Mission (20 page)

I looked at The Man and hoped to God that he would step in if I fell flat on my face. Then I smiled at Rabbi Weinbaum and apologised to him in my new-found language. ‘I'm sorry to take up so much of your time.'

‘It's a privilege,' said Weinbaum. ‘Believe me.'

I translated our brief exchange in Hebrew for Russell's benefit and couldn't help noticing that his earlier assurance was now besieged by doubt.

‘Tell me, Mr Resnick,' he said. ‘Are you in the habit of bankrolling strangers who walk in off the street and try to bum the services of an attorney?'

‘Of course not,' I replied. ‘It was only because I thought he had been sent along by this doctor, who happens to be a friend of mine, that I felt obliged to help. And also because he told me that he was a
rabbi.'

‘That's true,' said Weinbaum. He looked at Russell and Marcello. ‘This man is a great scholar.'

I smiled at Russell. ‘And as you are no doubt aware, we Jews have been known to help one another.'

There was a moment's silence.

‘Ring Manhattan General,' I suggested. ‘Ask for Doctor Miriam Maxwell. She may be able to give you some more information.'

Russell eyed the three of us, glanced at Marcello, then lifted the phone and dialled the switchboard. ‘Get me a Doctor Maxwell at the Manhattan General. And move it along, will you? I don't want to be here all night.'

Maybe it was the way he slammed the phone back on the hook but I got the impression that he would have preferred to call in the SS.

‘Is Doctor Maxwell Jewish, too?' he said.

I almost gave him the full ethnic shrug then decided not to overdo it. I raised my eyebrows instead. ‘You know how it is. The clever ones become doctors,
rabbis,
or musicians, and the others scrape a living as lawyers or comedians.'

‘You don't look as if you've had to scrape too hard,' said Russell.

The phone rang just as I was about to get lippy. The switchboard operator had Miriam on the other end of the line. Russell explained who he was.

‘Doctor Maxwell,' he continued. ‘Do you have any record of a patient by the name of Yale Sheppard? I understand that he was under your care some nine days ago.'

I hid my hands under my arms and crossed my fingers as Miriam went into her number. I had no idea what story she had concocted. I just hoped it would be a good one. Russell was no dummy. But, on the other hand, it's amazing how people will go along with what doctors have to say. And that's what I was banking on.

Russell's eyes dwelt on each of us in turn as he ‘uh-huh-ed' several times into the phone, then said, ‘Yes, sure. We're holding him here right now.' He listened some more then concluded by saying, ‘Third Floor. I'll ring the desk and tell them to expect you … Yeah. Thanks, Doc.'

He rang off, then lifted the phone again and rang the desk. While he waited for them to answer, he looked at Marcello. ‘The guy's a yoyo …' The Desk Sergeant came through on the line. ‘Benny? … Russell. Listen. There'll be a Doctor Maxwell – a dame, right? – from the Manhattan General, arriving in the next fifteen to twenty minutes.' He listened and shook his head. ‘No, Benny. We didn't kill anybody. We picked up one of their patients. Just send her on up. Okay?'

Russell put the phone down and looked at me. He almost smiled, then thought better of it. ‘You may have to forego your fee on this one. Your client beat an intern over the head with a bed-pan, stole some clothes and broke out of the hospital sometime on Sunday night.'

Beautiful. I contrived to look concerned. ‘I see …'

‘What's more,' said Russell. ‘His name is not Sheppard. That's something the doctor came up with to put on the bed chart. They don't know who the fuck he is. All they know is he shouldn't be loose on the streets.'

I frowned, and gave Weinbaum and The Man a worried look. Real Actor's Studio stuff. ‘Did they say what was wrong with him?'

‘Psychotic cathexis,' said Russell. ‘Whatever the hell that is.' At least he was honest. He gathered up the few sheets of paper that constituted The Man's dossier and held them above his trash basket. ‘May I take it that you don't intend to sue us for violation of civil rights or any other kind of shit?'

‘Forget it,' I said. ‘I've wasted enough time.'

Russell junked the paperwork. He pulled a couple of cigarettes out of a Lucky Strike pack, gave one to Marcello, then tossed the pack across the desk towards me. ‘Help yourself.'

