City of Secrets (5 page)

Hurried across Pine to California. Rick stood in front of a synagogue, squat Romanesque arches glowing pink gold in the dying sun. The sign read
TEMPLE SHERITH ISRAEL
.

He made a motion with his head for her to follow him. She walked through the middle arch into the dim, vaguely pink vestibule. An old man in patched overalls was kneeling on the cement with a can of strong-smelling lye soap and oily rags.

“Kike” was painted in large red letters on the inside wall.

 

Four

The old man ignored Rick's outstretched hand, groaned when his knees straightened.

Tall and thin, maybe mid- to late sixties. White beard stained with yellow, climbing in patches down his neck.

“You want something?” He looked from Rick to Miranda and back again.

Rick pushed his battered fedora off his forehead. “I'm from the
San Francisco News
. Got a call earlier about this.” He gestured toward the wall.

A middle-aged squat woman in heavy shoes and faded red scarf shoved the main door open from the inside and stepped into the vestibule, holding on to a little boy. He froze when he saw Rick and Miranda, and clutched the woman's worn brown dress. She chided him in whispers, dragging him a foot at a time toward the last bit of sunlight filtering through the arches from California Street.

The old man murmured something in Yiddish. The woman nodded back, scarf around her head hiding any expression. She tugged at the little boy again. He stood firm, seven-year-old feet planted. Pointed to the wall.

“Schpin, Mame—schpin!”

Miranda turned around to where the boy was pointing. Above the other words, concealed in the growing shadows.

A swastika.

The woman muttered something else, and the kid started to cry. She bent down and picked him up, holding him tight against her, walking in a hurry toward Fillmore.

The old man said again, voice patient: “You want something?”

Rick scratched his head. “Yeah. I want to talk to someone about that.” He pointed to the scrawled words, color of dried blood against the yellow surface. “When did it happen? Did anyone see anything?”

The old man sighed, rubbing his nose, and took off his cracked leather work gloves, hands like onionskin.

“Yah. Done last night, after evening prayer. We find this morning. I don't know who tells the policemen. Find three of these.” He gestured toward the swastika, not looking at it. “I clean all day. You excuse, you talk to Rabbi Goldstein or Mr. Flamm.”

He drew out a dingy yellow handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. Carefully fit the gloves on his hands again and braced himself against the wall, folding back to the ground like an aged crane.

“Where can we find them?”

He dipped a rag into the old Hills Brothers coffee can. “Inside. Office in back.”

He wet the brick, then picked up a tattered piece of sandpaper. Back and forth, rubbing out the swastika. Wet again, rub again. Paint was fading, degrees at a time.

A yellow light clicked on in the vestibule, the old man's hands throwing garish shadows on the wall, his breath and the friction of sand on stone the only sound.

Rick said softly. “Don't you have help? Maybe somebody a little younger?”

He glanced up at them, faced forward again. “I take care of her. Been taking care of her for thirty-four years.” He shook his head, dipped the rag. “No wife, no children. So I take care of her. Go look—you see.” He gestured with a finger to the far corner of the vestibule, closest to the sidewalk.

They walked over. Through the worn stone, the patched pink and yellow. Traces of color.

Paint.

Red paint, black paint, thin, thick, fragments of letters. Layers of hatred built into the synagogue, scarred history of threat and violence, pain washed and covered over but never covered up.

Miranda ran her finger along a barely discernible black stripe. Asked him, “What does
schpin
mean?”

The old man turned his head and spat on the ground in reflex. Dipped the cloth, a stinging odor of oil and lye rising from the rusty can.

“It means ‘spider,' lady. This is whole city of spiders.”

He rocked back and forth, rhythmically rubbing the synagogue wall.

*   *   *

They walked through the auditorium, gazing up at the giant dome, light hitting the yellow arches and orange frescoed writing. Light was everywhere, almost blinding. It flooded the interior, sunset through the rose window, lifting the dome and making it seem weightless.

A few men sat together on benches, arguing about something. One looked up when they entered and walked over.

Big eyes, eager voice. “Welcome to the temple. Are you here for a tour? The building was built in 1905 by Albert Pissis, who also designed the Flood Building—”

“We're not here for a tour. We'd like to speak to Rabbi Goldstein or a Mr. Flamm, please.”

