jeremy gathered up the money and returned it to his pocket. “You know what you’re worth, Johnny? I’m gonna show you, Johnny.” Slowly Jeremy raised the paper bag from the table, motioning Johnny with the gun to step back a pace. “You’
re worth what’s in here, Johnny.” He slipped the pillow under his right arm and using his left hand he opened the paper bag and pulled out a small clear plastic sandwich bag and placed it on the table.

  “You know what this is, Johnny? This is a plastic bag of shit. That’s a very important thing to you, ain’t it Johnny? That’s pretty valuable stuff. You know how I know it’s valuable stuff to you, Johnny. Because you love me so much and you’re always telling me how that’s what I’m worth. So it must be valuable stuff to you. ‘Cause I’m so wonderful, you see?”

  Johnny’s jaw went slack, his eyes now darting from the gun to the bag. Jeremy took the pillow from under his arm and wrapped it around his hand and the revolver.

  “You’re going to eat this for me ain’t you Johnny, since you think it’s so good and wonderful?” Johnny’s eyes went even wider than Jeremy would have thought possible. Johnny made a move to back away to the kitchen door. At his first movement the gun exploded in the pillow putting a bullet into the door frame behind Johnny. At the flash of the gun Johnny lost control of his bladder and wet himself. He started to whimper incoherently.

  “Sit down,” Jeremy ordered. Johnny sat.

  Jeremy walked to Johnny and placed a spoon in front of him, then carefully rewrapping the pillow around the gun he pressed his pillow encased hand to the back of Johnny’s head, the cold steel barrel pressing into the matted, tangled hair.

  “Eat.” Johnny didn’t move.

  “Eat it!” Jeremy screamed. Picking up the spoon and filling it from the bag, Jeremy forced the spoon to Johnny’s mouth and against his clenched teeth. Jeremy rubbed the spoon against Johnny’s mouth and face.

  Unable to control himself any longer, nauseated by the smell, Johnny vomited, splattering the table and the floor. Jeremy stepped back and tossing the pillow aside crashed the gun down on Johnny’s head with all his force. Johnny slumped forward into the mess on the table. Jeremy slowly turned and walked out the apartment.

  He never saw Johnny or his mother again.

  25

  Finishing his four-minute egg, Samuel Berman was not aware of Jeremy Leach’s presence. He was not aware of how his life had been penetrated by a man like Jeremy. His wife, Marsha, had left already. Marsha was a surprising woman, he thought, capable of growing and absorbing change with dignity. He admired his wife.

  Berman placed his dishes in the dishwasher, turned it on and went to the living room to sit in the armchair next to the piano. He picked up the photo album from the low walnut table next to the chair and turned to a picture near the front. It was a picture he often went to when he needed to remember the beginning of his return to life. His wife was nineteen then.

  He was twenty-three and a student at City College, living with his Uncle Bernie and Aunt Miriam. He had been in the United States for almost ten years by then, smuggled out of Russia by friends who could bribe and survive. For children, it was easier to get help. His parents died in Russia, unable to get permits to emigrate. Of his beloved sister, Franny, there was nothing but the horror of reluctant memory. He had only a lock of her hair which he still kept in his wallet.

  He was a sober, quiet boy, often disturbed by dreams that Aunt Miriam would hug and stroke away in the night. He worked hard helping his uncle and was an excellent student. He learned English quickly, but spoke Yiddish at home. The traditions were observed. In the lower east side of New York City, life itself was tradition, so rich was it with ethnic culture.

  Samuel’s brain and body had prospered, but his soul had not yet rekindled the flame of life, extinguished for him in Europe when he was a child. The hatred of Jews, a thousand years old, was not to be extinguished by a mere few generations of politically correct posturing. Marsha would rekindle the flame of life for him. It was the second time they had met, the occasion of this photo being a more or less arranged event worked out through mutual friends. She had noticed him in the neighborhood and boldly asked about him and arrangements were made.

  She was always so proud, he thought, a smile breaking out as it always did when he thought of her in quiet moments like this. It was in the Botanical Garden in the autumn. The trees were partially bare and leaves formed a slippery garment over the dirt path of the garden. In the background of the photo, to the left, incredibly, he had captured a leaf in the act of falling, its quiet trip to earth now suspended for all time in this snapshot.

  So proud, he thought, as he watched her stand there, her jaw set, her chin high, her mouth firmly fixed in a proper, solemn, noncommittal smile, her head turned just to the right so as not to be looking amateurishly into the camera.

