The Butcher's Theatre (15 page)

“What the—” he said, then forced himself to smile. The grand-daddy pooshiak, toughing it out, not wanting to look like a pussy in front of his fans. Not that they had eyes for anyone but Bruce.

“Tell me what you know.” The Chinaman smiled back.

“Off my foot, you baboon.”

The Chinaman continued smiling. Pressed down harder and talked nonchalantly, as if the two of them were buddies. Having a chat about sports or something.

“Listen, Adon Khazak,” he said, “I’ve no interest in finding out what naughtiness you’ve been up to. Tonight.” More pressure. “Just tell me about this girl.”

Charlie gasped and the bartender came closer, bottle of Goldstar in one hand. “Charlie—”

“Get the hell out of here, stupid! Do your job!”

The bartender cursed under his breath, went back to washing glasses.

“Like I told you,” Charlie said between his teeth. Sweat ran down his nose, beading at the tip of the beak, rolling off into the dirt. “I don’t know her. Now get the hell off my foot before you break something.”

“You’ve seen her around.”

“What of it? She’s a face, a nothing.”

“Where and when,” said the Chinaman.

“Get off and I’ll tell you.”

The Chinaman gave a good-natured shrug and broke contact. Charlie spat into the ground, did a sneaky little dance. Concealed his pain by pulling out a pack of Marlboros and a box of matches, jamming a cigarette between his lips, and making a show of lighting a match against his thumbnail. He sucked in smoke, blew it out though his nostrils. Repeated the gesture. Formed his features into a tough-guy grimace.

“Very impressive,” said the Chinaman. “The girl.”

“She’s been around once or twice, okay? That’s all.”

“On a Friday?”

“That’s the only time we’re here, Lee.” A kick at a stray chunk of pulp.

“Was she alone or with someone?”

“I saw her with a guy.”

“What kind of guy?”

“An Arab.”

“Name.”

“How the hell should I know? They never came in. I just saw them hanging around. It was a long time ago.”

“How long?”

“Month, maybe two.”

“How do you know he was an Arab?”

“He looked like one. And he was talking Arabic.” As if explaining to a moron.

“What did this Arab look like?”

“Skinny, lots of hair, mustache. Cheap clothes.”

“How tall?”

“Medium.”

“Be more specific.”

“Not tall, not short. In the middle—maybe a meter eight.”

“How old?”

“Eighteen or nineteen.”

“What else about him do you remember?”

“Nothing. He looked like a million others.”

“What’d you mean, lots of hair?”

“What does it mean to you?”

“Charlie,” said the Chinaman, meaningfully.

“Thick, bushy, okay?”

“Straight or curly?”

“Straight, I think. Like yours.” A smile. “Maybe he’s your cousin. Lee.”

“What style?”

“Who the hell remembers?”

“She an Arab too?”

“Who else would hang around with an Arab, Lee?”

“One of your cousins.”

Charlie spat again. Inhaled his cigarette and ordered the bartender to clean up the mess.

“Street girl?” asked the Chinaman.

“How would I know that?”

The Chinaman cracked the knuckles of one hand.

“You’re a cunt peddler is how, Charlie.”

“I’m not into that shit anymore, Lee. I sell melons, that’s all. Maybe this guy was pimping her, but all I saw was them hanging out. Once or twice.”

“Ever see her with anyone else?”

“No. Just the two of them, hanging around—it was over a month ago.”

“But you remember her.”

Charlie grinned and patted his chest.

“I’m a connoisseur of beauty, you know? And she was good-looking. Big round ass, nice tits for someone that young. Even in those stupid clothes she was all right.”

“She wore cheap clothes too?”

“Both of them. He was a nothing, a farmer. Give her a makeover, she’d be a fine piece.”

“Tell me what else you know,” said the Chinaman, restraining an urge to slap the little shit.

“That’s it.”

“Sure about that?”

Charlie shrugged, took a drag on his cigarette.

“Step on my foot again, Lee. From here on in, anything I tell you will be fairy tales.”

“Ever see this Arab without her?”

“I don’t look at boys. Do you?”

The Chinaman lifted his hand. Charlie recoiled, stumbling backward, and the Chinaman caught him before he fell. Lifted him by the scruff, like a rag doll.

“Tsk, tsk,” he said, patting the tent-keeper’s face gently. “Just a love pat.”

“Goto hell, Lee.”

“Shabbat shalom.”

