Gangsterland: A Novel (42 page)

“They killed the entire village my family came from in Ukraine. Not a Jew left standing. Unless they had tanks and planes, no amount of fighting would have saved them from that.”

“All respect,” David said, and he actually meant it, “this is a choice you made to enter into this life, with Bennie, with me, with all of this shit. And now I’m giving you a choice of how to leave it. You can either wait for me to show up one day with a gun, or you can fade away and buy some time.”

“That’s not a choice. It’s an ultimatum. Act like I’ve lost my mind, or you’ll kill me?”

“Call it what you want, Rabbi Kales,” David said. David knew that Bennie wouldn’t have anyone else take out Rabbi Kales, so if it came down to it, he’d see about implying to the rabbi that a nice cocktail and a handful of Percocet might be a good way to leave the world. “I’m offering you a lifeboat.”

“You’re taking everything from me,” Rabbi Kales said.

“I’m giving you a chance,” David said. “It’s more than I need to give you.”

Rabbi Kales considered this. “When would this madness have to begin?”

“Depends on how long Bennie is locked up,” David said. “A stressful time like this, a psychotic break wouldn’t seem that unusual. So let’s say a week from today, you maybe tell Rachel that you’ve been feeling disoriented.”

“She’ll take me to see a doctor,” he said.

“Great,” David said. “Even better.”

“Won’t the doctor know that I’m lying?”

“Rabbi,” David said, “how old are you?”

“Seventy-two,” Rabbi Kales said. And then he nodded, getting it. “And that’s it? Am I still allowed to come here?”

“Of course,” David said, though he suspected Bennie would feel differently.

“Anything else?”

“One thing,” David said. “Before you start losing your mind,
you need to update your will. The funeral home needs to be left to the temple.”

“That was to be left to Rachel,” Rabbi Kales said.

“Yeah,” David said, “that won’t work. I’m sure Mr. Zangari can recommend an estate lawyer to you.”

“You’re taking everything away from me,” Rabbi Kales said again.

It was true, David realized. In one day—in one hour—he’d stripped Rabbi Kales clean. It wasn’t his proudest moment, but the end result was that he’d let him live. That was worth something, wasn’t it?

“You’ve had a good life, Rabbi. Why not relax? Spend time with your granddaughters. Play golf.” David understood it was hard to do those things while simultaneously drooling on yourself and pretending to be lost, but it could be a slow descent, he supposed. Rabbi Kales
was
seventy-two. Rachel had said he was slipping, but David hadn’t believed it, chocking it up more to the secrets Rabbi Kales had to keep than some actual cognitive deficiency. Now, thinking about the last nine months, it seemed more than plausible, even though the rabbi still looked fit and able. “This thing,” David said, “could be a
mitzvah
.”

“Sal Cupertine,” Rabbi Kales said, “what did he believe in?”

“Family,” David said. “Duty, I guess. Retribution.”

“Nothing else?”

“Everybody dies,” David said. “That was sort of my motto.”

“What about Rabbi David Cohen?”

“He believes in the articles of our faith, Rabbi.”

Rabbi Kales smiled at David and then got up, walked over to his desk, emptied a small file box of its contents, and then came back and filled the box with the tea set, save for one cup
and saucer—the one with tree branches—which he handed to David. “Does your wife drink tea?” Rabbi Kales asked.

“Sometimes,” David said. “If she can’t sleep.”

“When you see her next, give her that cup and saucer as my regards,” Rabbi Kales said. “That will be the
mitzvah
.”

Just before midnight, David walked across the street to the funeral home to call Jerry Ford. In the time they’d been in business, they’d fostered a positive working relationship with no real sense, at least on David’s part, that Ford considered him anything more than a rabbi. David tried to keep the flow of work to Ford’s firm within reason in case anyone bothered to look into the business of either side of the transaction. All the paperwork was legit—or at least looked legit when it involved the bodies Bennie took in—and everyone seemed happy. David wasn’t exactly sure when it occurred to him that it was no happy accident that Jerry had appeared on the scene with this wonderful offer to help the Jewish faith by moving corpse tissue, though the afternoon he saw Jerry and Bennie chatting amiably out in front of the temple confirmed what he probably should have always known: that Bennie was involved from the get-go. It was simply another layer of secrecy: If David didn’t know that Bennie had the initial idea, it was one less potential witness for the prosecution.

The endeavor needed a rabbi . . . and that was never going to be Rabbi Kales, nor the late Rabbi Gottlieb. And who knew what Bennie had on Jerry Ford. Probably nothing, once he thought about it. Guys like Jerry, they wanted to work with the mob. Made them feel like they were doing something out of a movie. It wasn’t like that in Chicago too much because the
stakes were too high. People in Chicago were much more open about killing you. Here it just helped get you into nice strip clubs, maybe a little extra grind for your twenty bucks.

Thus, David was under the impression that Jerry Ford might be willing to do him and the temple a little favor. So David sat down in the funeral director’s office and called Jerry Ford’s cell phone.

He picked up on the first ring. “How you doing, Ruben?” he said.

“This isn’t Ruben,” David said. “It’s Rabbi Cohen.”

“Oh, sorry, Rabbi,” he said. “Ruben calls me so often in the middle of the night, my wife is beginning to think something is up.”

“Yes, well,” David said.

“Not that my wife has reason to worry otherwise, you understand,” he said. In the background, David could hear music and people talking. It was midnight on Super Bowl Sunday, and it didn’t seem like Jerry was keeping vigil at one of the local hospitals.

