The Butcher's Theatre (27 page)

“Tell me quick. I need a shot of reality.”

“What do you want to hear about?”

“The job, guy, what do you think? What kind of stuff you’ve been working on.”

“We just finished a homicide—”

“This one?” asked Gene, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a newspaper clipping. He handed it to Daniel.

Yesterday’s Jerusalem Post. Laufer’s press release had been used verbatim—just like in the Hebrew papers—with the conspicuous addition of a tag line:

. . LED BY CHIEF INSPECTOR DANIEL SHARAVI. SHARAVI ALSO HEADED THE TEAM THAT INVESTIGATED THE ASSASSINATION OF RAMLE PRISON WARDEN ELAZAR LIPPMANN LAST AUTUMN.

AN INQUIRY THAT LED TO THE RESIGNATION AND PROSECUTION OF SEVERAL SENIOR PRISON OFFICIALS ON CHARGES OF CORRUPTION AND

He put the clipping down.

“You’re a star, Danny Boy,” said Gene. “Only time I ever received that kind of coverage was when I got shot.”

“If I could wrap up the publicity and give it to you, I would, Gene. Tied with a ribbon.”

“What’s the problem, threatening the brass?”

“How’d you know?”

Gene’s smile was as clean as a paper cut. Pure white against umber, like a slice out of a coconut.

“Ace detective, remember?” He picked up the clipping, put his half-glasses on again. “All that good stuff about you and then they just throw in the other guy—Laufer—at the end. No matter that the other guy is probably a Mickey Mouse pencil-pusher who didn’t do a thing to deserve having his name in there in the first place. Executive types don’t like being preempted. How’m I doing?”

“A-plus,” said Daniel and thought of telling Gene about his protekzia with Gavrieli, how he’d lost it and now had to deal with Laufer, then reconsidered and talked about the Rashmawi case instead. All the loose ends, the things he didn’t like about it.

Gene listened and nodded. Starting, finally, to enjoy the vacation.

They broke off the discussion when the women returned. The conversation shifted to children, schools. Then the entrees came—a heaping mixed grill—and all conversation died.

Daniel watched, with awe, as Gene consumed lamb chops, sausage, shishlik, kebab, grilled chicken, serving after serving of saffron rice and bulghur salad. Washing it down with beer and water. Not wolfing—on the contrary, eating slowly, with an almost dainty finesse. But steadily and efficiently, avoiding distraction, concentrating on the food.

The first time he’d seen Gene eat had been in a Mexican restaurant near Parker Center. Nothing kosher there—he’d nursed a soft drink and eaten a salad, watching the black detective attack an assortment of tasty-looking dishes. He’d

learned the names since Tio Tuvia had come to Jerusalem: burritos and tostadas, enchiladas and chile rellenos. Beans, pancakes, spicy meat—except for the cheese, not all that different from Yemenite food.

His first thought had been that if the man ate like that all the time, he would weigh two hundred kilos. Learning, over the course of the summer, that Gene did eat like that all the time, had no use for exercise, and managed to stay normal-looking. About a meter nine tall, maybe ninety kilos, a bit of a belly but not bad for a guy in his late forties.

They’d met at Parker Center—a bigger, shinier version of French Hill Headquarters. In orientation, listening to an FBI agent talk about terrorism and counterterrorism, the logistics of keeping things safe with that many people around.

The Olympics job had been a real plum, the last one Gavrieli had handed him before the Lippmann case. The opportunity to go to Los Angeles, all expenses paid, gave Laura a chance to see her parents and visit old friends. The kids had been talking about Disneyland since Grandpa Al and Grandma Estelle had told them about it.

The assignment had turned out to be a quiet one—he and eleven other officers tagging along with the Israeli athletes. Nine in Los Angeles, two with the rowing team in Santa Barbara, ten-hour shifts, rotation schedules. There had been a couple of weak rumors that had to be taken seriously anyway. Some hate mail signed by the Palestine Solidarity Army and traced, the day before the Games, to an inmate of the state mental hospital in Camarillo.

But mostly it was watching, hours of inactivity, eyes always on the lookout for anything that didn’t fit: heavy coats in hot weather, strange contours under garments, furtive movements, the look of hatred on a jumpy, terrified face— probably young, probably dark, but you never could be sure. The look imprinted on Daniel’s brain: an aura, a storm warning, before the seizure of stunning, stomach-churning violence.

