Day of Atonement (18 page)
Authors: Faye Kellerman
The kitchenette, done in high-gloss ivory enamel paint, was more of a closet than a room. It was right off the front door and hadn’t been cleaned for a while. The linoleum floor was missing a few tiles and dotted with dozens of dead roaches. The burned Formica counter top was filthy, a trail of ants swarming around a large fishhead, marching in and out of the eye sockets and gaping mouth. The drawers and cupboards had been opened and left naked. Inside the sink was a paper garbage bag stuffed with used paper plates.
The place stank of fish. But Decker was happy with what his nose told him. No
decay
. He told the others to wait by the doorway, he was going to investigate. Something about his tone of voice was commanding. Jerz didn’t put up a squawk.
Decker took a closer look at the trash—paper plates, dried pieces of fried fish—homemade, not your typical takeout
stuff. Its odor was mixed with the acrid vinegar smell of leftover coleslaw and tartar sauce—both items prepackaged. Used plastic cutlery. He pulled his jacket sleeve over his hand and poked the plates out of the way, trying to avoid scampering roaches. He found a half dozen crumpled bits of paper and unfolded the first.
Times, dates—an airline schedule. Or maybe a bus schedule.
He unfolded the second one.
More time schedules. The word
UNITED
printed in bold black letters.
Airline schedule.
Times of departure—8:10, 9:20, 10:30…
To where?
He read the next wrinkled note, penned in the same crude, bold print.
HANK STEWART.
DR. HANK STEWART
HANK STEWART, ESQ.
HANK STEWART, NUCLEAR PHYSICIST
.
Decker skimmed down the list. A psycho with delusions of grandeur. The last two entries scared him.
GOD STEWART
.
Then just plain
GOD
.
He pocketed the note, unfolded another one.
More times, dates—yesterday’s date circled in red.
Decker cursed to himself.
Missed the fucker by one day.
He heard Rina call his name.
“I’m still here,” he said.
“What do you have?”
“Some paper.” He walked back over to her and Jerz. “Was this apartment rented furnished?”
“Don’t know,” Jerz said. “You have to call corporation with letters. You think Stremmer left without paying?”
“I think Stremmer has just changed his name to Hank Stewart.” He showed Rina the letter.
“Any sign that Noam has been here?” she asked.
“Not so far.” He unraveled another note—more flight times—then took a look at the last note.
A list of items, penned in a different script—cursive instead of printing. But lacking the assurance of an adult’s handwriting.
He said, “This note seems to be written by a different person. We’ll bring this back to Breina and Ezra. Find out if this is Noam’s handwriting.”
“What is it?” Rina asked.
“A checklist,” Decker said. “Toothbrush, hairbrush, flashlight, suntan lotion, two shirts, two pairs of pants, socks, underwear…like the kid was going off to camp.”
“Any idea where they went?” Rina asked.
“I haven’t seen anything written down,” Decker said. “But I’ll bet money we should check United’s flights to Fort Lauderdale, Miami, Los Angeles, or Hawaii. Wintertime is around the corner and someone’s packing suntan lotion.”
“You’re going to call up the airlines?” Rina asked.
“Eventually,” Decker said. “First I’m going to check the bedroom.”
It was the same story—dresser drawers pulled out and empty, the tiny closet as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. The bed was unmade and smelled as if it had been awhile since the off-white linens had been changed. Decker bent down, looked under the bed. He spied a crumpled piece of white cloth, stretched his arm all the way, and pulled it out.
When he unfolded it, Rina gasped.
Tzitzit
—the fringed prayer shawls Orthodox males wore under their shirts. It was sized a men’s small. He turned to Jerz. “I’m going to take this with me.”
“What is it?” asked Jerz.
“A religious garment,” Decker said. “I think it belongs to the kid I’m looking for.”
“You’re looking for a kid?”
The time was right. Decker told the super what was going on. Jerz listened, then said he wasn’t surprised, Stremmer al
ways seemed strange. And was always with young boys. Once, when Jerz asked him about it, Stremmer claimed he was a Big Brother.
Jerz said, “But I always think he don’t tell truth.”
Decker showed him the picture of Noam. “Ever seen this teenager before?” He described his stature to Jerz.
The super studied the photo. “No.” He shook his head. “If boy come up here, he don’t look like that.”
“The face isn’t familiar?”
“No, sorry.”
Decker handed him his card. “You hear of anything from either of them, call me at this local number right away.”
Jerz nodded. “Do I still get trip to Disneyland?”
“I’m a man of my word,” Decker said.
