by Elik Katzav
Women, on the other hand, check the machine when they take their laundry out, and when they discover items that do not belong to them in the pile, they usually throw them right on top of the washer. Case in point.
As I collect my tossed clothes, I glance at my watch. The upholstery shop was supposed to close about twenty minutes ago, which means it has now become David Maharani’s investigator’s bureau slash bachelor pad.
On my way over, I go through the alley behind the local 7-Eleven-style stand. This used to be where I got my cigarettes, until it hit me that while cigarettes might kill me, lack of food surely will, so I chose to spend my money on food, when I find some, that is.
This alley caters to most of my culinary needs. The sandwiches no one bought get thrown here, mostly still in their original plastic wrap. Granted, I do have to fight over them with the homeless people who are also waiting for something to eat, but I soon discovered that once I pull out my police badge, wave it around and shout at them to stop, they usually drop everything and run away, leaving more for me.
My police badge. Yeah. That’s the last thing I have from the force, not that they didn’t try to take it away from me. I don’t know why, but eventually I decided to keep it. After all, they took everything else away from me.
“Serious mental condition.” That’s what they called it in my termination notice. Yeah, turns out that although you got injured—and you will get the full compensation you are entitled to—everything you claim you have experienced: we don’t buy that. It’s your problem, making stories up to extract money from the police. Besides, you should be ashamed of yourself. Do you know how limited the force’s resources are, and you want us to pay for your psychoses, too? You’re out of line!
Yes, I must have overdone it. I’m probably making myself anxious, it was me who created my own need for pills so that I could go to sleep, it’s me who sees figures that aren’t there in an alley, watching me. It is me who hears those vicious tongues wagging. Yeah, it’s me, personally, after possessing the body of a priest, who was trying to blow those tunnels up right under Mount Precipice. It is all me, me, me.
The system assumed no responsibility. And it isn’t like I asked for much. All I asked for was to be believed, to be allowed to speak with the proper professionals who would help me.
Instead, they gave me one month to rehabilitate my leg, where I got shot in the line of duty, of course. One month. And after that, I was sure capable of walking on my own, so along came this pink slip. That’s it. Your years in the force are over. Your dream for a career, of a family too, possibly, it’s all over.
So here I am, always on the lookout for my next meal, how to score some laundry so that I may have a few clean clothes, sleeping on a couch in the back room of an upholstery shop after the staff leaves, and out I go first thing in the morning before they return to work. I hang out in the streets, living off odd jobs. That’s it for me.
But hey, let’s focus on the bright side. No, there isn’t any.
This pastrami sandwich I got is among the better ones. True, the sliced veggies have gone bad, but pastrami keeps better than tuna. You can’t eat a four-day old tuna sandwich. Having said that, I gotta say I did that too, in order to avoid going to sleep on an empty stomach.
I arrive at the entrance of the upholstery shop. The owner once retained the services of a private eye, Uri Zadok, in order to discover who his wife was going with while he was busy bringing home the bacon. Uri, who was once a real private investigator, is no longer out in the field. That’s what he keeps me and the likes of me for. He put me down as an intern so that I could get a license. He pays me minimum wage and dispatches me to get punched by those guys whose pictures I’ve taken while they’re sneaking around. That’s one hell of an arrangement.
I walk over to the back room. The smell of glue is everywhere. This locker holds my entire property. I take my phone out and connect it to the charger.
I only can check my messages in the evening. Walking around with a mobile whose battery can’t last longer than an hour is ineffective. Besides, it’s not like anyone’s actually looking for me.
One voicemail. Uri Zadok is telling me, in that hoarse voice of his, after years of smoking:
“Listen, Maharani, I’ve got this case for you to handle. It’s got,” he pauses, “something the expertise you’ve picked up in the force could come in handy here.” He goes silent again.
“Anyhow, this couple came looking for help locating their kid who ran away from home,” he coughs, “at any rate, I prefer not to mess with it. So, I referred this couple to you. Just remember to add at least ten percent to the hourly bill and send it over. You do not mess with clients’ bills.” He goes quiet again.
“Either way, they are due to arrive at the upholsters’ round six o’clock. Take care of them. Make them feel cozy. The wife keeps crying. I don’t handle crying women well. See them. See what you can do for them. All right, good luck,” he signs off.
‘A crying woman? What time is it? Five to six!’ I am shuddering all over. ‘He’s crazy to be sending them here to the upholstery shop, no prior warning. I am not equipped to see clients here, let alone clients with what seems like a real case.’
Any connection between being professional and Uri’s methods is strictly a coincidence. He’ll do anything to get rid of a case he doesn’t want, even send the clients to meet at an upholstery shop.
I move over to the shop’s main room and begin to arrange the sales counter, make it more presentable here. There are fabric swatches all over the place. You can barely see the desk itself from all the magazines and order leaflets. I stack ’em all up neatly to lay them on the couch at the far end of the room. I crunch the numbers from my time at the Counter Cult Squad, children on the run from home, the chances of them coming back or being found are not good, but this is a case, an actual, real case, something I can relate to. I’ve done this before, I can prove myself, and after that, who knows?
