Day of Atonement (22 page)

Rina patted his hand. “What did she say?”

“Well, she identified Hersh immediately,” Decker said. “Noam she was less sure of. Apparently, he was in the bathroom the whole time. Out of choice. She said Hersh offered to pay for her to…well, ‘to do the kid’ was the way she put it. But Noam refused.”

“
Boruch Hashem
for that!” Rina shook her head. “Peter, he must be so
scared.
”

“I’m sure he is,” Decker said. “According to the girl, Hersh—or rather
Hank
—loves his knives. And he loves fish.”

“What do you mean?”

Decker said, “Hersh had the hooker bring up a whole monkfish. Then he butterflied it while she performed oral sex.”

Rina buried her head in her hands. “That’s
disgusting
!”

“It’s out of the ordinary,” Decker said.

“It’s perverted,” Rina said.

“Yeah, I guess it’s pretty weird.”

“
Pretty
weird?”

At least he didn’t hurt anyone, Decker thought. Except the fish. But he was assuming the fish was dead. But maybe not. If Hersh dissected a live fish while getting a blow job—now that would be really disgusting.

Rina was looking out the window.

“How about you staying home tomorrow and resting?” Decker said.

“Sounds good to me.”

Decker couldn’t get his mind off the fish. What had Hersh done with it after he had butterflied it? He thought of the fried fish found in Hersh’s New York apartment. Could he and Noam have eaten it? Hersh and fish. The connection was eluding him.

It was almost six-thirty. By the time he took Rina back home, he’d have just enough time to shower and eat and be ready for Marge by eight.

“I feel like doing something productive,” Rina said. “Maybe I’ll bake a cake while you’re gone. A cake can be very life-affirming.”

“I can think of other activities that are life-affirming,” Decker said.

“You have time?” Rina said.

“For you? Always!”

“I can’t do it,” Noam insisted. “I won’t do it.”

“Will you keep your trap shut?”

“I can’t do it—”

“Shut the fuck up and listen to me,” Hank told him.

Jesus M. Christ, the kid was having another shit fit. Just what he needed. Here he was in another sleazy hotel room with the kid having a shit fit. What did it take to get something done around here?

He took a deep breath. The heater was bad, but it wasn’t that cold outside. He could live with a faulty heater. What pissed him off were all the bums downstairs. Who wants to look out the window and see bums pissin’ on the sidewalk? Even the first dump didn’t have bums.

But the room was cheap and they were within walking distance to the place. He’d staked it out and it was perfect. Queer businessmen meeting after hours at a secret fag bar. Great targets ’cause they were all in the closet. Churchgoing men. Married with kiddies, some of them even grandfathers.

Rocky John had told him about the spot. Hank remembered him grinning when he explained the deal.

Think they’d ever admit they were rolled by a hustler?

Last Hank heard, Rocky had been busted for multiple B and Es. Hank had learned a shitload from him. He wondered if he’d ever see Rocky again.

A Wall Street fag bar, Rocky had called it. Hank had sneaked out last night when Nick-O was asleep. But he had taken all of Nicky’s clothing just in case. He had found several marks that looked good. The one he had in mind had an office right near the bar. Perfect setup—
if
the mark would show up tonight. If not, well, he’d just find someone else and wing it.

“Listen to me, Nick-O,” Hank said, softly. “I’m not sayin’ you have to do somethin’ with it. Just wave it in front of the mark’s face and I’ll do all the hard part.”

“I can’t—”

“Listen, for chrissakes,” Hank said. “
I’m
the one that’s doin’ all the hard stuff. I’m the one that’s gonna bait him, bring him to the spot. Man, all you hafta do is wave the gun. You can even wear a mask, Nick-O. I wouldn’t make you do anything dangerous.”

“I just can’t do it,” Noam said.

“Stop saying that!” Hank shouted. “You’re making me pissed off!”

Noam stopped protesting. He felt his limbs shake. And the tears come back. “I can’t take this anymore, Hank. I wanna go home—”

“You
what
?” It came out a whisper.

“I want to go home,” Noam said. “Just let me go, I won’t say anything about you—”

“I didn’t hear you right, did I?” Hank said.

Noam didn’t answer.

“’Cause if you said you want to go home, ’cause if you said that, know what I have to say to you?”

Noam remained silent.

“I’m gonna say I’m pissed off. And you know what I do when I’m pissed off?”

