The Butcher's Theatre (9 page)

Traffic was slow on Rehov King George, streets and sidewalks crammed with Sabbath shoppers, the babble of vendors and hawkers blending discordantly with diesel rumble, brake squeals, and the earsplitting blasts of auto horns. He got stuck at a red light behind an Egged bus and had to breathe in rancid exhaust mixed with wafts of hot grease from a nearby food stand. Melekh HaFelafel. “The Felafel King.” Down the block was The Juice King, just around the corner The Emperor of Hamburgers. A nation of monarchs …

The bus moved and he sped forward, hooking a sharp left into the mouth of Rehov Ben Yehuda and parking illegally at the top of the street. Placing a police identification card on the dash of the Escort, he locked the car and left, hoping

some under-observant rookie wouldn’t clamp a Denver Boot on his tires.

The front door of The Star Restaurant was open, but he was early, so he walked past the restaurant and down the sloping street toward his father’s shop.

Once just another auto-choked Jerusalem thoroughfare, Ben Yehuda had been closed to cars several years ago and transformed into a walking mall all the way to the big clock at Zion Square. He made his way through a wash of people—lovers holding hands as they window-shopped and traded dreams; children clinging to parental hands, their buttery faces smeared with pizza and ice cream; soldiers on leave; and artsy types from the Bezalel Institute, drinking iced coffee and eating paper-cradled napoleons at the parasoled tables of sidewalk cafes.

He walked past a shwarma stand, saw customers waiting eagerly as a counterman shaved juicy slices from a spinning, fat-topped cone of spiced lamb. Nearby, longhaired street musicians strummed American folk songs without passion, huddled like empty-eyed scarecrows over open instrument cases speckled with coins. One, a pale, skeletal, lank-haired woman, had brought a battered upright piano on wheels and was pounding out bad Chopin to a derisively grinning audience of taxi drivers. He recognized a Latam officer, Wiesel, at the rear of the group, avoided even momentary eye contact with the undercover man, and walked on.

The sign in his father’s window said CLOSED, but he peered in through the front door and saw movement from the back room. A rap on the glass brought his father to the front, and when he saw Daniel, his face lit up and he unlocked it quickly.

“Shalom, Abba.”

“Shalom, son! Come in, come in.”

Standing on tiptoes, the older man embraced him, kissing both his cheeks. In the process, his beret came loose and Daniel caught it for him. His father placed the hat atop his shiny dome and thanked him, laughing. Arm in arm, they entered the shop.

The odor of silver solder permeated the air. An elaborate filigree brooch lay on the workbench. Threadlike wire of

silver looped around teardrop-shaped freshwater pearls, the outer perimeter of each loop a delicate braid of gold wire. Wire that seemed too thin to work with, but which his father’s hands transformed to objects of strength and beauty. Angel hair, his Uncle Moshe had told him when he was a child. Your abba spins the hair of angels into wondrous forms.

Where does he get it, Dod Moshe?

From the heavens. Like manna. Special manna granted by Hakadosh Baruch Hu to those with magic hands.

Those same hands, nut-brown and hard as olive wood, cupped his chin now. More kisses, the momentary abrasion of the old man’s beard. A flash of white-toothed smile through steel-wool whiskers. Black eyes flashing mischievously from a saddle-leather face.

“Something to drink, Daniel?”

“Just some water, please, Abba. I’ll get it.”

“Sit.” Staying him with a finger, his father moved quickly to the back room and returned with a bottle of orange juice and two glasses. Taking a stool next to Daniel’s, he filled both glasses, recited the shehakol blessing, and the two of them drank, his father sipping, Daniel emptying the glass in three swallows.

“How are Laura and the children?”

“Terrific, Abba. And you?”

“Couldn’t be better. Just received a lovely commission from some tourists staying at the King David.” He pointed at the brooch. Daniel picked it up gingerly, ran his index finger over the elaborate ridges and swirls. As fine and unique as fingerprints …

“It’s beautiful, Abba.”

His father shrugged off the compliment. “Wealthy couple from London. They saw something like it in the hotel gift shop, asked me what I would charge to make it up, and made their decision on the spot.”

Daniel smiled, placed his hand on the old man’s bony shoulder.

“I’m sure the decision was based on more than cost, Abba.”

His father looked away, embarrassed. Busied himself with refilling Daniel’s glass.

“Have you eaten? I have pita, hummus, and tomato salad in the refrigerator—”

“Thanks anyway, but I have a lunch appointment at The Star.”

“Business?”

“What else. Tell me, Abba, has anyone tried to sell you a pair of cheap earrings recently?”