“Listen,” David said, “a man has taken his life and has asked that his body be buried in a traditional Jewish ceremony, with conditions, however, and so I’m hoping you might be of some help.”

“How’d he go?”

“He shot himself in the head, I’m afraid,” David said.

“Okay, I’m listening,” Jerry said. If Jerry was completely above board, he would have already hung up, but David could hear the man making calculations in his head. Internal organs were big business . . . and not a business he was normally privy to . . . and a bullet to the head wasn’t the sort of thing that spoiled a kidney.

“He’d like only his hands, feet, and head to be buried and for the rest of his body to be disposed of,” David said.

“Strange,” Jerry said.

“Yes, well, he was not right in his mind,” David said. “And while I’d like to respect his wishes, I’d hate for what was an otherwise healthy young man to not pay forward the gift of life, particularly if someone could use a kidney or a liver or heart.”

“Of course,” Jerry said. David could hear that Jerry had stepped outside now, the music gone, replaced by the sound of traffic. He was probably on the Strip or, worse, at one of the local casinos playing cheap poker with guys in satin jackets.

“Unfortunately Ruben is gone for the evening, and thus you’d need to handle the harvesting on your own. I trust you would dispose of the internal organs in an appropriate fashion.”

Jerry paused for a moment and then said, “Yeah, I can take care of all of that. No problem. No problem in the least. I’ve got a guy who can do that.”

“Because I know you can’t handle the organs yourself,” David said.

“Right,” he said. “The extremities, you got that part handled? Avoiding the long bones, that would be best. I’m talking femur, tibia, humerus. Keeping those intact would be, uh, helpful, in terms of paying it forward.”

“Yes,” David said. “One of our technicians has taken care of that. But he isn’t certified for the other work. So if you think you can handle this, I’d be happy for the help. Though I think it might be wise for you take caution here. You’d hate to lose your license.”

“I’ll take supreme caution, Rabbi. Absolutely.”

“Good.” David paused for a moment and thought about everything that had transpired that day and over the last few
weeks, tried to figure out just how to say next what he wanted to say, and then decided being simple and direct was probably the route to go. “I’m not sure if you heard, but Mr. Savone was arrested today.”

“Yeah, yeah, tough stuff there,” Jerry said. “Saw him getting perp-walked on the news tonight. Terrible.”

“Yes, horrible. Horrible indeed. We’re hoping to help get him bonded out, of course, so it would be helpful if you could bring cash with you tonight instead of waiting sixty days.”

“Cash? How much are we talking about?”

“Whatever you think is the correct amount.”

“And this is for Bennie?”

“In light of everything,” David said. It was one of those terms he’d heard Rabbi Kales use periodically that seemed to comfort everyone while saying absolutely nothing.

“Right, okay,” Jerry said. “For the temple.”

“Yes, for the temple.”

“No problem, Rabbi,” Jerry said. “I’ll cash a check at the Bellagio, and we’ll be good to go. Everything will be above board. What time should I be there?”

“Ninety minutes,” David said. That would be enough time to get Gray Beard and Marvin back out the door, get the body refrigerated, and make sure there were no bumps in the road. Like another actual body being delivered for non-nefarious purposes. “I’ll have all the paperwork waiting for you, too. Please don’t be late.”

David hung up and leaned back in the chair. Ruben’s office was small and tidy—a desk, a computer, a phone, a Rolodex, a file cabinet, a framed copy of his funeral director’s license, another of his diploma from a mortuary school in Arizona—and smelled like lemon Pledge. There were photos on the desk
of a little boy dressed in a Little League uniform, another of Ruben with a woman, presumably his wife, and the same child wearing Hawaiian shirts, the blue waves of the Pacific Ocean crashing behind them, a sunset of orange and pink hovering above the horizon.

What did he know about this asshole? Nothing, really. He worked with him on a daily basis and didn’t even know his last name. He looked at Ruben’s diploma.
Ruben Topaz.
He sounded like a fucking magician.

In the photo, Ruben’s wife wore a diamond ring that could be seen from Russian satellites (which went well with the diamond-crusted watch Ruben had on in the photo, which must have been his vacation watch, as opposed to the nice gold number he wore to the office each day), a diamond pendant necklace, a diamond tennis bracelet, and diamond studs in her ears . . . all of which helped David understand why Ruben was the only other person on the planet Bennie trusted, even a little bit.

Mostly, the photo just made David feel . . . sad. Yes, that’s what he was feeling. Sadness. He felt bad for calling Ruben an asshole in his head, that was one thing, but there were other more specific things pinging around in there tonight, too. He’d been gone now almost a year . . . and did Jennifer even have photos of him? He wasn’t real big on his image being snapped, for obvious reasons, but now it seemed like a terrible thing. And then: Could he even remember Jennifer’s voice? Would he even recognize William? Would either of them recognize
him
?

It was 2:15 a.m. in Chicago. Jennifer would be asleep on her right side, the blankets pulled up to her neck, her sketchbook on the nightstand, the remote control on top of it. William
would be asleep on his stomach, his bed filled with army men and
Star Wars
action figures. Or maybe he’d be into something new. Almost a year.

David picked up the phone.

Fuck it to death
.

He punched in the first nine digits of his phone number. All that was left was the number 5. That was it. Just the number 5, and he could hear Jennifer’s voice, tell her he was alive, tell her that he was coming back, eventually, and that she needed to wait for him. Tell her that he was going to take her and William away from Chicago, that they’d go to Hawaii or Barbados or, hell, Green Bay if that’s where she wanted to go. Tell her that he was out of the game just as soon as he finished cleaning out the closet . . .