Back on his Vespa, he processed what he’d learned. Charlie’s recognition had turned the girl from a picture into someone real. But when you got right down to it he didn’t know much more than when he’d started.

She was loose, hung around with an Arab guy, which meant she was probably an Arab. Maybe a Christian—some of them were a little more modern. No way would a Muslim daddy allow his girl out at night, unchaperoned, least of all at The Slave Market.

Unless she was an orphan or a whore.

No one at the orphanages had known her.

A whore, probably. Or an unwanted daughter sold by her family—it was against the law, but some of the poorer families still did it. The girls, unwanted baggage, traded for cash to rich families in Amman or one of the oil states. The real slave market. Charlie had said her clothes were cheap.…

He kicked in the scooter’s engine, flipped it around, drove south around the Old City. Past the Border Patrol jeep, which had stopped for a cigarette break near the Jaffa Gate. Swinging away from the walls, up to Keren Hayesod, zipping through the Rehavya district. Toward his flat on Herzl on the west side of town.

A lead, but pitiful. Good-looking, poor Arab girl with a poor Arab boyfriend. Big deal.

It was too late to knock on any more doors—not that that approach was worth much anyway. A day of it had brought

him dumb stares, shakes of the head. Some of them pretending his Arabic was too poor to understand—pure crap; he was plenty fluent. Others simply shrugging. Know-nothing Ahmeds. For all he knew, he’d already talked to the right person and had been lied to.

If she had a family, they should have claimed her.

Probably a whore. But none of the pimps or the street girls knew her. Maybe a rookie. Short career.

Maybe the longhaired boyfriend was the killer, or maybe he was just a guy who’d screwed her once or twice, then went on to something else. Thin, medium-sized, with a mustache. Like saying a guy with two arms, two legs. Nothing worth reporting to Dani.

Yossi Lee, ace investigator. He’d been on his feet for twelve hours, with little to show for it. Had gulped down greasy felafel that sat undigested in his stomach. Aliza had said she’d try to wait up for him, but he knew she’d be sleeping, little Rafi curled in the crib by the bed. Yesterday the kid had said “apple,” which seemed pretty good for sixteen months. Muscles on him, too; ready for soccer before you knew it. Maybe he’d get a chance to bounce him around a little before hitting the street again. No walk in the park this Saturday, though. Shit.

The wind in his face felt good. He liked the city this way, sweet and empty. As if all of it belonged to him. King Yossi, the Jewish Genghis.

He’d drive around a little more. Give himself time to wind down.

Daniel awoke at three in the morning, troubled by vague remembrances of dark, bloody dreams. Metal through flesh,

his hand severed, floating through space, out of reach. Crying like a child, mud-soaked and feeble …

He changed positions, hugged the pillow, wrapped himself in the top sheet and tried to relax. But instead, he grew edgier and rolled over again, facing Laura.

She was covered to her chin, breathing shallowly through barely parted lips. A wave of hair fell over one eye; a hint of tapered fingernail extended from beneath the sheet. He touched the nail, brushed away the hair. She stirred, made a throaty, contented sound, and stretched so that the sole of one foot rested on his ankle. He inched closer, kissed her cheeks, her eyes, dry lips tasting faintly of morning.

She smiled in her sleep and he moved up against her and kissed her chin. She opened her eyes, looked at him with confusion, and closed them again. Her body tensed, and she turned away from him. Then her eyes opened again. She mouthed the word oh and wrapped her arms around him.

They embraced, lying on their sides, face to face, kissing, nuzzling, rocking in a tangle of sheets. She raised one leg and rested it on his thigh, took him and guided him inside of her. They made love that way, slowly, sleepily, until climax brought them wide awake.

Afterward, they lay connected for a while. Then Laura said, “Daniel … I’m thirsty,” with mischief in her voice.

“AH right,” he said, extricating himself.

He got out of bed, went into the kitchen, and filled a glass with cold mineral water. When he returned she was sitting up, bare above the waist, her hair pinned up. He handed her the glass and she emptied it in two long drafts.

“Want more?” he asked.

“No, this is fine.” She moistened her finger on the rim of the glass, brushed it across her lips.

“Sure?” He smiled. “There’s a half-gallon bottle in the refrigerator.”

“Tease!” Fanning wet fingers, she splashed him lightly. “Can I help it if I get thirsty? That’s the way my body works.”

“Your body works just fine.” He lay down beside her, put his arm around her shoulder. She set the glass on the nightstand, looked at the clock that rested there, and gave a low moan.