It was easier to work straight through than to return to the family and let them know what was going on. So Decker took the coward’s way out and made the phone calls from the Six-Seven. Rina sat by him, checking off flights as he called them out.
He inquired about tickets issued yesterday to Florida or California, reservations made under the name of Hersh Schaltz, Tony Sacaretti, Heinrich Stremmer, Hank Stewart, or any male with the initials HS. With the exception of the Italian name, Hersh was choosing aliases close to home.
There was nothing on any United Flight or on American Airlines or TWA. But Continental had booked a reservation for a Hank and Nolan Stewart on Flight 710. It had left yesterday at 10:30, had arrived in Los Angeles at 2:00
P.M
. PDT.
Were Mr. Hank Stewart and Mr. Nolan Stewart on the plane?
I don’t know, sir, but the tickets were cashed
.
One friggin day off.
“What are you going to do?” Rina asked.
Decker said, “Looks like I’m going to hop a plane back home.”
“Now’s your chance to back out,” Rina said. “They aren’t in the religious Jewish community any longer.”
“But now I’ve lost my convenient excuse—a New York PI knows his way around better than me.” Decker shook his head. “Unfortunately, the suckers had the audacity to invade
my
turf. So for better or worse, I’m going to get them.”
Hank thought:
Flyin’ out three thousand miles to trade one pigsty for another. Dafuck’s goin’ on, already? The room smelled like a sewer, the sheets felt like sandpaper and if that wasn’t bad enough, it was
raining
.
Rain. He coulda stayed back home for that shit. Only reason it was California instead of Florida was that the kid wanted to see
Movie Stars
. If it was up to him, he woulda chose Florida ’cause it was a lot closer and the fare was cheaper. Both had the ocean and both had Disneyland. Or Disney World. Whatever the hell they called it, was the same thing. Stupid rides and midgets who don’t talk dressed up like Mickey Mouse or Clarabelle Cow.
But noooooo! Nick-O had to see
stars
on Hollywood Boulevard.
Fine. Make the kid happy and go to California, all the same to him.
He burped. Sprawled out on the bed, he had stripped down to a sleeveless undershirt and a pair of jockeys. He’d sent Nick-O out to do the laundry two hours ago and now wondered if that was a mistake.
The kid seemed all hepped-up at first, but now he was all quiet and mopey. What Hank
didn’t
need was someone draggin’ down his spirits. Enough talk. There was work to be
done. The kid better snap out of it or there was gonna be some serious problems. There musta been at least three boys back home who worshiped him and he’d only hooked up with Nick-O ’cause he was the biggest and the first one he saw standin’ outside shul. Nick-O was all pissed off at havin’ to wear a suit. When he offered to take him away, he thought the kid was gonna kiss his ass. First thing the kid did was throw away the suit and wear that dumbass T-shirt with the faggy-lookin’ rock group on it.
Now Hank was wonderin’ if Nick-O was the right one for the job. The kid seemed pretty together at first. Didn’t get all squirrely when Hank played with his knives. Nick-O didn’t flip over them though, and that showed a definite lack of taste. Thinking about it, that wasn’t good.
No, not good at all.
It was real smart to only give him enough money for laundry. Not that he was
really
worried that the kid was gonna flake out and call his parents, but there was always that possibility.
Nick-O had begged to come along, callin’ them brothers in spirit. Tellin’ him that his buddy Hank was the only one he could really talk to. Yeah, he understood it all ’cause he’d been there. But enough of the yap, yap, yap. It was time to get past all that religion crap and move on. Nick-O was real good about talkin’ about movin’ on, but he weren’t so good at the real movin’ on.
Hank didn’t like the way the kid was acting. He’d warned him what he’d do if the kid tried anything dumb. He thought he made the message pretty damn clear.
Nick-O, you call home, go to the police or do anything stupid, you’re dead meat.
Hey, can’t get any clearer than that.
Hank scratched his crotch and picked up a Styrofoam container half full of chow mein. He sniffed it, then found a plastic fork somewhere within the rolled up bedcover.
He took the fork to the bathroom, washed it off with soap and water, then plopped down on the bed. The stuff wasn’t
bad cold, although all the sauce had congealed to a brown goop that looked like somethin’ found in the crapper.
How the hell did he wind up in this dump? He shoulda knowed the area was for shit when he saw all the XXX on the hotel signs, but he was thrown off-track by the name.
Englewood, New Jersey, was a classy place. How the hell was he supposed to figure out that Inglewood, California, was a dump with the names soundin’ practically the same?