I rush over to the back room. ‘Must change my shirt. Make a good impression.’
I pick one out of the locker that looks presentable.
On the way back to the display room, I stop in front of the mirror in the washroom and gasp; I can hardly recognize myself in this image. My stubble is a few days old, but that’s the least of it. ‘My sunken face... my eyes. What’s the deal with my eyes?’
My eyes look like I haven’t slept for days. Hand across my face. I know how much I avoided mirrors up until now, but that’s certainly not what I’ve expected.
‘Is this really what I look like? Is this the way people see me on the street? Is this how Na’ama sees me? And Uri? This is probably why he gave me this case. I certainly look like a guy living off scraps. This case, I bet it’s the bottom of the barrel, otherwise Uri would not have sent them over to me. They’ll probably look at me and peg me for someone barely a step above a homeless person.’
There goes the doorbell. ‘Too late for self-pity, certainly not in front of clients. I stand a chance to make some money here. Gotta run with it as is.’
This couple is standing by the front door of the upholstery shop. The woman is well-kept. She’s in her late thirties. Her floral summer dress is in sharp contrast to her eyes, which are still red and puffy. Her tears are clearly fresh. She’s been crying for quite a while. She did manage to fix her makeup so that it would mask the pain in her eyes.
A quick look at her husband makes me almost certain he is indeed her husband. He seems to fit the bill, with his graying hair and stiff look about his eyes. Short sleeve buttoned up shirt over a bulging belly. Walking over to the office got him sweating a bit. Clearly, he hasn’t been sleeping either recently.
She looks me over, takes a deep breath and begins. “I’m Michal Ben Yehuda and this is my husband, Yonatan.”
- Do come in.
I show them inside.
- I’m David Ma
harani. Uri told me you were due today.
They are looking around. Swatches and stationary everywhere. The smell of glue dominates the room. It doesn’t look like the location is making Yonatan feel at ease. He’s giving Michal this looks of ‘maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.’
I gesture at the sales desk.
- Won’t you come in, please.
- Come, have a seat. I’ve been waiting for you.
‘Here’s hoping that once they take their seat, some of their discomfort will go away.’
They exchange glances and smile at me nervously as they come closer and sit at the desk.
- Something to drink?
I produce a bottle of water and plastic cups from under the desk.
“No. No thanks,” Yonatan replies. Michal just nods, while she in turn inspects the upholstery shop.
“Well, it’s not quite what we had expected when Uri told us he was assigning his best investigator to our case.” Yonatan glances around and looks at me directly.
“Yes,” Michal says in a cracked voice. “We didn’t think he actually meant an upholstery shop. We thought this was some sort of code.”
- Yes, well…
‘His best investigator, yeah… more like the only one he’s got who’s willing to put up with his behavior.’
- How may I help you?
They’re looking at each other. Michal’s eyes are glistening.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea to come here,” Yonatan is looking at me again.
It looks like he’s about to get up, but Michal is holding her hand over his and looks at me.
“Our son is missing. We’re afraid he might be in trouble,” she starts as her tears begin to form.
I lean back in my chair for a moment, stunned by her directness.
- So why are you here? Why didn’t you go to the police?
“We did,” Yonatan answers, with a hint of irritation at the perception I might be taking them for fools. “The police made contact with Idan. Legally speaking,” he sighs as though this is the tenth time he’s recounting this, “the law states that if a kid runs away from home and then makes contact and explicitly requests no one tries to look for him and just asks to be left alone in peace, then the police have no authority to go looking for him, even if he’s a minor, as in our case. Idan asked to be left alone, so the police can’t do a thing about it.”
“In legal terms,” Yonatan adds, “We are his legal guardians until he reaches eighteen, so we can only demand they help us look for him. They, the police, cannot help us unless he is deemed to be in some sort of danger.”
“He called us,” Michal continues the story, “three days after he left home, and told us he was fine, and that we should not go looking for him.”
I interject.
- Let’s retrace our steps. Did you contact child services? Ordinarily, if the police can’t help, then child services usually step in.
“Yes.” Yonatan grabs a plastic cup and fills it with water. “We did go to child services. They sent over a social worker. Three days. It took them three days after Idan disappeared to bother showing up. And even then, they gave us the third degree like we’re the criminals here, like we made him leave home somehow. Since their first visit, they came one more time for further questioning, and that was it. The boy has been gone for two weeks now, and until today, they only came twice. That’s ‘we’re working as hard as we can’ for you…”
- So, I see what prompted you to contact Uri, but what triggered your decision to stop hanging around for red tape to get going?
Michal responds.
“Until two days ago, whenever I called Idan on his cell, the call would go through and after one or two rings he’d pick up, no matter the time of day to tell me he couldn’t speak, like, he was busy.”
Her tears begin to form again.
