Therapy (32 page)

Issa Qumdis had cleared his eyes, now, was staring at the melee. Albin Larsen stood behind him, stunned, as he handed Issa Qumdis a handkerchief and led him toward the back of the store.

By the time Milo reached the fracas, another gray-hair had joined in and Pea Coat had been pounded to the ground. The woman who’d fought for the paint gun had finally gotten hold of it. She aimed downward, shot a torrent of blood at Pea Coat but he kicked her and her aim shifted and she hit her companion instead, reddening his jeans.

“Shit!” he cried out. A flush captured his face. He began kicking viciously at Pea Coat’s prone body.

Milo yanked him away. Pea Coat struggled to his feet, took a roundhouse swing at Granny Glasses, missed, and lost his balance again. Issa Qumdis and Larsen had slipped into the unisex bathroom.

The woman aimed the paint gun again, but Milo pressed down on her arm and the weapon dribbled onto the floor.

“Who’re you?” she exclaimed.

A couple of pierced-and-brandeds stood.

I rushed over just as someone shouted, “Get the fascist!” and the crowd erupted into shouts and curses.

Milo grabbed Pea Coat’s sleeve and dragged him toward the back door.

The young men marched forward and got within arm’s length of Milo. Milo stopped the bigger one with a quick, hard squeeze of bare biceps. The man’s eyes fluttered.

Milo said, “It’s under control,
compadres
. Go away.”

No badge-flash. His tone froze them.

I got the rear door open, and Milo shoved Pea Coat out into the briny, night air.

As the door swung shut slowly, I looked back. Most of the onlookers had remained in their seats.

A few feet behind the folding chairs, half-concealed by bookshelves—tucked in his own vantage point—stood the tall, thin black man in the good gray suit and the charcoal shirt.

*

Behind the store was a service alley, blackened by night. Milo propelled Pea Coat westward, walking fast, shoving the man when he faltered. Pea Coat began cursing and struggling, and Milo did something to his shoulder blade that made him squeal.

“Let go of me, you commie bastard!”

“Shut up,” said Milo.

“You—”

“I’m the police, idiot.”

Pea Coat tried to stop short. Milo kicked at his heel, and the man jerked forward involuntarily.

“Police . . .
state,
” he said. His voice was thick and raspy, words punching out between shallow breaths. “So you’re a fascist, not a commie.”

“Another moron heard from.” Milo spotted a parked car a few yards up, shoved Pea Coat to it, pushed him up against the trunk. Jerking one of the man’s arms behind his back, he got his cuffs free, snapped them around the man’s wrist, twisted the other arm, and completed the task.

Since Pea Coat had aimed his paint gun till now, no more than five minutes had passed.

The man said, “Antisemitic—”

“Keep your mouth shut and your head down.”

Milo frisked him thoroughly, came up with a wallet and a key ring.

The man said, “I know exactly how much is in there, so if you’re—”

Milo’s finger landed atop Pea Coat’s shoulder blade. The memory of the first touch made the man break off midsentence.

I could hear cars rumble by on Broadway; but for that, the night was still.

Milo inspected the wallet. “There’s twenty bucks in here. You know different?”

Silence.

Then: “No.”

“Twenty whole dollars,” said Milo. “Preparing for a big night on the town, smart guy?”

“He’s Hitler,” said the man. “That pig. He lies, he’s Hitler—”

Milo ignored him and read his driver’s license. “Elliot Simons . . . what’s this, here . . . Cedars-Sinai ID card—RN . . . you’re a nurse?”

“Surgical nurse,” said Elliot Simons.

“Great for you,” said Milo. “You’re a little out of your element, Mr. Simons.”

“He’s Hitler, he lies, claims to be—”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Milo.

“Stop cutting me off, let me finish,” said Simons. “He claims to be—”

“He’s a fraud,” Milo cut in. “Wrote a book, claiming to be a Palestinian refugee from Jerusalem, but he was born in Italy, is half-English, half-Syrian. There was an exposé on it in one of the Jewish magazines.”

I stared at my friend. So did Elliot Simons.

He kept quiet as Milo thumbed through his credit cards. Then: “You’ve been watching him? Who sent you?”

“Who do you think?” said Milo.

“The government? They finally got smart and put him under surveillance? About time, the man’s a traitor, September 11 happens, and the government still can’t get it right. How many outrages does it take to get you people on the ball?”

“You see Issa Qumdis as a terrorist.”

“You heard him.”