“Oh, no. Three-twenty.”

“Sorry for waking you.”

She reached beneath the covers, touched him lightly, and laughed. “All’s well that ends well. Have you been up long?”

“A few minutes.”

“Anything the matter?”

“Just restless,” he said, feeling the tension return.

“I’ll get up and let you rest.”

He began to move away but she touched his wrist and restrained him.

“No. Stay. We’ve hardly talked since you got that call.”

She rested her head on his shoulder, made circles with her palm across his hairless chest. They sat without speaking, listening to night sounds—a faint whistle of wind, the hum of the clock, the synchrony of their heartbeats.

“Tell me about it,” she said.

“About what?”

“What you avoided talking about by going to bed at nine.”

“You don’t want to hear about it.”

“Yes, I do.”

“It’s horrible, believe me.”

“Tell me, anyway.

“

He looked at her, saw the will in her eyes. Shrugged and began talking about the murder, reporting dispassionately, professionally. Leaving out as much as he could without patronizing her. She listened without comment, flinching only once, but when he finished her eyes were moist.

“My God,” she said. “Fifteen.”

He knew what she was thinking: not much older than Shoshi. He allowed himself to share the thought, and a stab of anxiety pierced him to the core. He defended against it the way he’d been taught to block out pain. Forcing pleasant images into his mind. Fields of wild poppies. The fragrance of orange blossoms.

“Heroin, sex murder, it doesn’t… fit,” Laura was saying. “We’re not supposed to have that kind of thing here.”

“Well, now we do,” he said angrily. A second later: “Sorry. You’re right. We’re out of our element.”

“That’s not what I meant. I’m sure you’ll solve it.”

“Twenty-four-hour shifts until we do.”

“It’s just…” She groped for words. “When I was growing up, I heard about those kinds of things alt the time. It wasn’t that we accepted them, but … Oh, I don’t know. Here, it just seems a heresy, Daniel. Demonic.”

“I understand,” said Daniel, but to himself he thought: That’s exactly the kind of thing I have to avoid. Devils and demons, religious symbolism—the city makes you think that way. It’s a crime, no more, no less. Perpetrated by a human being. Someone sick and fallible …

“What time will you be leaving?” Laura asked. “Seven. I have to walk down to the Katamonim. If I’m not back by twelve-thirty, start lunch without me.”

“The Katamonim? I thought you said she was an Arab.” “Daoud thinks she is. We won’t know until we ID her.” She unpinned her hair, let it fall to her shoulders. “The brass wants it kept quiet,” he said. “Which means meetings away from Headquarters. If we get any leads, we’ll be meeting here, Sunday evening. Don’t prepare anything. If we’re out of soda, I’ll pick some up.” “What time in the evening?” “Between five and six.”

“Do you want me to pick up Luanne and Gene?” Daniel slapped his forehead. “Oh, no, how could I forget. When are they corning in?”

“Seven P.M. if the flight’s on schedule.” “Perfect timing. So much for grand hospitality.” “They’ll be fine, Daniel. They’ll probably be exhausted for the first day or so. I’ve arranged a walking tour of the Old City churches and Bethlehem on Tuesday, and I’ll book them on an all-day trip to Galilee with an emphasis on Nazareth. That should keep them busy for a while.”

“I wanted it to be personal, the way they treated us.” “There’ll be plenty of time for that—they’re here for four weeks. Besides, if anyone should be able to understand, it’s them. Gene probably sees this kind of thing all the time.”

“Yes,” said Daniel, “I’m sure he does.”

At four Laura fell back asleep and Daniel drifted into a somnolent state, neither slumber nor arousal, in which

dream-images flitted in and out of consciousness with a randomness that was unsettling. At six he got up, sponged off in the bathroom, dressed in a white shirt, khaki trousers, and rubber-soled walking shoes, and forced himself to swallow a glass of orange juice and a cup of instant coffee with milk and sugar. He took his tallit out on the balcony, faced the Old City, and prayed. By seven he was out the door, beeper on his belt, the envelope containing pictures of the dead girl in hand.

As on every other Shabbat, two of the elevators in the building were shut down, the third set automatically, stopping at every floor, so that religiously observant tenants could ride without having to push buttons—the completion of electric circuits was a violation of the Sabbath. But religious convenience also meant agonizingly slow progress, and when he saw that the car had just reached the ground floor, he took the stairs and bounded down four flights.