Well, Inglewood was history as far as he was concerned! Tomorrow, they were splittin’, rain or no rain.
Hank scratched himself again, turned on the TV.
Same old junk—this time the girl was gettin’ porked by an old guy who had to be at least forty, and a shvartze. The shvartze was a gorilla,
his
boobs bigger than the chick’s. He also had a gorilla-sized dick, but he couldn’t keep it hard.
All those inches and he couldn’t keep a boner.
He shut off the TV, bored, not even horny.
It was a long time since he’d had any action. He was sick of doin’ it himself, but at least he was clean. He had sent Nick-O to buy skins yesterday—hoping to phone up a service girl tonight. But instead, Nick-O came back all whiny, sayin’ that he couldn’t do it without lookin’ suspicious.
Then Hank told him: You ain’t gonna do my shit, what the hell did I need you for?
That made the kid stop and think a minute.
Then Nick-O said in that same whiny voice that the druggist wouldn’t sell it to him even if he asked ’cause he just looked too young.
Hank smiled, remembering how like patient he was as he told him what to do.
Since when did I say you have to buy it, Nick-O?
Maybe that’s what was taking the kid so long.
He finished the Chink food and tossed the Styrofoam cup in the garbage.
Place was a sty, but in a weird way, he was at home in sties. After the divorce, the old lady fell apart. Everything just fell to shit.
Twenty-five moves in three years. He’d counted every goddamn one of them. The old dickhead always givin’ them money to move into the places, but never enough money to pay monthly
rent
. Always kicked out ’cause no one wanted freeloaders. Three, four months later, she’d call up the dickhead again, tellin’ him the same story over and over. She couldn’t find a job without skills and she couldn’t go to school because she couldn’t drive and it was too hard to take the bus.
The dickhead would remind her that she used to teach in the yeshivas.
But that was before the headaches started. And it hurt her eyes to type on computers and strained her voice to do telephone sales. And the world was a scary place when you’re alone and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
Then the dickhead would forward another check—made out to
him
, not the old lady.
They were always made out to him, but like a jerk, he always gave them to the old lady ’cause at the time, he didn’t know better.
A week later, they’d stuff their belongings into trash bags and move again.
Then the dickhead had the nerve to ask him if he wanted to
live
with him and his broad. God, did the old man have rocks for brains or what?
Not that the old lady wasn’t without her problems before the breakup, but it was the broad that drove her over the edge.
The old lady was nuts, but the dickhead was worse. Pretendin’ he was so fuckin’ holy, then runnin’ out on both of them when pussy was flashed in his face.
The turning point. When Hank decided that pussy would
never, ever
have that kind of
power
over him. Better to buy the broads for an evening than to get involved with a chick. Besides, he was always more interested in lost kids—like himself. He’d teach them how to be a
man
, how to
survive
.
There had always been a good supply of lost kids. They came to him like bees to honey ’cause he was the one who gave them attention when their parents didn’t have the time. Man,
he
did a better job with kids than the dickhead ever did for him.
The old lady just couldn’t handle the breakup. She’d curl up in the corner, forgetting to bathe, forgetting to
eat
, for crissakes! Him, having to spoon-feed her, undress her, and dunk her in the tub. Man, she screamed every time she took a bath. It got so bad that he just gave up.
But then he had to deal with the smell.
And the old dickhead, saying he wasn’t without sympathy.
Wasn’t without sympathy
.
Didn’t you just love that little diddy?
Hersh, I’m not without sympathy, but there’s nothing I can do for her anymore. I’ve got my own life to live and Mama isn’t a part of it.
That’s when the dickhead made his offer. Live with him.
Oh, yeah, right!
The broad hated him almost as much as he hated the broad.
Well, they got theirs.
Ha-ha, the joke was on you, asshole.
The old lady. God-only-knew what the hey she was doing. He couldn’t be bothered thinkin’ about her. He had his own life to live.
Hey, you know how it is.
Like father, like son.
Noam wiped the tears away from his eyes and hoisted the plastic lawn and leaf bag full of laundry over his shoulder. Of all the stupid things he’d ever done, this was the stupidest. Everything they ever told him turned out to be true. He was nothing but a loser.
How was he gonna get out of this mess? He thought of running away, hitchhiking back. But he was afraid of the
weirdos that might pick him up, what they might do to him. Hersh was scary but he never touched him in that way.
Boruch Hashem
for small blessings.
He prayed: Please, please get me out of this mess. Get me back home safely. I’ll do everything my parents ask, I’ll never fight with my brothers and sisters, I’ll study real hard, I’ll do anything You want, just please,
please
get me out of this mess.