Simons had a workingman’s face, an ordinary face. Except for his eyes. They blazed with something well beyond anger.

He rattled his cuffs. “Let me out of these.”

“How long have you been stalking him?” said Milo.

“I haven’t stalked anyone,” said Simons. “I read the papers, found out he was spreading his lies, and decided to do something about it. I’m not apologizing for anything, you want to arrest me, go ahead. I’ll tell the whole story.”

“Which is?”

“The guy’s Hitler with a fancy Ivy League degree.” Simons’s eyes heated further. “My parents were in Auschwitz. I’m not going to stand by and let some fucking Nazi spread big lies.”

Milo pointed to the red splotch across the front of the pea coat. “That really pig’s blood?”

Simons grinned.

“Where’d you get it?” said Milo.

“East L.A.,” said Simons. “One of the slaughterhouses. I took some heparin from work and mixed it in. It’s an anticoagulant, I wanted to make sure it was nice and wet.”

“Fancy work. Being a surgical nurse and all.”

“I’m the best,” said Simons. “Could’ve been a doctor but couldn’t afford to go to med school. My dad was always sick, couldn’t work, because of what they did to him in the camp. I’m not whining, I do fine. Put four kids through Ivy League colleges. I’m the best. You don’t believe me, check me out, the doctors love me. They ask for me because I’m the best.”

“You know Dr. Richard Silverman?”

Simons nodded hard and fast. “I know him, he knows me. Magician with a knife—how do
you
know him?”

“I know of him,” said Milo.

“Yeah, well,” said Simons. “You call and ask Dr. Silverman about Elliot Simons. He knows I’m no nut; when it comes to getting the job done I’m totally focused.”

“Tonight you were focused on ruining Issa Qumdis’s clothes.”

“If only I had a real gun—”

“Don’t say more, sir,” said Milo. “For your sake, I don’t want to hear any threats.”

” ‘Sir’,”
said Simons. “All of a sudden you’re turning official?” Another shake of his cuffs. “So what now?”

“Where’d your kids go to school?”

“Three at Columbia, one at Yale. Fuck them,” said Simons, spraying spittle. “Not my kids.
Them,
the Nazis and those commies back there who believe all that shit. Fifty years ago they wanted to exterminate us, we survived and thrived and said, ‘Fuck you, we’re smarter than you.’ So
fuck
them. You want to arrest me for standing up for my people, fine. I’ll get a lawyer, I’ll file suit against the Nazi bastard who kicked me back there and his douche bag Nazi bitch. Then I’ll sue that Arab scum and that Swedish prick who’s probably fucking him in the ass and throw you in, too.”

Breathing hard again.

Milo said, “Why’d you single out Issa Qumdis?”

“He’s a Nazi, and he’s here.”

“Any other reason?”

“That’s not reason enough for you?” said Simons. Muttering,
“Goyische kopf.”

“Yeah, I’m a stupid goy,” said Milo. “Meanwhile, it’s you with blood all over your clothes and your hands in cuffs and all you accomplished back there was to solidify that guy’s support.”

“Bullshit,” said Simons. “They came in as Jew-haters, they’ll go out as Jew-haters, but at least they know we’re not going to stand by while they try to herd us into the ovens.”

He peered at Milo. “You’re not Jewish, are you?”

“ ‘Fraid not.”

“What, German?”

“Irish.”

“Irish,” said Simons, as if he found that baffling. To me: “You Jewish?”

I shook my head.

Back to Milo: “So, what, cops are reading
The Jewish Beacon
?”

“I pick up stuff, here and there.”

Simons smiled knowingly. “Okay, so you
are
on a serious surveillance. About time.”

“The guy who introduced Issa Qumdis,” said Milo. “What about him?”

“What
about
him?”

“What should I know about him?”

“Fucking
Swede,
” said Simons. “Another fucking
professor
—my kids had professors at college, I could tell you stories—”

“Let’s keep it to Professor Larsen, specifically,” said Milo. “What should I know about him?”

“He’s with that Nazi, so
he’s
probably a Nazi—did you know that the Swedes
claimed
to be neutral during the war, but meanwhile they were doing business with the Nazis? SS soldiers were fucking the Swedish women right and left, having orgies, getting the Swedish women pregnant? Probably half of the supposed Swedes are German. Maybe he’s one of them. Larsen. Did you hear what he said in there? I should’ve shot him, too.”

“Stop,” said Milo. “You keep talking like that, I’ve got to take you in.”

Simons stared at him. “You’re not going to?”