It took a few seconds for his mouth to close and the fact to register. He scratched his head, fat stomach quivering a little, staring at Miranda.

“Sure, Miss. Thought for sure you wanted a history—lots of people come by to look at the temple. Abraham Ruef was indicted here on sixty-five counts of extortion after the quake—right here, they used it as the Hall of Justice. And—”

One of the other men spoke up from the benches. “Don't be such a rube, Ethan. Tell the lady and the gentleman where to find Flamm.”

He looked toward the other man, back again to Miranda and Rick, face red. “Right this way.”

He led them to a door beside the massive pipe organ, knocked twice sharply, opened it. Dark and narrow hallway, rooms opening to the side. Lamplight carved a triangle in front of an open door, and he walked into the door frame, making a harrumphing sound in his throat.

A deep voice rasped from the room, “What the— What do you want? I said not to bother—”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Flamm. Two people asked for either you or Rabbi Goldstein.” He stepped awkwardly into the room, clearing the way for Miranda and Rick.

A man about thirty-five sat behind an old wooden desk, sharp face, good-looking, clothes tailored and too flashy. Pink display handkerchief, sateen navy lapels. His eyebrows rose when he saw Miranda.

“Hello, hello—afraid you're stuck with me. I'm Harry Flamm. Rabbi Goldstein's working on his book.”

File cabinets lined the opposite wall, some of the drawers open and in disarray. Banker's lamp on the table, ledgers, receipt books. No photo frame. Brown Bakelite portable radio, latest model.

His eyes ignored Rick, focused on Miranda, quick up-and-down movement. Lingered on her legs.

She smiled, put a wiggle in it. Gestured toward the high-backed chair sitting crookedly in front of the desk. “May I?”

Rick pulled out the chair and straightened it. Said pointedly to Flamm: “I'll stand.”

“If you'd rather. I can get another for you.”

He shook his head, fingers brushing Miranda's shoulder. “Please don't bother.”

Flamm leaned back, eyes on Rick, home again to Miranda. Slow smile spread across his face. She met his eyes and smiled again, noticing two Tanforan ticket stubs under a stack of receipts. He opened a drawer of his desk, took out a pack of Viceroys.

“You mind?” His hand was already reaching for a matchbook.

Miranda shook her head, opened her purse. Took out her gold cigarette case and flicked it open. “Got a light?”

His eyes raked her again. “Sure—try this.” Flicked the matchbook across the desk. She glanced at it. A restaurant on Montgomery. Long way from the Fillmore.

Rick moved to pick it up, but Miranda was already running the match along Flamm's desk, holding his gaze. Cupped her hands, lit the Chesterfield on the first try. Deep, slow inhale, breath out the corner of her mouth. Bent forward again to tap the cigarette on the cracked black ashtray. Two of the cigarette stubs were covered in lipstick.

Rick cleared his throat. Flamm looked up, amused, blew smoke in his direction.

“So—what did you want to see the rabbi about? You interested in joining the congregation?”

Miranda raised her arms above her head to adjust her beret, taking long enough to make sure Flamm noticed.

“I'm afraid not, Mr. Flamm. We're here about a friend of ours.”

Flamm inhaled the Viceroy and finally noticed the fat man breathing hard and pressed against the wall. Condescending voice.

“You can go now. Shut the door behind you.”

Ethan backed out, facing him. “Sure, Mr. Flamm. Thank you.”

He turned to Miranda, making an effort. “I usually leave it open—gets like a morgue down here.”

“I can imagine. What is it you do for the synagogue, exactly?”

Flamm puffed the Viceroy, flicking ash in the tray. “I manage the books for the rabbi, help him and the board run it. We got a big congregation here—Reform temple. I didn't catch your name, Miss…?”

“Corbie. Miranda Corbie.” Kilowatt smile, tilt of the head. Instinct told her to be careful with Mr. Flamm.

He nodded several times, opening the desk drawer, shutting it again. Finally found a pen on the desktop.

“I'm a busy man, Miss Corbie—so if you and your friend could get to the point…”

She craned her neck to look at Rick, hovering behind her.