“Stop threatening me,” Noam managed to say.

“What’d you say?” Hank asked, incredulously.

“I said stop threatening me,” Noam repeated.

Hank bit his lip. “Fine. You want to go…go.”

Noam didn’t move.

“Go on, hotshot…Go.” He pushed Noam by his shoulder. “Go…go, go, go on. Dafuck outta here before I cut your balls off.”

Noam didn’t move.

Hank said, “See how fuckin’ far you’ll get without me. What’ll you do for food, hotshot? Where ya gonna sleep tonight? You think you can just call
home
and all your piddlyshit problems will be solved?”

He shoved Noam.

“That what you think?”

Another shove. Harder. It hurt his chest.

“Huh?” Hank yelled out.
“Huh?”

Hank slammed him against the wall. Noam slid down, holding his head, crumbling into a pile of loose bones.

Hank pinned him down to the floor. “Whaddaya think your mama’s gonna say to you, huh? Welcome back, sonny boy? That what you think she’s gonna say? Whaddaya think the
rabbaim
are gonna say? Know what they’re gonna do? They are gonna lay this…this biggest guilt trip on your head. They’re gonna tell you what a rotten kid you are and how you fucked up for life for doing such a terrible thing to your parents. Then everybody in the whole community is gonna stare at you like you’re some freak. The girls are gonna laugh at you. ‘
There goes weirdobrain No-am. What a jerk! What a freak!
’ And the boys—they ain’t gonna be no better. They’ll be laughin’ just as hard. No one will talk to you. Everyone’ll treat you like you got boils on your face. Like you’re nothin’ but a disease. You’re gonna be one big
embarrassment
to your whole family.”

He jerked Noam up by the arms and pushed him to the door. “So go, if that’s what you want. Go ahead, hotshot! Go! GO!”

Noam burst into tears, letting out huge gulps of sorrow. Hank pulled the teenager into his arms and rocked him.

“Hey, guy,” Hank said. “It’s okay. It’s
okay
.”

Noam sobbed on Hank’s shoulder.

Hank said, “I know how you feel. And maybe I don’t got enough patience all the time. But let me tell you this, Nick-O. You’re my buddy. You can trust me. Hey, everything you’re feelin’…they crapped on me too, man. My parents. The rabbis givin’ me nothin’ but grief. I know the scene ’cause I’ve been there. Shit, all of them loonies. Only one who was ever nice was my zeyde.”

Noam stopped crying and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

“My bubbe’s nice,” Noam said.

“Yeah, but she’s probably an old lady by now,” Hank said. “How long you think she’s gonna last? Then she croaks and you’re all alone again. Believe me, I know.”

Noam didn’t know. Bubbe didn’t seem sickly, but she was old. He used to talk to her all the time. But then his brothers teased him about talking to her so he stopped. And when he stopped talking, so did she.

“You think I brought you out here to jump fags?” Hank said. “Hey, this is only temporary. Insurance is still dickin’ around with my money. But I’ll get it. And then you and me can live in style. But we need some bread now, man. You gotta help me. We’re in this together, you know.”

Noam nodded.

“Hey, that’s what I like to see,” Hank said. “We’re like brothers, know what I mean?”

Again, Noam nodded. But deep inside he knew something wasn’t right. He shouldn’t be talking to Hersh, he should be talking to his mother or uncle or aunt. Or Bubbe. But they never listened to him. Hersh…at least, he would listen. Or seemed to be listening.
Vey is mir
, he was so confused. His head hurt from the bang on the wall. His hands were shaking. All he wanted to do was curl up and die.

“Lookit,” Hank said. “You wear a ski mask over your head, no one will know who you are, all right?”

Noam paused a long time. Finally he agreed.

“Good guy, man, good guy.” Hank picked up the gun.
“You gotta get comfortable with it, Nick-O. You gotta hold it. Touch it. It’s like girls, Nick-O. You gotta start sometime. At first, it’s gonna feel weird, but after a few times…” He snapped his fingers. “You get the hang of it. Hey, after we pull this thing off, I’ll get us another girl—”

“No,” Noam shook his head. “Not for me.” His stomach started to churn. He remembered hearing all those grunts, those slurping noises. The smell of raw fish oozing under the bathroom door.

“You gotta start sometime.”

“Not yet,” Noam insisted, his voice cracking.

“Okay, buddy,” Hank said. He offered him the gun. “But this. You gotta get comfortable with it.”