A car drove up the alley, slowed to pass us, continued to Sixth, and turned left.

Milo remained silent.

“What?” said Simons. “What’s the deal here?”

“You drive here in your own car?”

“This is L.A., what do you think?”

“Where are you parked?”

“Around the corner.”

“Which corner?”

“Sixth,” said Simons. “What, you’re going to
impound
me?”

“What kind of car?” said Milo.

“Toyota,” said Simons. “I’m a nurse, not a goddamn doctor.”

*

Keeping the cuffs on, we walked him to his car. Two vehicles in front of my Seville. Milo’s unmarked was across the street.

“Here’s the deal,” said Milo. “You drive straight home, don’t pass Go, don’t come back here. Ever. Stay away, and we call it a lesson.”

“What’s the lesson?” said Simons.

“That it’s smart to listen to me.”

“What’s special about you?”

“I’m a dumb
goy
who knows the score.” Milo took hold of Simons’s collar, bunched it up around the man’s thick neck. Simons’s eyes bugged.

He said, “You’re—”

“I’m doing you a favor, idiot. A big one. Don’t test my good nature.”

Simons stared back at him. “You’re choking me.”

Milo released a millimeter of fabric. “Big favor,” he repeated. “Of course, if you prefer, I can arrest you, get you plenty of publicity. Some people will consider you a hero, but I don’t think the doctors at Cedars are going to keep asking for you when they find out about your lack of judgment.”

“They’ll ask,” said Simons. “I’m the—”

“You’re stupid,” said Milo. “You got your clothes full of pig’s blood and accomplished zero.”

“Those people—”

“Hate your guts and always will, but they’re a fringe minority. You want to accomplish something, volunteer at the Holocaust Center, take high school kids on tour. Don’t waste your time on those idiots.” He shrugged. “That’s only my opinion. You disagree, I’ll feed your martyrdom fantasies and stick you in a nice little jail cell with some other guy who it’s a sure bet didn’t get an A in ethnic sensitivity.”

Simons chewed his lip. “Life is short. I want to stand for something.”

“That’s the point,” said Milo. “Survival’s the best damn revenge.”

“Who said so?”

“I did.”

Simons finally calmed down, and Milo uncuffed him. He looked down at his bloody pea coat, as if noticing the stain for the first time, plucked at a clean bit of lapel. “This thing’s finished, I can’t bring it home to my wife.”

“Good point,” said Milo. “Get the hell outta here.” He returned Simons’s wallet and keys and put him in his Toyota. Simons drove off quickly, sped up to Broadway, turned right without a signal.

“That,” said Milo, “was fun.” He checked out his own clothing.

“Clean,” I said. “I already looked.”

He walked me to the Seville. Just as we got there, a voice from behind, mellow, cultured, just loud enough to be audible, said, “Gentlemen? Police gentlemen?”

*

The tall black man in the gray suit stood on the sidewalk, maybe ten feet away. Hands laced in front. Smiling warmly. Working hard at nonthreatening.

“What?” said Milo, hand trailing down toward his gun.

“Might I talk to you gentlemen, please? About one of the people in there?”

“Who?”

“Albin Larsen,” said the man.

“What about him?”

The man talked through his smile. “May we talk somewhere in private?”

“Why?” said Milo.

“The things I have to say, sir. They are not . . . nice. This is not a nice man.”

CHAPTER

34

M
ilo said, “Come forward very slowly, keeping your hands clear. Good, now show me some identification.”

The man complied, drew out a shiny black billfold, removed a business card, and held it out. Milo read it, showed it to me.

Heavy stock, white paper, engraved beautifully.

Protais BumayaSpecial Envoy,Republic of RwandaWest Coast Consulate125 Montgomery Street, Suite 840San Francisco, CA 94104

“Acceptable, sir?” said Bumaya.

“For the time being.”

“Thank you, sir. Might I have your name?”

“Sturgis.”

Perhaps Bumaya was expecting a warmer introduction, because his smile finally faded. “There’s a place—a tavern up the block. Might we convene there?”

“Yeah,” said Milo. “Let’s convene.”

*

The “tavern” was on the opposite side of Broadway, between Fourth and Fifth, a windowless dive named the Seabreeze, with wishfully Tudor trim and a rough, salt-ravaged door that had once passed for English oak. Remnant of the Santa Monica that had existed between the two population waves that built the beachside city: stodgy Midwestern burghers streaming westward for warmth at the turn of the twentieth century, and, seventy years later, left-leaning social activists taking advantage of the best rent control in California.

