Kind of Blue (20 page)

“How about Monday night?” I asked.

“Sorry.”

“How about New Year’s Eve? That’s seven months from now.”

She didn’t answer. What the fuck is wrong with me? I wondered. I need to inject some discipline back into my life. Before I get fired.

“Wednesday,” she said softly.

“What?”

“Why don’t we have dinner Wednesday night.”

“What time?”

“Seven.”

After she gave me directions, I hung up. A few minutes later Dickie Jenkins, the head of security at the Kismet Casino, called. He’d viewed the tape of the high-limit table on the night Pete Relovich was killed. And he never caught a glimpse of Ray Abazeda.

I was on a roll.

As I headed west on the Santa Monica Freeway, I tried to figure out how—or if—Abazeda was connected to the cash and the Japanese figurines stashed under the tiles in Relovich’s kitchen. Did they have anything to do with the homicide? Was Relovich dirty when he was a cop, or did he get hold of the cash and the figurines when he began driving for Jane Granger?

I parked in front of Abazeda’s house, but his Lexus SUV wasn’t in front and no one answered when I rang the bell. I planned to cruise by again in a few hours.

I returned to my car and when I saw the streetlights flick on, I realized it was almost sundown. I was late for Shabbat dinner. I snaked in and out of lanes on Olympic, hung a left on Fairfax, and headed north. The Hollywood Hills were just a faint silhouette, a charcoal sketch in the dying light. I found a parking space around the corner from my mother’s duplex and jogged down the street. When she answered the door, she scowled at me.

“Mr. Big Shot Police Detective is so important now he can’t even make it to Shabes dinner on time. I invited Uncle Benny and Ariel and they’re both very disappointed in you.” She muttered a hmpph, spun around, and I followed her to the dining room.

“Good Shabes,” said my great uncle Benny, extending a hand. “It’s been too long.” He fingered the collar of my suit. “Lookin’ good, boychik.”

“Shabat shalom, Uncle Ash,” Ariel said, hugging me.

When I sat down I was relieved to see they had not yet finished dinner.

My father’s cousin Mort, Benny, and I were considered the family misfits. Me because I’m a cop. Mort because he was a Republican. Benny
because he’d been arrested a few times for bookmaking decades ago and served a month in county jail. Benny eventually joined my father in the
shmatte
business, working as a showroom rep in a ladies’ sportswear mart downtown—while occasionally handling football and horse racing bets from the workers in the nearby clothing factories. Benny was eighty-four now, bald, wizened, and bent over like a question mark, but he was still sharp and enjoyed needling me.

“When you going to stop being a schmuck and get a
real
job?” Benny asked.

“When are you going to get a presidential pardon and clear your gambling conviction?”

Benny wagged his fork at me. “Those gonifs in vice—half of ’em are on the take—should be looking for real criminals, instead of wasting their time on people who are just giving the public what it wants.” He pointed the fork at Ariel and asked, “You know what the sport of kings is?”

“Basketball?”

“No. Horse racing. I used to make a good business on the ponies,” he said wistfully.

My mother, who looked horrified, whispered, “He doesn’t need to know about all this.”

“About all
what
?” Ariel cried.

“This doesn’t concern you,” she snapped. She rushed off to the kitchen and returned with half of a baked chicken, a mountain of kugel, and a bowl overflowing with green beans. I cut a piece of challah and salted my plate. I dipped the challah three times in the salt, quickly whispered a prayer over the bread, and took a bite.

“Why such measly portions,” I said to my mother with mock outrage. “I’m hungry!”

“You want more, I’ll get you more,” she said, rising from the table.

“Sit,” I said. “I was just kidding.”

After dinner, I helped Ariel clear the dishes. My mother brought out coffee and then staggered back, balancing an immense honey cake on a glass platter.

When we finished dessert, I said the prayer before the
Mayim Acharonim
—the washing of the fingertips. Washing off any dirt you pick up while eating the meal is a way to show respect for the blessing. After
pouring some water into a cup, I dribbled over the
laver
—a ceramic basin—a few drops on the fingertips of both hands. Uncle Benny then said the
Bir Mat Hamazon
—grace after the meal. When Benny finished, he shuffled to the living room, fell onto the sofa, and loosened his belt. “Wonderful meal, as usual, Estelle. Thanks for the invite.”