Noam took a deep breath, then clasped his fingers around the gun.

“Ain’t so bad,” Hank said.

No, Noam thought. No it wasn’t so bad. All it was was a piece of metal. A piece of metal…

“Is it loaded?”

“No,” Hank said.

“Will it be loaded when we…” Noam’s voice trailed off. He looked up at the lopsided smile.

“Up to you,” Hank said. “You can convince the mark it’s loaded, I don’t care if it is or isn’t. But if it isn’t, you’d better not fuck up.” He paused a moment. “Course, I’ll have my gutting knife for a backup.”

“Then I don’t have to do it with a loaded gun?” Noam said.

“Can you pull it off?”

“Yes,” Noam said. “Yes, definitely. No problem.”

“Then it won’t be loaded.”

Noam broke into a big smile. “I’ll do it, Hank. I can do it for you.”

“Hey, buddy,” Hank said. “That’s what I like to hear.”

“Why am I
obsessing on the fish?” Decker said to Marge.

“Someone gets head while cleaning a fish…” Marge rubbed her arms. “Somehow that has to be significant.”

She wore a white cotton blouse, a pair of Levi’s, and a yellow windbreaker. But the zipper on the jacket was broken and every time the wind kicked up, she felt tiny electric shocks prick her skin.

“You want my jacket?” Decker asked.

“You’re not cold?”

“No.” Decker handed her his denim jacket. It would have swallowed up any ordinary woman. Marge filled it nicely.

“It goes beyond the sexual perversity,” Decker said. “There’s a connection and I can’t bring it up.”

“Don’t fight it. It’ll come to you.” Marge scanned the crowds. “Besides, if you’re concentrating on fish, you’re going to miss what’s around you. And that’s why we came to Westwood.”

She was right. There were just too many people cluttering the street. He needed all his energy for observation.

They were walking north on Westwood heading toward the skyline of UCLA. The queues for the eight o’clock movies were around the block. Most of the boutiques were open—a western boot store, sports paraphernalia, a cubby
hole that specialized in humorous greeting cards. All the eateries were open as well. Most sold portable grub—ice cream, chocolate-chip cookies, muffins. Decker was munching on a buttermilk doughnut bought from a pushcart, sorting out the faces.

There were groups of college kids, that was to be expected. But there were also groups of children too young to go unsupervised. Boys and girls junior high school age. Plump little girls barely pubescent, sporting five earrings in each lobe, dyed green tufts of hair sticking out at odd angles. They wore miniskirts even though it was cold. The boys were dressed in baggy pants or combat fatigues, using cigarettes to look grown-up because their facial hair and muscle layer hadn’t come in yet. They made a lot of noise but for the most part, they were innocuous.

Not the case with the homeboys. Black teenaged boys, in oversized clothing—convenient duds if you’re hiding a gun. They checked out the scene, on the prowl for enemy color. Confrontive eyes, short haircuts covered by baseball caps worn backward. The Crips’ rivalry with the Bloods was so fierce, they wouldn’t even pronounce words that began with B—saying cecause for because.

Rap music boomed from ghetto blasters. Sometimes two rival groups would pass each other, eyes filled with malice, the music a cacophonous mix sounding like competing marching bands. The jaunty walks would slow just a tad. Cold glances exchanged, more threatening than words.

Westwood was well patrolled. It showcased L.A.’s first-run movies and held some upperclass restaurants. But with this many people cruising the sidewalks, so many cars clogging the streets, it would be easy for bystanders to catch a stray bullet if the gangbangers went to war.

Lots of people. But so far, no Hersh or Noam.

They had canvassed almost all the shops, all the ticket booths at the movie theaters. Now they were down to using their eyes.

Marge said, “I don’t think they’ve been here yet.”

Decker agreed.

“It’s almost ten-thirty,” she said. “Want to call it a night?”

“Might as well,” Decker said. “If they show up, most of the store owners have our business cards.”

“Yeah, it was worth coming down just to pass out the pictures,” Marge said. “They might not be here tonight, but to quote Scarlett: Tomorrow’s another day.”

“I like Rhett’s line better,” Decker said.

“You don’t give a damn?”

“Not right now.”

Marge smiled and yawned.

“I keep forgetting you have to work tomorrow,” Decker said. “Let’s go.”

“You’re still thinking about Hersh and the fish,” Marge said.

He shrugged.