In between there’d been the kind of corruption you get when you mix tourists, hustlers, balmy weather, the ocean, but Santa Monica remained a place molded by self-righteousness.

Milo eyed the Seabreeze’s unfriendly facade. “You been here before?”

Bumaya shook his head. “The proximity seemed advantageous.”

Milo shoved at the door, and we entered. Long, low, dim room, three crude booths to the left, a wooden bar refinished in glossy acrylic to the right. Eight serious drinkers, gray-haired and gray-faced, bellied up against the vinyl cushion, facing a bartender who looked as if he sampled the wares at regular intervals. Yeast and hops and body odor filled air humid enough for growing ferns. Nine stares as we entered. Frankie Valli on the jukebox let us know we were too good to be true.

We took the farthest booth. The bartender ignored us. Finally, one of the drinkers came over. Paunchy guy in a green polo shirt and gray pants. A little chrome change machine hanging from his belt said he was official.

He looked at Bumaya, scowled. “What’ll it be?”

Milo ordered Scotch, and I said, “Me, too.”

Protais Bumaya said, “I would like a Boodles and tonic, please.”

“We got Gilbeys.”

“That will be fine.”

Green Shirt smirked. “It better be.”

Bumaya watched him waddle off, and said, “Apparently, I have offended someone.”

“They probably don’t like tall, dark strangers,” said Milo.

“Black people?”

“Maybe that, too.”

Bumaya smiled. “I had heard this was a progressive city.”

“Life’s full of surprises,” said Milo. “So, what can I do for you, Mr. Bumaya?”

Bumaya started to answer, stopped himself as the drinks arrived. “Thank you, sir,” he told Green Shirt.

“Anything else?”

“If you’ve got some salted peanuts,” said Milo. “If not, just a little peace and quiet, friend.”

Green Shirt glared at him.

Milo downed his Scotch. “And another of these, too.”

Green Shirt took Milo’s shot glass, crossed over to the bar, brought back a refill and a bowl of nubby pretzels. “These salty enough?”

Milo ate a pretzel and grunted. “Gonna earn my stroke honestly.”

“Huh?”

Milo flashed his wolf’s grin. Green Shirt blinked. Backed away. When he’d reclaimed his stool, Milo gulped another pretzel, said, “Yeah, it’s a real progressive city.”

Protais Bumaya sat there, trying not to show that he was studying us. In the miserly light his skin was the color of a Damson plum. Wide-set almond eyes moved very little. His hands were huge, but his wrists were spindly. Even taller than Milo, six-four or -five. But high-waisted; he sat low in the booth, gave a strangely boyish impression.

The three of us drank for a while without talking. Frankie Valli gave way to Dusty Springfield only wanting to be with us. Bumaya seemed to enjoy his gin and T.

“So,” said Milo, “what’s with Albin Larsen?”

“A progressive man, Lieutenant Sturgis.”

“You know different.”

“You were at the bookstore observing him,” said Bumaya.

“Who says it was him we were observing?”

“Who, then?” said Bumaya. “George Issa Qumdis gives political speeches all the time. He is a public man. What could a policeman learn from watching him? And that fellow in the Navy jacket. Impulsive, but not a serious criminal.”

“That’s your diagnosis, huh?”

“He sprays paint,” said Bumaya, dismissively. “You questioned and released him. You are a detective, no?”

Milo reread Bumaya’s business card. “Special Envoy. If I call this number and ask about you, what are they going to tell me?”

“At this hour, sir, you will get a recorded message instructing you to call during regular business hours. Should you call during business hours, you will encounter another recorded message replete with many choices. Should you make the correct choice, you will eventually find yourself talking to a charming woman named Lucy who is the secretary to Mr. Lloyd MacKenzie, Esquire, an articulate, charming San Francisco attorney who serves as de facto West Coast Consul for my country, the Republic of Rwanda. Mr. MacKenzie, in turn, will inform you that I am a legitimate representative of my country.”

Bumaya flashed teeth. “Should you choose to avoid all that, you may simply believe me.”

Milo drained his second Scotch. Strong, abrasive stuff; I was working at getting the first shot down.

“Special envoy,” he repeated. “You a cop?”

“Not currently.”

“But?”

“I have done police work.”

“Then cut the bullshit and tell me what you want.”

Bumaya’s eyes glinted. He wrapped long, manicured fingers around his glass, poked a finger into the drink, pushed the lime wedge around. “I wish for Albin Larsen to get what he deserves.”