Vey is mir
, he was stupid!
At first, it seemed like such a right thing to do. Hersh…like he knew everything that was on his mind. He understood all of his doubts, all of his questions. He could
talk
to Hersh. Hersh
listened
to him. It was like Hersh had been there before and that made sense. Hersh had told him he came from the same type of family—all of them a bunch of hypocrites.
Not that his family was all bad, just…they just didn’t understand, didn’t
listen
! All they ever did was criticize, criticize, criticize. He’d given up on his parents a long time ago. But he expected more out of aunts and uncles. Aunt Miriam was nice but all she ever did was feed him. Aunt Faygie was a scatterbrain. Uncle Shimmy was never around, Uncle Jonathan had brushed him off like dirt.
Bubbe was okay but she was old. Zeyde? He was old, too.
But Hersh. He
listened
!
Noam knew it was too good to be true. Hersh had played him for the stupid kid he was. And now he was acting real weird, showing him those stupid knives all the time. When Noam mentioned that maybe he might go back home, Hersh had a fit, scared the wits out of him. Screaming, swearing—well Hersh always swore—but this time the words were directed at him.
And then he threatened to…it was too scary to think about it.
The thing about Hersh was, you never knew what to expect. One minute he’d be pretty cool, even nice. But then he’d
turn
on you like an untrained dog.
Noam knew he’d taken too long and he was frightened. The knives were starting to get to him. It was those knives. Hersh loved those knives. Even when nothing needed to be cut, he was playing with them—sharpening them, spinning them.
And then there were the fish. Hersh just loved to gut fish. Noam should have known something was wrong with him a long time ago. First time they went to his flat in Flatbush, Hersh gutted a fish. That was
weird
. But still, Hersh
listened
to him when he talked. That seemed so important.
He felt his heart beat in his chest as he walked up to the door. His head felt dizzy, his stomach about to chuck up the
tref
food he’d been eating. At first, it seemed so neat. You could eat anything you wanted and no one was here to make you feel guilty. Now it all seemed so silly, so stupid.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He put down the bag of laundry and inserted the key into the door lock. A sour taste rose from his throat. He opened the door.
Hersh looked up, then turned his eyes back to the TV. Noam thought—watching
those
kind of movies again. He came inside and closed the door. Waited for instructions. He had to go to the toilet but was too nervous to leave the room until Hersh talked to him.
Hersh just kept watching TV. Then he pointed to a spot on the floor and told Noam to leave the laundry there. Noam swallowed, got up enough nerve to ask if he could go to the bathroom.
Hersh said, “Why you askin’ me? You got a plumbin’ problem or somethin’?”
“No,” Noam whispered. He rushed off to the bathroom and threw up. Tried to be as quiet about it as possible. But Hersh was staring at him when he came back in.
“You sick or somethin’?”
“I guess the food didn’t go down real good,” Noam said.
“Yeah, it’s pretty shitty,” Hersh said. “We’ll buy better stuff next time, ’kay?”
Noam nodded. That was the real killer—you never knew how he was going to take things. Now he was acting all nice. He thought maybe now was a good time to bring up going home, but something warned him off.
Don’t push it.
Noam said, “I can fold the laundry if you want. I’m real good at that. My…my mother—”
“I don’t want to hear about your fuckin’ mother, Nick-O. She’s a bitch, right? Ain’t that what you told me?”
That wasn’t what he’d told him. Noam had told him that his eema was mean and critical and never had a minute to listen to him. But he had never, never called her a bitch. He could never do that. But he nodded anyway.
How could he have been so stupid!
Noam dumped out the clothes and started folding them.
“Hersh?”
“Hank,” Hersh said, eyes still on the TV. “How many fuckin’ times do I have to tell you it’s Hank?”
Yeah, it was Hank this time, Noam thought. Hersh had gone through at least a half-dozen names in the past six months. There was Tony and Frankie. Then it was Heinrich and Hart. Hart, Hersh said, was the name of a movie star. When Noam told him the name sounded sort of like a
faygala
, Hersh flew into a rage. From then on it was Hank. Remember! Hank! Hank! Hank!
“Hank?” Noam tried.
“What?”
“I got ’em,” Noam announced.
Hersh pointed the remote at the TV screen and flicked it off. Noam saw him turn slowly, regard his face. Then he flashed that crooked smile of his. Sometimes the smile meant he was happy, sometimes it meant he was mad. But it was always a weird smile, scary. Hersh was nodding now.