“No. The American longhairs try from time to time, but nothing recently. Why?”

“It’s not important.”

They drank in silence for several moments. His father was the first to speak.

“You’re caught up in something ugly.” A half-whisper. “Extreme violence.”

Daniel stared at him, astonished.

“How did you know that?”

“It’s not difficult. Your face has always been a mirror. When you came into the shop you looked burdened. Mournful. As if a cloud had settled over your brow. The way you looked when you came home from war.”

Daniel had placed the brooch in his bad hand in order to drink; suddenly he felt his fingers close around it. The clumsy press of numbed flesh against frail filament. Stupidly destructive. Alarmed, he uncurled his fingers and placed the jewelry back upon the worktable. Looking at his watch, he stood.

“Have to be going.”

His father climbed down from the stool, took his son’s hands in his.

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Daniel.”

“No, no. I’m fine.”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of it. You’re the best.”

“Thank you, Abba.”

They walked to the door. Daniel pushed it open and let in the heat and noise of the plaza.

“Will you be praying with Mori Zadok tomorrow?” he asked.

“No,” said his father sheepishly. “I have an … engagement.”

“On Rehov Smolenskin?”

“Yes, yes.”

Daniel couldn’t suppress his grin. “Regards to Mrs. Moscowitz,” he said.

The old man’s eyebrows rose in exasperation.

“She’s a nice woman, Abba.”

“Very nice. The nicest. But not for me—that’s no sin, is it?” A hand went up and adjusted the beret. “Now she’s decided that the way to my heart is through my stomach—a Hadassah course in Yemenite cooking. Bean soup and kubaneh and kirshe every Shabbat. In addition to all her Ashkenazi food. I eat until I ache, for fear of hurting her feelings. Which is also why I haven’t been able to tell her we’re not a destined match.” He smiled balefully at Daniel. “Can the police help in such matters?”

“Afraid not, Abba.”

Shared laughter followed by an expectant silence.

“Shabbat shalom, Abba.”

“Shabbat shalom. It was good to see you.”

His father continued to hold his hands. Squeezing. Lingering. Suddenly, the old man brought the damaged hand to his lips, kissed the scar tissue, and let go.

“What you do is also an art,” he said. “You must remember that.”

On the way back up to The Star, he passed close to the shwarma stand, caught a glint of metal, and stopped: a long bladed knife, flashing like a silver minnow in the hands of the counterman. Assaulting the meat as it turned slowly on the spit, the lamb splitting open and crackling with surrender as layer after layer fell from the cone. An everyday thing; he’d seen it thousands of times without noticing.

The counterman was a lanky Moroccan Jew, face wet with perspiration, apron dotted with gravy. He finished preparing a sandwich for a customer, saw Daniel staring, shouted out that the shwarma was fresh, and offered to cut the detective a juicy one. Shaking his head no, Daniel resumed his climb.

The door to The Star was wide open, leading to a small, dim entry hall backed by a curtain of painted wooden beads. Parting the beads, he walked in.

Luncheon business was brisk, the cedar-paneled front room fan-cooled and filled with a comfortable mix of tourists and regulars, the robust chorus of laughter and conversation competing with a background tape of French and Italian pop songs.

The walls of the restaurant were hung generously with pictures and figurines, all rendered in a stellar motif. Over the bar was an oil portrait of a younger David Kohavi, darkly fierce in his general’s uniform. Just beneath the painting was a Star of David hewn from Jerusalem stone, at its center the word HaKohav—“the star”—and a dedication from the men of Kohavi’s battalion in raised bronze letters. The fire-burnished bronze of melted bullet shells.

Emil the Waiter was washing glasses behind the bar, stooped and gnarled in a billowing starched shirt and black bow tie. When he saw Daniel he came forward and escorted the detective toward an unmarked door at the rear of the restaurant. Just as the waiter’s hand settled on the doorknob, Kohavi himself emerged from the kitchen, dressed, despite the season, in dark suit and tie, a white-haired version of the man in the painting. Bellowing a greeting, he shook Daniel’s hand and motioned Emil back to the bar.

“I’ve set up a table for you. Five, right?”

“If they all show up.”

Kohavi pushed the door open. “One already has.”

The rear banquet room was almost empty. Papered in a burgundy print and lit by crystal lamps in sconces, it sported a raised wooden stage at the far end and accommodated two dozen tables, all but one of them bare and unoccupied. A tablecloth of burgundy linen had been spread across a round table next to the stage. At it sat a nondescript man reading

Ha’aretz. The sounds of footsteps caused him to glance up briefly from his paper before resuming his perusal.