“At least I heard him, I knew he was alive. I knew he was not alone. Then, for the last two days, his phone has been off, out of the blue. I can no longer leave him any voicemails and text messages never arrive. It’s as if his phone is off the grid.”
I rifle through the drawers and hand her a paper napkin from a takeout order. She thanks me and wipes her tears away.
“Up until two days ago,” she repeats, “I knew he was alive, at least I could hear him, and now… now,” she says in a broken voice, “now he’s completely gone.”
- Did you update the police?
“Yes,” Yonatan replies. “But they are still fixed on Idan’s message from two weeks ago, asking us not to go looking for him and to leave him be. We can’t get them to act, no matter how hard we try, at least for another two weeks, by which time we could claim there was no sign he’s alive, and even then, I’m not sure the police will be able to help us.”
“Which is why we came to you,” Michal says. “We understood from Uri that you used to be a police investigator, so we want your help finding Idan before something bad happens to him. Help us bring him home.”
- Have you considered that Idan really doesn’t want you to go looking for him?
“No way.” She begins crying again. “Idan is an only child. We are a very close family. He probably needs our help. It seems like he has been brainwashed and something or someone is preventing him from coming back to us. I am certain. A mother’s intuition.”
Who am I to argue with intuitions? After all, everything I have been going through is the result of me going with my gut feeling. This is where it landed me. And now them. I take a close look at Michal. She is certainly on her way there. Unless she receives the help she needs from me, or from the next P.I., her next stop will be some quack psychic or the like, throwing her entire easy existence down the drain, almost as deep as me. Could I let this happen? Could it be that they are my ticket out? But this is only a gut feeling, the thing that got my troubles going. But I can’t let this happen to them, not without trying to help ’em out.
- I would like to see his room. Did you touch any of his stuff since he left?
“No,” Michal replies. “After the police left, they asked us not to move any of his stuff and to leave his room as it is as much as possible. Does this mean you’re going to help us?”
- I’ll take your case.
Yonatan rises from his chair and stretches his arm forward for a long and strong handshake. “Thanks,” he says, “thank you. I hope you’re the man who is going to return our son back to us in one piece.”
- I cannot guarantee a thing before I fully assess the situation. Do you have a copy of the case file of the open police investigation?
“Yes,” Michal responds. “Everything we have is in the house.”
- There’s no time to waste. What’s your address? I’ll look in on you later tonight. I would like to see Idan’s room and get started.
Michal is watching me. Her eyes seem to be flickering with hope. “I have a good feeling about you. I’ve got a hunch you’ll bring our Idan home.”
I look down and nod. Back in the day, when I was whole, I would have agreed with her. Today, I would be glad to have just enough to buy the pills that allow me to sleep at night.
After they leave, I pick up my cell and dial. Three rings later, Uri’s hoarse voice answers.
“Well, Maharani? Do we have a case? Did you sign them up?”
- Yes. I shall begin the investigation this very evening.
“Looks like a big fat case with lots of billable hours,” he snickers on the other side of the line. “I’ll give ’em a call to get things moving along on signing the contract.”
I utter a sigh.
- Uri, they live at Hod Hasharon, which means I will need a car. I reckon I’ll be needing a car for this entire investigation in general.
He sounds irritated.
“Take the office car and do not forget to send me the bills and the mileage. I
do not wanna spend a cent on any joyrides.”
- Sure.
I am so familiar with Uri’s need to save as much money on me as possible.
“And do not forget to bill them for nights’ fees as well,” he squeezes in his last sentence as I sign off.
Chapter 2
The so-called “office car” Uri is referring to is in fact an old Subaru he once received as payment. He left it for new employees as a “token benefit.”
Before I moved to the back room of the upholstery shop, this Subaru was my home. When I had no other place to sleep, it was my bed. When I was on a stakeout, it also doubled as my dining room.
I charge the cell using the car outlet and put a disc in. Somebody took the antenna apart, so the radio doesn’t have any reception. All I have left for car rides is a collection disc someone put together for me way too long ago. It begins to play as I head out from Tel Aviv on my way north to the suburb of Hod Hasharon.
The “King of Pop” declares he is the one, and the child isn’t his. Funny. Uri would have surely sent me to help him prove ‘this kid is not his son,’ and that “Billie Jean” is only trying to pin it on him to get child support. I open the car windows all the way down, seeing as the AC has never worked since I first received the car. When I complained to Uri about this, he said, “then open the windows, there’s a great breeze outside,” and that was the end of it.
The Ben Yehudas live in a relatively new neighborhood in Hod Hasharon. Nice, clean, tall, white, buildings, manicured gardens and lawns. Around here, it seems, each family has more than one car, seeing as in addition to the basement level parking, the streets are full of brand new sedans and compact cars. According to my experience watching these nice areas, the husband usually parks the larger vehicle in the reserved parking at the building’s lower level, whereas the wife parks the smaller car outside. This is mostly the car she would use to pick the kids up from soccer and so on and to do the shopping. Besides, maneuvering in and out of the underground parking would really undermine her mobility.