‘Thanks.' I offered it round. Weinbaum and The Man shook their heads. I took one as I passed it back, lit up and took a deep drag in an effort to stop my heart pounding. ‘By the way,' I said. ‘I'm sorry I unwittingly dragged Immigration into this. Will you call them and explain what happened?' I gave him an Honest Joe-look of concern, then smiled. ‘I wouldn't want them to feel deprived.'

‘Don't worry,' said Russell. ‘We'll take care of all that.'

It was the right reply but I got the feeling that, sooner or later, the bloodhounds would be back on our trail. I leaned towards Russell and indicated The Man with a sidelong glance. ‘I think maybe I should tell him what's happening. But I won't mention the doctor.'

‘Good idea,' said Russell.

Once again I found myself speaking fluent Hebrew. Not that I needed to tell The Man what was going on. But we had to play it right down the line. I explained that the arrest had been a mistake; that Lieutenant Russell and Detective Marcello offered their apologies on behalf of the NYPD; and that a friend of mine was coming to pick us up in a car. I had the feeling that The Man had made a covert ally of Weinbaum but I kept it straight just to be on the safe side.

The Man absorbed the news with the frowning attention of someone trying hard to keep a grip on reality, then treated Russell to a jerky smile and asked if he could have a drink. If all else failed, it was clear that both of us had a future in summer stock.

Russell went to the door and bellowed an order for three Cokes and two coffees to someone called Tony. But this time, Miriam arrived before the refreshments. She had a raincoat over her white smock, and was carrying a black bag. I suppressed an insane desire to leap up and hug her. I just sat there and tried to sound like a man with a grievance. ‘Glad you could make it …'

Miriam treated me to a consulting-room smile then put her bag on Russell's desk and flashed her hospital I.D. ‘You Lieutenant Russell?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘You by yourself?'

‘Yes. Don't worry. He's not going to be a problem.' She turned and treated The Man to a dazzling smile. ‘So, how are you, champ?'

‘He doesn't understand English,' I said. ‘You have to speak to him in Hebrew.'

Her faced soured. ‘Not necessarily,' she replied. ‘It depends on who he thinks he is.' She turned back to Russell. ‘How did he get here?'

Russell gave her a quick run-down on the arrest and my Good Samaritan act.

Miriam turned to me. ‘Didn't it occur to you to ring the hospital?'

‘You weren't there,' I said. ‘And the Manhattan General only gives out information on patients to listed relatives or their own physician. Besides, when he turned up in my office, I naturally assumed he'd been discharged. If the guy's bananas, it's your job to keep him tied down.'

Miriam waved me aside. ‘Yeah, okay, okay.' She turned back to Russell and lowered her voice. ‘He looks harmless. I won't bother to give him a tranquillising shot. We'll just walk him out of here.'

‘Sure, whatever,' said Russell. ‘You got an ambulance outside?'

‘No,' said Miriam. ‘I didn't want to spook him. We'll take a cab.'

‘Are you sure you don't want a squad car?' said Russell.

Miriam shook her head. ‘A cab'll do fine.'

I stubbed out my cigarette and addressed The Man in Hebrew. ‘Come on. It's time to go.'

The Man and Rabbi Weinbaum rose together. Weinbaum took hold of The Man's left hand and patted it – as if to console him.

The Man gripped him by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes. ‘Walk in all His ways.'

Only Weinbaum and I knew what he was saying.

‘I will come and see you,' said Weinbaum. ‘We must talk some more.'

‘What are they saying?' asked Russell.

‘Goodbye,' I said. Miriam and I moved towards the door with The Man between us.

‘Uhh, just one thing, Doc,' said Russell. ‘Who brought this guy into the hospital?'

I froze with my hand on the half-open door.

‘That's something we haven't yet managed to find out,' said Miriam. ‘I was called down to the morgue and found him lying naked on an autopsy slab with blood all over his back, wrists and feet.'

Russell's nose wrinkled. ‘It's original. What's this, uh – psychotic cathexis? Some kind of brain damage?'