  What a sight. He would always smile looking at her getup: an ankle-length short-sleeved woolen dress, her right hand clenched tightly and thrust deeply into the front pocket at hip-level, her left hand holding the strap of an oversized garment bag with an elaborate paisley pattern. Protruding from the short sleeves of the dress was a heavy woolen sweater. Finally, there were her high woolen socks over her brother’s leather-laced walking shoes. Altogether, it was a picture of proud poverty.

  And there was her face. Even now, past her prime as she was, Marsha had the face of an angel to him. Back then, when he took that picture, he knew that he was in love. Her long neck, the sharp, angular jaw and steep smooth cheeks, the pouty lower lip that she couldn’t hide and that to her chagrin he still loved to bite lightly when they kissed, beguiled him then as it still did this morning, if at the moment only in a picture.

  Uncharacteristically blue for a person of Eastern European heritage, her deep-set eyes, the eyes of a thinking person, alert and penetrating, went straight to his heart. Of course, the old black and white photo does not show that, but they were burned into his soul that autumn day with a clarity no photo could hope to capture.

  Only her magnificent hair was not visible in this picture. That day it had been sensibly done up in a bun and covered with a scarf, but even then the wisps and vagrant strands added to her appeal, providing just the right touch of abandon to her otherwise decorous appearance. It has been many years since she had her hair cut, as she would say, to a “more sensible” and appropriate length for a woman her age, now streaked with gray as it was. And she was right and practical, of course. But in their youth her hair was very special with its shine and smell and smooth electric feel when she let it down for him. Berman loved her instantly, then and forever.

  He never thought he would be so lucky. And he was grateful for what he had, being in America, making a new life and achieving unexpected happiness to replace the misery of Europe, of his parents’ death and of his poor lost, beautiful, little Franny, and the Polish scum that took her life. Those were evil days, almost beyond understanding for him. He would always remember them. Quietly, solemnly he closed his eyes and relived for the thousandth time the knowledge of the perverted passion of European anti-Semitism, unabashed and unchecked except only briefly by the horrors of the holocaust.

  Samuel had been ten years old when his world exploded before his eyes. It happened so quickly, and he was so young, that over the years he would often drift into thinking it all a dream, that somehow he had only had a nightmare and that his fourteen-year-old sister Franny had really died from smallpox or in an accident, anything else that would let him understand and accept God’s will. But then he would remember that all things were God’s will and were not to be rejected. He had found a message of hope in his sorrow. He had been given a chance. Their sacrifice was for him. His life must make a difference.

  Berman checked his watch. It was almost time to leave. He looked around the room filled with memories, filled with moments of his life. He wondered once again if he was doing the right thing.

  At his age, he should be serenely anticipating retirement. Not this. He owed it to Arthur Cranshaw who has been so good to him. Good was too small a word. He was reborn to life here. And Arthur Cranshaw was his great mentor and benefactor. He felt lucky that he could repay his debt even a little bit. But he was getting tired. And h
e thought of Marsha, how brave and supportive she was. She was proud of him, she would say in quiet moments, stroking his hair.

  Walking to the door, he stopped by the toaster in the kitchen to pick up his wallet and keys. At the hall closet, he put on his overcoat, picked up his leather satchel and quickly left, automatically locking the door securely behind him.

  26

  Jeremy stamped his feet to get some circulation down to his toes, which had gone numb. The chilling rain had stopped and he had finished his smoke. He stood outside his car. He was enjoying the stretch and knew that soon enough he would be back in his car with plenty to keep him busy.

  Yes, Jeremy thought, he was patient and he liked waiting, partly because he knew other people hated it and his patience gave him an advantage over the others. Waiting put him in control. Also, it gave him time to think. He would review and analyze and plan. Jeremy was proud of his busy mind and knew he was different.

  He got to know his subjects well although they never met. That was why he could be depended on, why he had his special clients. That was why he would go places. He did his homework. He knew what Samuel Berman was doing that moment in his apartment across the street because he knew Samuel Berman.

  Jeremy knew every inch of Berman’s apartment. He knew what newspaper he reads, what he eats for breakfast, what he likes to drink, when he leaves for work, where he stops on the way home on Tuesdays, and where he stops on Fridays. He knew every foot of Berman’s route between his apartment and AJC Fusion. He knew who his friends were and how often they visited. He knew where the Bermans vacation.

  He knew what kind of person Berman was: his European birth, his marriage, his education, his work history, his salary and his expenses. This was big stakes hardball. You can’t ever be too sure. Jeremy Leach did his homework. And Jeremy’s clients wanted nothing left to chance.