A quiet assignment, no Munich in L.A. He’d ended each shift with a tension headache.

He’d sat in the front of the room during the orientation lecture and grown aware, before long, that someone was looking at him. A few backward glances located the source

of scrutiny: a very dark black man in a light-blue summer suit, a SUPERVISOR identification badge clipped to his lapel. Local police.

The man was heavily built, older—late forties to early fifties, Daniel figured. Bald on top with gray hair at the side, the hairless crown resembling gift candy—a mound of bittersweet chocolate nestled in silver foil. A thick gray mustache flared out from under a broad, flat nose.

He wondered why the man was looking at him, tried smiling and received a curt nod in response. Later, after the lecture, the man remained behind after the others had left, chewed on his pen for a few seconds, then pocketed it and walked toward him. When he got close enough, Daniel read the badge: lt. EUGENE brooker, lapd.

Putting on a pair of half-glasses, Brooker looked down at Daniel’s badge.

“Israel, huh. I’ve been trying to figure out what you are.”

“Pardon me?”

“We’ve got all types in town. It’s a job to sort out who’s who. When I first saw you I figured you for some sort of West Indian. Then I saw the skullcap and wondered if it was a yarmuike or some type of costume.”

“It’s a yarmuike.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Where are you from?”

“Israel.” Was the man stupid?

“Before Israel.”

“I was born in Israel. My ancestors came from Yemen. It’s in Arabia.”

“You related to the Ethiopians?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“My wife’s always been interested in Jews and Israel,” said Brooker. “Thinks you guys are the chosen people and reads a lot of books on you. She told me there are some black Jews in Ethiopia. Starving along with the rest of them.”

“There are twenty thousand Ethiopian Jews,” said Daniel. “A few have immigrated to Israel. We’d like to get the others out. They’re darker than me—more like you.”

Brooker smiled. “You’re no Swede, yourself,” he said. “You’ve also got some Black Hebrews over in Israel. Came over from America.”

A delicate topic. Daniel decided to be direct.

“The Black Hebrews are a criminal cult,” he said. “They steal credit cards and abuse their children.”

Brooker nodded. “I know it. Busted a bunch of them a couple of years ago. Con artists and worse—what we American law-enforcement personnel call sleazeballs. It’s a technical term.”

“I like that,” said Daniel. “I’ll remember it.”

“Do that,” said Brooker. “Sure to come in handy.” Pause. “Anyway, now I know all about you.”

He stopped talking and seemed embarrassed, as if not knowing where to go with the conversation. Or how to end it. “How’d you like the lecture?”

“Good,” said Daniel, wanting to be tactful. The lecture had seemed elementary to him. As if the agent were talking down to the policemen.

“I thought it was Mickey Mouse,” said Brooker.

Daniel was confused.

“The Mickey Mouse of Disneyland?”

“Yeah,” said Brooker. “It’s an expression for something that’s too easy, a waste of time.” Suddenly he looked puzzled himself. “I don’t know how it came to mean that, but it does.”

“A mouse is a small animal,” suggested Daniel. “Insignificant.”

“Could be.”

“I thought the lecture was Mickey Mouse, too, Lieutenant Brooker. Very elementary.”

“Gene.”

“Daniel.”

They shook hands. Gene’s was large and padded, with a solid core of muscle underneath. He smoothed his mustache and said, “Anyway, welcome to L.A., and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure to meet you too, Gene.”

“Let me ask you one more thing,” said the black man. “Those Ethiopians, what’s going to happen to them?”

“If they stay in Ethiopia, they’ll starve with everyone else. If they’re allowed out, Israel will take them in.”

“Just like that?”

“Of course. They’re our brothers.”

Gene thought about that. Fingered his mustache and looked at his watch.

“This is interesting,” he said. “We’ve got some time—how about lunch?”

They drove to the Mexican place in Gene’s unmarked Plymouth, talked about work, the similarities and differences between street scenes half a world apart. Daniel had always conceived of America as an efficient place, where initiative and will could break through the bureaucracy. But listening to Gene complain—about paperwork, useless regulations handed down by the brass, the procedural calisthenics American cops had to perform in order to satisfy the courts—changed his mind, and he was struck by the universality of it all. The policeman’s burden.