“Which is?”

“Punishment.” Bumaya reached into an inner pocket and produced his shiny black billfold. Flipping it open, he fingered what appeared to be a stitched seam. The stitching parted, exposing a slit. Reaching into the slit, he drew out a tiny white envelope.

Gazing across the table, Bumaya flicked the edge of the envelope with a shiny fingernail. “How familiar are you with the genocide that ravaged my country in 1994?”

“I know that lots of people died and that the world stood by and watched,” said Milo.

“Nearly a million people,” said Bumaya. “The most frequently quoted figure is eight hundred thousand, but I believe that to be an underestimate. Revisionists who wish to minimize the horror claim only three hundred thousand were butchered.”

“Only,” said Milo.

Bumaya nodded. “My belief, backed up by observation and knowledge of specifics, is that when deaths from severe injuries are factored in the final number will be closer to one million, or perhaps even more.”

“What does any of that have to do with Albin Larsen?”

“Larsen was in my country during the genocide, working for the United Nations in Kigali, our capital, during the worst of the atrocities. Consulting. A human rights consultant.”

“What did that mean, in the context of your country?”

“Whatever Larsen wished it to mean. The United Nations spends billions of dollars paying the salaries of people who do exactly as they please.”

“Not a fan of world bodies, Mr. Bumaya?”

“The United Nations did nothing to stop the genocide in my country. On the contrary, certain individuals on the U.N. payroll played active and passive roles in the mass murders. International bodies have always been good at condemning tragedy after the fact, but staggeringly useless at preventing it.”

Bumaya raised his glass and took a long, hard swallow. The small white envelope remained wedged between the fingers of his free hand.

“You’re saying Larsen was involved in the genocide?” said Milo. “Are we talking active or passive?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Humor me, sir.”

“I do not know, Detective Sturgis,” said Bumaya. “Yet.” He glanced at the bar.

“Want another?”

“I do but I will decline.” Bumaya flicked the white envelope again. “In January of 2002, a man named Laurent Nzabakaza was arrested for complicity in the Rwandan genocide. Prior to that, Nzabakaza had served as administrator of a prison on the outskirts of Kigali. Most of the prisoner were Hutus. When the violence began, Nzabakaza unlocked their cells, armed them with spears and machetes and clubs and whatever firearms he could find, and pointed them at Tutsi homes. It was a family outing; Nzabakaza’s wife and teenage sons participated, cheering the murderers on as they raped and hacked. Before all that finally came to light and Nzabakaza was arrested in Geneva, he found himself a new job. Working as an investigator for the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda. Albin Larsen helped him obtain that position. Larsen has done the same for other individuals, several of whom have subsequently been identified as genocide suspects.”

“The bad guys are working for the court that’s supposed to be trying them.”

“Imagine Goering or Goebbels being paid by the Munich tribunal.”

“Is Larsen some sort of bigwig among the Hutus?”

“Larsen was—is an opportunist. His credentials are impeccable. Doctorate in psychology, a professor both in Sweden and the United States. He has been on the U.N. payroll and that of several humanitarian organizations for over two decades.”

“Human rights expert,” I said.

Bumaya opened the little white envelope and removed a small color photo that he laid in the middle of the table.

Two smiling boys in white shirts and plaid school ties. Gleaming ebony skin, clear eyes, cropped hair, white teeth. One slightly older than the other; I guessed nine and eleven.

“These lads,” said Bumaya, “are Joshua and Samuel Bangwa. At the time this picture was taken they were eight and ten. Joshua was an excellent student who loved science and Samuel, the older boy, was an excellent athlete. Their parents were Seventh Day Adventist elders who taught at a church school in the village of Butare. Shortly after Kigali fell to the Hutu insurgents, Butare was targeted because it had been a primarily Tutsi town. Both of the boys’ parents were hacked to death by Laurent Nzabakaza’s troops. Their mother was repeatedly raped, pre- and postmortem. Joshua and Samuel, hidden in a closet and watching through a crack in the door, escaped and were eventually spirited out of Rwanda by an Adventist minister. As crucial witnesses against Nzabakaza, they were taken to Lagos, Nigeria, and put up at a U.N. boarding school that catered to diplomats’ children and the offspring of Nigerian government officials. Two weeks after Laurent Nzabakaza was apprehended in Switzerland, the boys failed to show up for breakfast. A search of their room found them in their beds. Their throats had been cut ear to ear. A single stroke of the razor for each child, no wasted energy.”