“Richard—would you mind waiting in the hallway? It would make it easier on me to talk about—you know…”

He looked over at Flamm, back to her. “Sure, Miranda. Whatever you say.”

Flamm's eyes followed Rick out the door. He leaned back, shoulders relaxed, feet and legs spread wide apart in the chair. He picked up a half-dollar from the tip of a ledger, tossed it in one hand. Bargain-basement George Raft, straight out of
Scarface
.

He abruptly threw the coin to Miranda, who caught it in her left. He leaned forward, grinning. She set it down on the front of the desk with a slap, never leaving his eyes.

He laughed. “I figure you're not Jewish. If you're—interested—I'll leave you my number. So you can learn more about it.”

He picked up the pen again, found a soiled business card in the desk drawer. Scrawled a number on it. Snapped the card into her hand, fingers brushing hers. Toothy smile, hair gleaming with cream, scent of patchouli and oak moss.

“Thanks, Mr. Flamm. I'll keep it in mind. I know you're busy, so—”

“Take all the time you need, Miss Corbie.” He grinned some more, puffing the Viceroy. “Call me Harry. I think we understand one another.”

She nodded, looked down at her hands. “Does what happened last night—does it happen often?”

Flamm pulled his eyes back up. Alert. “What happened last night?”

“The vandalism outside. The paint. We spoke to the old man.”

“Old Jabob?” Flamm's laugh caught a cough, and he ground out the Viceroy in the ashtray. “Sees Nazis around every goddamn—excuse me, every corner. That's not why you're here, is it? No—couldn't be, we never report that kid stuff.”

“Don't you want to find out who's responsible?”

Flamm shook his head again, derisive smile twisting his coarse, good-looking face. “Miss Corbie—we could spend twenty-four hours a day tracking down people who hate Jews. All the synagogues in San Francisco get regularly attacked by morons with paint cans in one hand and some scare sheet in the other. So what? We scrape it off, get on with things.”

“But surely the swastikas—”

“You think that's such a big deal? Listen, before there was Hitler there was Stalin, and before him there was the czar. Pogroms left, right, and center field. So there's new boys in town? So what? If we ran every time somebody called us a name, we'd run forever. And some do, but not here. Not at Sherith Israel. We take care of our own—period. That's enough.”

Miranda slid the business card into her pocketbook. Picked up Flamm's matchbook off the edge of the desk and lit another stick, dropping the matches in her purse.

“But Hitler's not just another bully. The stories out of Germany and Austria after '38—”

“Sure, sure.” Flamm waved his hands around dismissively. “Everyone's out to kill all the Jews. People in the old country send hysterical letters. What do you expect? It's a different world, and they don't know how to get along. They're not educated. Not smart. They overreact.”

He smoothed his hair down, lowered his voice. “Nothing for you to worry about, honey. Like I said, we take care of our own—make sure people who come to us are fed and clothed and have a place to stay. Beyond that, forget it.” He looked at his watch, overplaying it.

“Now, you wanted to talk about something personal—a friend…?” Glow in the eyes, leer in the voice, hard-on in the pants. He picked up the half-dollar again, rolling it between his fingers.

End of the line.

Miranda leaned across the desk, rubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray, stain of her Red Dice lipstick bright against the stub.

“Friend of mine is half-Jewish on her mother's side. Never had any instruction, and would like to convert. Could she get instruction here?”

He tossed the coin on a
Chronicle
racing schedule. “The two of you came out here just for that? That's the big personal question?”

“She's worked in burlesque, Mr. Flamm.” Miranda crossed her legs, leaned back in the chair.

Quick little nods. Big grin. Smoothed his hair, purr back in his voice. “To answer your question, she's considered a Jew if her mother's Jewish, and she could get instruction here. From me personally. We're Reform, Miss Corbie. Very modern.” Eyes insolent now, hot and knowing. “You've got my number. You can … pass it along.”

Miranda rose, holding on to the chair back. “Yeah. I think I do.”

She pivoted to face him with her hand on the doorknob. “Maybe you knew her, Mr. Flamm. Her name was Pandora Blake. She was murdered last night.”