I went to the kitchen, rinsed the dishes, and deposited them in the dishwasher. When I had finished the last one, my mother barged into the kitchen, pulled a plate out of the dishwater and held it up to the light, pointing to a few flecks of gravy around the edges.

“Mom, you’re supposed to be relaxing in the living room.”

“How can I relax when I see you put a plate like
that
in the dishwasher.”

“What’s wrong with it.”

“It’s
dirty
.”

“Of course it’s dirty. That’s why it’s in the dishwasher.”

“That’s how you get bugs,” she said, pushing me out of the way.

She flipped on the hot water and began vigorously scrubbing the dish with a sponge. “I’m going to have to redo all of these dishes,” she said, dismissing me with a flick of the sponge, a few beads of water hitting me on the chin.

When I returned to the living room, Benny said, “I got three tickets to the Dodger game on Wednesday night. Dugout seats. From one of my old
customers
,” he said, winking at me. “Down payment on a long overdue debt. You want to join Ariel and me?”

“Can’t make it.”

“Why not?”

“Got a date,” I said.

“With who?” my mother called out from the kitchen, over the din of the running water and the clatter of dishes.

She marched into the living room, drying her hands on her apron. “What’s her name?”

“Nicole.”

“Last name?” she asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

“Haddad.”

With one hand, she gripped her neck, stricken; with the other, she grabbed a lamp for support.
“Haddad!
Is she an
Arab
?” she asked accusingly.

“Lebanese,” I said.

She raised an index finger and said, “Hear that sound? It’s your grandparents rolling over in their graves.”

“I married a Jewish woman,” I said. “That, obviously, didn’t work out too well.”

“But an
Arab
?” she said, cradling her head in her hands. “Why don’t you just take your gun out of your holster and shoot me right now? Because that’s what you’re doing to me. You’re
killing
me.”

Ariel jumped out of his chair and stood in front of her, arms extended. He burst into tears. He shouted, sobbing, “Don’t shoot Nana!”

I lifted Ariel onto my lap and tousled his hair. “Your grandmother’s just playing.”

“See what I have to put up with,” she said to Benny. “You don’t know the half of it.”

She turned to me and asked, “Have you lost your marbles?”

“It’s just a date.”

“You taking her to happy hour at the local mosque?” Benny asked.

“She’s not a Muslim. She’s Lebanese Christian.”

“But she’s still an Arab, you schmendrik!” She snorted with disgust. “For God’s sake, you’re still married.”

“Not really.”

She crossed her arms and barked, “Are you divorced?”

“Technically, no.”

“Then you’re still married. Robin’s a nice girl from a nice family. Why can’t you two work it out?”

“Look,” I said impatiently, “the separation wasn’t my idea. She’s the one who filed for divorce, not me.”

“So you’re separated. Big deal. That doesn’t mean the marriage is over. My friend Dottie Feldman’s son was separated for almost two years, but he just got back together with his—”

“It’s over!” I shouted.

“Don’t you raise your voice to me,” she said, turning on her heels and storming back into the kitchen.

“My nephew dating an Arab,” Benny muttered. “That’s the worst news I’ve had since off-track betting put me out of business.”

Typical night at the Levine house, I thought. Every discussion ends
in hysteria. Eager to flee, I walked into the kitchen to say goodbye to my mother.

She flipped off the water, turned toward me, and said, “The only reason I’m so upset about all this is because I want you to be happy. I’m only thinking of you.”

“You’re only thinking of
yourself
,” I snapped.

She angrily slammed the dishwasher shut. “That’s entirely untrue.”

“You want me to get back with Robin so you can have more grandchildren. Having only one puts you low woman on the totem pole at your Hadassah chapter.”

“How could you say such a thing,” she said, looking hurt. She lightly touched my forearm and said, “Your father, as you know, had a very hard life. But you know what made him happy?”

I shrugged.

“You and Marty made him happy. You two were his whole life. He felt that raising you two boys made everything he went through worthwhile.”

“He said that?” I asked, my voice catching.

“Yes he did.”

“I felt like I was a disappointment to him.”

“How?”

“When I enlisted in the army. When I joined the LAPD. He was so angry.”