He nodded in empathy, then said, “In Israel there’s another problem. We are a nation of immigrants—people who grew up persecuted by police states. Because of that, Israelis resent authority. There’s a joke we tell: Half the country doesn’t believe there’s such a thing as a Jewish criminal; the other half doesn’t believe there’s such a thing as a Jewish policeman. We’re caught in the middle.”

“Know the feeling,” said Gene. He wiped his mouth, took a drink of beer. “You ever been to America before?”

“Never.”

“Your English is darned good.”

“We learn English in school and my wife is American—she grew up here in Los Angeles.”

“That right? Whereabouts?”

“Beverlywood.”

“Nice neighborhood.”

“Her parents still live there. We’re staying with them.”

“Having a good time?”

Interrogating him, like a true detective.

“They’re very nice people,” said Daniel.

“So are my in-laws.” Gene smiled. “Long as they stay in Georgia. How long have you been married?”

“Sixteen years.”

Gene was surprised. “You look too young. What was it, a high school romance?”

“I was twenty; my wife was nineteen.”

Gene calculated mentally. “You look younger than that. I did the same kind of thing—got out of the army at twenty-one and married the first woman who came along. It lasted seven months—burned me good and made me careful. For the next couple of years I took my time, played the field. Even after I met Luanne, we had a long engagement, working all the bugs out. Must have been the right thing to do, ‘cause we’ve been together for twenty-five years.”

Up until then, the black: detective had come across as tough and dour, full of the cynical humor and world-weariness that Daniel had seen in so many older policemen. But when he talked about his wife, his face creased in a wide smile and Daniel thought to himself: He loves her intensely. He found that depth of feeling something he could relate to, causing him to like the man more than he had in the beginning.

The smile remained as Gene pulled out a bruised-looking wallet, stuffed with credit card slips and fuzzy-edged scraps of paper. He unfolded it, pulled out snapshots of his daughters and showed them to Daniel. “That’s Gloria—she’s a teacher, like her mother. Andrea’s in college, studying to be an accountant. I told her to go all the way, become a lawyer and make a lot more money, but she’s got her own mind.”

“That’s good,” said Daniel, producing snapshots of his own. “Having your own mind.”

“Yeah, I suppose so, long as the mind’s in the right place.” Gene looked at the pictures of the Sharavi children. “Very cute—husky little guys. Aha, now she’s a beauty—looks like you, except for the hair.”

“My wife is blond.”

Gene gave the pictures back. “Very nice. You got a nice family.” The smile continued to linger, then faded. “Raising kids is no picnic, Daniel. The whole time my girls were growing up I was watching for danger signs, probably drove them a little crazy. Too many temptations, they see stuff on TV and want it without having to wait for it. Instant highs, which is why they get onto dope—you’ve got that, too, don’t you, being close to the poppy fields?”

“Not like in America, but more than we ever had before. It’s a problem.”

“There are two ways to solve it,” said Gene. “One, make all of it legal so there’s no incentive to deal, and forget all about morality. Or two, execute all the dealers and the users.” He made a gun with his fingers. “Bang, you’re dead, every one of them. Anything short of that doesn’t stand a chance.”

Daniel smiled noncommittally, not knowing what to say.

“Think I’m joking?” asked Gene, calling for the check. “I’m not. Twenty-four years on the force and I’ve seen too many kacked-out junkies and dope-related crimes to think there’s any other way.”

“We don’t have capital punishment in Israel.”

“You hung that German—Eichmann.”

“We make an exception for Nazis.”

“Then start thinking of dope scum as Nazis—they’ll kill you the same way.” Gene lowered his voice. “Don’t let what’s happened here happen over there—my wife would be very disillusioned. She’s a serious Baptist, teaches in a Baptist school, been talking about seeing the Holy Land for years. Like it’s some kind of Garden of Eden. Be terrible for her to learn any different.”

Luanne was back on the subject of churches. The Holy Sepulchre, in particular. Daniel knew the history of the place, the infighting for control that went on constantly between the different Christian groups—the Greeks battling the Armenians, who battled the Roman Catholics, who battled the Syrians. The Copts and the Ethiopians banished to tiny chapels on the roof.

And the orgies that had taken place during the Ottoman era—Christian pilgrims fornicating in the main chapel because they believed a child conceived near Christ’s burial place would be destined for greatness.