Marge said, “Look at that guy.” An emaciated six-foot man on roller skates was weaving through the crowds. He wore a black veil over his head. “Is there a point I’m missing?”

“Got me.”

Marge said, “You know, Pete, I never did get a chance to tell you how much fun I had at your wedding.”

Decker broke into a broad smile. “It was a great wedding, wasn’t it?”

“Like nothing I’d ever seen before,” Marge said. “You always hear about Jewish weddings. But it’s different when you’re there.”

“Especially if you’re the groom.”

“Know what I liked best? Cindy dancing with Rina. It was really touching.”

Decker smiled.

Marge shook her head. “And now you’re reduced to doing this on your honeymoon?”

“Call it collecting points with Rina.” He stopped a mo
ment and finished off his doughnut. “I have this delusion that what I really want is vacation and rest. But here I am working…I’m not unhappy.”

“Gets in the blood, doesn’t it?” Marge said. “I act like I’m doing you a favor by cruising with you. What would I be doing otherwise? Harry’s always on call. We meet for bed.” She paused. “Not a bad arrangement.”

“Not bad at all—” Decker snapped his fingers. “Goddamn,
that’s
what it is!”

“What?”

Decker smiled. “This is so stupid…Hersh. One of the Hershes I inquired about in Crown Heights was a fish vendor.”

“And you think that’s the Hersh you’re looking for?”

“No,” Decker said. “That Hersh was bearded and weighed over two hundred pounds. His last name was different. I think it was Hersh Berger or Bergman. But it is a little weird, isn’t it? Two Hershes, both associated with fish.”

Marge shrugged.

“You know,” Decker said, “Jews name after their deceased relatives. Rina once told me she had a cousin Rina, both of them named after her maternal grandmother.”

“Think Big Hersh is related to Psycho Hersh?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Did Big Hersh mention anything to you about a cousin Hersh?”

“I didn’t talk to Big Hersh directly. I talked to his wife and maybe she doesn’t know he even has any relatives named Hersh.” Decker thought a moment. “Think I’ll give him a call.”

“What do you hope to find?”

Decker said, “If Psycho Hersh is related to Big Hersh, he can give me a little more background about Psycho Hersh. Or maybe they have relatives out here…maybe that’s why Hersh flew out here with Noam.”

“They didn’t hook up with anyone when they came into Los Angeles, Pete.”

“Well, maybe it’ll take them a little time to get their act together. Get all the raunchy stuff out of the way, all the forbidden fruit. I don’t know, I’m just spouting off the top of my head.” Decker looked at his watch. “It’s one-thirty over there. It’ll have to wait until morning.”

Marge said, “You still hungry or did the doughnut do it for you?”

“I can always use another cup of coffee,” Decker said.

Two Hershes, both connected with fish. And what also struck him as a coincidence was that the fish shop was in Williamsburg—where Psycho Hersh had lived—not Crown Heights, where Big Hersh was living.

He thought about it all the way to the coffee shop.

Crouched in the back alley stinking of garbage, Noam was sweating even though it was cold. He could tell the temperature by the gun in his hand. The metal was chilled—like the handlebars of his bike after it had been left out overnight. It must be the ski mask that was making him so hot. The ski mask and fear.

When Hersh first set him in the alley, he nearly gagged from the stench. He was also petrified to be left alone. But he was more afraid of Hersh’s temper than he was of being attacked by a stranger. As the hours wore on, his fear had blossomed into terror. Shadows were people waiting to jump him, every sound was magnified into an explosion. He felt like the rock pulled back on a slingshot, everything tight and ready to spring. Perspiration was preventing him from getting a good grip. Twice he even dropped the gun. Then he thought maybe he should just tell Hersh he’d lost it.

But Hersh would get mad. Maybe even kick him out. And it was just like he said. He had nowhere to go at this time of night. Just the police. And he was terrified of that.

What if the druggist reported him as the one who stole
those
things
?
Vey is mir
, what if they arrested him, put him in jail?

No, he couldn’t go to the police.

They might even be looking for him now.

He felt his hands shake uncontrollably and told himself to stop thinking about that. Just go through the night one minute at a time.

Just let the night be over with. He prayed to Hashem to give him guidance, but as always he found no answer in
tephila
. Just empty words. Hashem never answered him. But maybe he didn’t pray right.

He was so confused.

At least Hersh hadn’t made him load the gun. The clip inside was only for show.