‘That's one way of putting it.' Miriam eyed me briefly, then went on. ‘Cathexis is a term used by pyscho-analysts. It's the accumulation of mental energy on some particular idea, line of thought or action. And it's described as psychotic when this kind of fixation is allied to a pathological mental state.' She took a deep breath. ‘You see, Mr Sheppard's problem is that he's convinced he's the Risen Christ.'

Weinbaum groaned and muttered something under his breath in what I think was Yiddish.

‘Oh, jeezuss,' said Marcello, breaking his silence.

Russell shook his head wearily and waved us towards the door. ‘That's enough,' he said. ‘Just get him out of here.'

The three of us walked out of the station house with Rabbi Weinbaum on our tail. He stood and watched us as we hailed a passing cab and ushered The Man into the back.

‘Can we drop you somewhere?' I said.

Weinbaum shook his head. ‘To think such things could happen,' he sighed. ‘To a man with such knowledge …'

I reverted to my native tongue. ‘Don't worry. He may get better.' I shook his hand and climbed aboard. As we pulled away down the street I looked back out of the window. Weinbaum was still standing on the curb, tugging at his beard; and no doubt reflecting on the futility of learning.

The cab was a new model without the iron curtain between the rear seat and the driver so we kept the conversation down to guided-tour small-talk on the way uptown. New York after dark becomes another city as whole sections switch roles. Some not stirring until the trashman calls. Others blossoming like luminous night flowers; bursting into multi-coloured life. We crossed 20th Street, leaving the shuttered commercial section with its sculptured European facades, and its deserted side-streets full of ominous shadows and headed north towards the sky-high blocks of mid-Manhattan where the random pattern of lighted windows glowed like jewels set in pillars of obsidian. By day or by night, the visual impact of New York was always stunning, but when darkness fell, there was more to it than
just the razzle-dazzle. The night swallowed up the extraneous detail allowing the eye to focus on the pure form of the city's structures. Its essence. You became aware of the massive concentration of vitality, of worldly power: of the mother-lode that was there to be mined in those multi-storied mountains of free enterprise. When you paused to consider what New York represented and what it had to offer, it wasn't hard to understand what drew men to ‘Brax's dark banner.

At the Mayflower, The Man picked up his key from the desk and led us to the elevator with all the assurance of a blue-blazered loungelizard. A silver-haired couple stepped in behind us so we rode up to the third floor in silence. By some curious coincidence their room was on the same floor. We politely let them leave the elevator first then found ourselves following them all the way down the corridor and round this dead end to the right. It was quite bizarre. With each step, the atmosphere became increasingly electric. I could feel the waves of apprehension coming off their backs. I wanted to say something to reassure them but I had the feeling that if I addressed even one word to them they would have a heart attack. If I'd been them, I'd have probably been scared too. The one place you don't want to be hit is in a lifeless hotel corridor; where there's no point in running because there's nowhere to hide; with all those closed doors that are going to stay closed no matter how hard you holler; until it's all over. This couple's ordeal ended at the door to Room 314. We left them, eyes averted, fumbling nervously for the key, and walked past to 315.

‘That is very sad,' said The Man, as he opened the door.

I shrugged. ‘It's the way things are.' I ushered Miriam into the room then called out to the couple. ‘Good night.' They didn't reply. They were still looking for their key. Or pretending to, while they waited for us to go inside. The Man was right. It was a sad state of affairs when you had to lock and chain yourself inside a hotel room and look through a peep-hole to make sure that the guy who announced himself as Room Service wasn't carrying the carving knife instead of the chicken sandwich.

Once inside the door however, I pushed those thoughts aside. I grabbed Miriam and hugged her happily. ‘Doctor, you were absolutely fantastic.'

As we parted, The Man grinned broadly and put his arms across our shoulders. And we each put an arm around him as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do. For one brief moment, we formed a victorious trio. We were like the Three Musketeers. All for
one, and one for all. It felt great.

‘Don't let's get too excited,' said Miriam, as we became our separate selves again. ‘We're not out of the woods yet. If that guy Russell decides to check up at the hospital – '

I waved her worries aside. ‘He won't. He's like everybody else. One whiff of religious mania, and they tune out.' I broke into a laugh. ‘And the incredible thing is that, in the end, what got us off the hook was the truth. Or, at least, ninety-five percent of it.'