“The fish is good today,” said Kohavi, stopping midway. “So are the filet steal and the shishlik. I’ll send the others back as they arrive.”

“One of them’s never been here,” said Daniel. “Elias Daoud.” He described Daoud physically.

“Daoud,” said Kohavi. “The Arab involved in breaking up the Number Two Gang?”

“That’s him.”

“Nice piece of work. I’ll see to it he doesn’t get lost.”

“Thanks.”

The restaurateur left and Daniel walked to the newspaper reader and sat opposite him, propping the envelope of photos against one leg of his chair.

“Shalom, Nahum.”

The paper lowered and the man gave a brief nod. “Dani.”

He was in his mid-fifties, bald and thin, with features that had been cast with an eye toward anonymity: the nose slightly aquiline but unmemorable, the mouth a tentative hyphen of intermediate width, the eyes twin beads of neutral brown, their lack of luster suggesting sleepiness. A forgettable face that had settled into repose—the serenity of one who’d vanquished ambition by retreating from it. He wore reading glasses, a cheap digital watch on one hairless forearm, and a pale-blue sport shirt with a faint windowpane check, its pocket sagging with ballpoint pens. A navy-blue windbreaker had been folded neatly over the chair next to him. Over it was slung a shoulder holster bearing a 9 mm Beretta.

“Mice in the Golan are committing suicide,” he said, tapping the newspaper and putting it down. “Jumping off cliffs, hundreds at a time. An instinctive reaction to overpopulation, according to the scientists.”

“Noble,” said Daniel.

“Not really,” said the thin man. “Without a sufficient supply of mice, the owls who prey on them will die.” He smiled. “If the owls complain to the U.N., we’ll be brought up on cruelty-to-animal charges.”

The door to the kitchen swung open and Emil the Waiter

came to the table with a platter of salads—hummus, tehina, two kinds of eggplant, pickled cucumbers, bitter Greek olives—and a stack of pita for dipping. He set down a plate next to each of them and bowed formally.

“Something to drink, Pakad Sharavi?”

“Soda water, please.”

“For you, Mefakeah Shmeltzer?”

“Another cola, no lime this time.”

When he was gone, Daniel said, “Speaking of the U.N., I was up at the Amelia Catherine this morning. It relates to our new one.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Shmeltzer, rolling an olive between his fingers. “Bloody cutting on Scopus.”

“Are tongues flapping that energetically?” asked Daniel.

The edge in his voice made Shmeltzer look up.

“Just the usual grapevine stuff from the uniforms. You called for an extra car to search the hillside—people wanted to know why. What’s the big deal?”

“No big deal. Laufer wants it kept quiet.”

“I want world peace and harmony,” said Shmeltzer. “Care to take bets on either?”

“What did you hear, exactly, Nahum?”

“Maniac homicide, maybe a whore, maybe another Gray Man. Does it match?”

Daniel shook his head. “Doubtful.” He related what he’d learned about the case. The account seemed to subdue Shmeltzer.

“Insane,” he said quietly. “We never used to see that kind of thing.”

Emil returned with the drinks and, eyeing the untouched food, asked if everything was all right.

“Everything’s fine,” said Daniel. Rising, he went to a sink across the room and used a copper cup to wash both hands. Upon returning, he sat down, said the blessing over bread, broke off a piece of pita, salted it, and ate it. Dipping another piece into the hummus, he put it in his mouth, the pungency of-cumin and garlic a pleasant shock upon his tongue. Emil nodded approvingly and turned on his heel.

“Get anything at the hospital?” asked Shmeltzer.

“Typical U.N. situation. Lip service and hostility.”

“What do you expect? They live like little princes, the assholes—duty-free Mercedes, villas, diplomatic immunity. What do they pay their pencil-pushers now—forty, fifty thousand a year?”

“Ninety.”

“Shekels or American dollars?”

“Dollars,” said Daniel. “Tax-free.”

“Shit,” said Shmeltzer. “Ten years’ worth of wages for you and me. And for doing nothing.” He dipped pita in eggplant salad, managed to frown while chewing. “I remember one guy I questioned in a burglary case. Nigerian, looked just like Idi Amin. Safari suit, ivory-tipped walking stick, and an engraved calling card with a title you could eat for lunch: Executive Regional Director of the Sinai Border Commission, supposed to count how many Egyptians we kill and vice versa. No matter that we gave it all back at Camp David and there’s no border anymore—this guy’s job was to administer it because the hard-liners at the U.N. never recognized Camp David. Far as they’re concerned it’s still a war zone.”