You’re gonna look like an idiot if you show someone some steel and there ain’t no clip in it. You’re gonna look real stupid.

Hersh swore that the clip was empty. He showed Noam that it was empty. But still Noam wished that the clip wasn’t there at all.

Maybe he should just pull it out.

But then Hersh would get mad at him.

Something warm and wet was leaking from his body. He must have gone to the bathroom twenty times, but there was still something in there. He felt his head swell up, throb with pain. He felt his knees knock together.

He began to hear himself drawing for breath.

Third time tonight he began to gasp for air. He knew what to do by now.

Deep breaths. Slow yourself down to deep breaths.

The tears started coming, blurring his vision. He wiped them away on his jacket.

He heard a sound and felt himself stiffen.

A second of silence.

Another hoot.

His hand gripped the gun, turning his knuckles white.

Then nothing.

No one.

The alley was deserted. So were the streets. This back way was in the better part of the city, not too far away from all the courthouses. Where they were staying…that area was full of weirdos and bums, most of them blacks or Puerto Ricans. (Did they have Puerto Ricans in California or was it Mexicans?) There were loads of drunken old guys talking to themselves, walking with limps, pulling on their hair. They all stank from liquor.

After waiting for Hersh in this alley, he probably stank too. Hersh promised to get him an Aerosmith T-shirt after this was over. Though Noam wanted the T-shirt, he wondered whether it was smart to spend on clothes when they needed money for food and a place to stay.

But Hersh became real mad when Noam told him his concerns.

Hersh was great to talk to as long as you were complaining about your parents, about the rabbis. When you complained about anything else, he pounced on you like a tiger.

Better not to speak unless spoken to.

Again the tears. How he wanted to
go home
, but he was so afraid. What if his parents wouldn’t take him back? Course they had to by law, but…what if they wouldn’t forgive him?

They’d have to forgive him if it was Yom Kippur. That’s what Yom Kippur was for. If he didn’t make it back by this Yom Kippur—which was in four days—he’d have to wait a whole other year.

What he really should do was drop the gun and run as fast as his legs could carry him. But where? He didn’t have any money. And
chas vachalelah
—God forbid—he should bump into these crazy street people at this hour at night without a gun.

So confused.

Then he heard the noise—voices. People talking.

This time it was for real. The words garbled and echoing.

Getting closer and closer. Hersh’s voice talking and
laughing. A deep voice answering him. It also sounded happy.

Noam looked up, couldn’t see a thing. Slowly he rose and flattened himself against a brick wall. He didn’t move.

The deep voice was louder—he was slurring his words.

Who was this guy?

Noam inched his way to where the alley met the surface street and peeked around the corner. The two shapes took on recognizable forms. Hersh all dressed up in his Shabbos pants and coat, shiny boots on his feet. The big figure in a suit and tie.

A big guy.

Maybe six feet.

Hersh said the mark would be little.

The big guy was staggering as he walked.

Was he drunk?

Noam had never known any
real
drunks. Some of the rabbis got drunk on Purim, but they weren’t
drunks
. Noam didn’t know whether the big guy’s drunkenness would make him easier to rob or if it would make him mean and eager to fight.

They approached, closer and closer.

No one on the streets except Hersh and the mark.

Deserted. Alone.

They talked loudly. Hersh was talking with a half-German, half-Yiddish accent. He seemed like he was having a good time.

Sweat pouring into Noam’s ski mask, turning it damp. The smell of wet wool. It made him nauseated. He pleaded to God to get this over with!

They were coming.

Closer and closer.

His heart was beating out loud, the gun quivering in his hands.

The salty smell of his sweat.

The blood rushing through his head.

Closer and closer.

A high-pitched ringing in his ears. Then it stopped and his head was filled with a
whoosh, whoosh, whoosh
.

His heart hammering against his chest.

Lub dud, lub dud, lub dud.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

Lub dud. Whoosh
.

Faster, faster.

Now!

He leaped out and stuck the gun in the mark’s back. Said his practiced lines.

But it didn’t go as planned.

A large arm pivoting, turning.

A heavy thump across his head.

Losing balance.

Something warm and wet inside his mouth. Something hard floating in his saliva.

But the gun in his hand.

Move and I’ll kill you! someone screamed.

Someone screaming in
his
voice. He spit out the hard thing as he screamed.

Blood pouring from his mouth.

An arm going around his throat, choking him.