“Yes, he was angry. That’s because he was worried about you. Yes, he envisioned something else for you. But he never stopped being proud of you.”

“I never got that sense.”

“Well, he
was
proud of you. He didn’t agree with some of your choices, but he respected you.”

I felt myself getting choked up. Grabbing a sponge from the drain, I dabbed at the edge of the sink. “He said that?”

“Yes, he did. He respected your dedication to what you believed in. And so do I.”

“I appreciate you saying that. And I appreciate your concern, Mom. But I’m old enough to make my own decisions. So please, no more advice on my personal life, okay?”

“I’ll try.”

I took her arm and led her toward the dining room. “Will you promise?”

“I promise I won’t give you any more advice on your social life. Unless, that is, I think it’s extremely important.”

I laughed. “Now we’re back where we started.”

I shook hands with Benny and said, “Next time you get Dodger tickets, I’ll join you and Ariel.”

Benny gripped my bicep. “Listen to me. Don’t be a schmuck. Stick with your own kind.”

I tousled Ariel’s hair and said, “See you Sunday?”

“Can’t. Mama’s taking me to a birthday party. But
next
Sunday will you teach me to surf?”

“I don’t know if you’re ready for surfing. But we’ll do something fun at the beach.”

I turned to my mother and said, “Thanks for dinner.”

She walked over, stood on tiptoes, and kissed me on the cheek.

As I opened the front door, my cell phone rang.

“He came after me!” a woman shouted hysterically. “He beat me up. I had to protect myself. I think I killed him.”

“Who is this?”

“Jane Granger.”

“You okay?”

“I think so.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Reaching under my police radio, I flicked on my lights and siren and sped to Redondo Beach. I skidded to a stop in front of Granger’s complex, ran up the stairs to her apartment, and banged on the door. She flung it open, and I followed her into the living room.

Abazeda was slumped on the sofa. He had a nasty purple bruise above his right eyebrow, and streaks of blood ran down the side of his face. Granger, who was holding a .32-caliber semiautomatic by her side, began to pace. “This cocksucker comes barging into my place and starts slapping me around—”

“That cunt coldcocked me with the butt of her pistol,” Abazeda shouted. “I never laid a finger on her.”

For the next thirty seconds, both shouted at the same time, so loudly I couldn’t make out what either of them was saying.

I slammed my hand on a wall. “Shut the fuck up! Both of you!”

I pointed to a little patio with a sliding glass door across from the kitchen. “Go out there,” I said to Granger, “and wait until I’m through talking to him.”

“In my own apartment I’m entitled—”

“Go!”

“But—”

“Now!”

She flipped Abazeda off and trudged off to the patio.

I pulled up a chair next to him. “What’re you doing here?”

He gingerly tapped his eyebrow with a pinkie. “I just came here to ask the bitch why she sent you after me.”

“How do you know it was her?”

“Who else?”

“I’ve talked to a lot of people connected to this case.”

“Why’re you wasting your time talking to me when—”

“I’m asking the questions here.”

“I’m not sure I want to answer them.”

“You can answer them here or at the station.”

He lightly touched the bruise over his eyebrow with a fingertip and grimaced. “Go ahead.”

“You told me you spent last Thursday night—the night Pete Relovich was killed—playing Texas Hold’em at the Kismet Casino’s high-limit table.”

“That’s right.”

“You’re a lying sack of shit. I just talked to the head of security there. He studied every player at the high-limit table, and he didn’t see you.”

He started at me with that disquieting popeyed expressed for a moment. Then he laughed. “You probably gave this security fellow my picture and he tried to identify me, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Have him try again.”

“Give me a reason.”

“I’m a damn good poker player. Sometimes too good. People at the L.A. card clubs are big gabbers. A few have spread the word and told some marks, ‘If you see a bald guy who looks kind of like a towel head, don’t play with him.’ So I pull a little switch. At all the other clubs, I play like this,” he said, rubbing his shiny pate. “But occasionally I play at the Kismet Casino, and when I do, I always wear a black toupee. That’s why some of the insiders, the money players, call me ‘Toupee Ray.’ A few of the marks figure it out; but a lot don’t. So tell your security guy to check the tape again and look for me—but with hair. I think he’ll spot me.”