Thursday the Rabbi Walked Out (19 page)

“That’s right.”

“And it was half past eight by your watch?”

“M-hmm.”

He smiled as he rose to go. “And did you? Did you get it done?”

She smiled back at him. “I did. Sergeant.”

The sergeant read over what he had written. “Anything else you can tell me, Mrs. Mandell?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, anything that might have bearing on this business.”

She hesitated and then shook her head slowly.

A thought occurred to him. “The chief may want me to type this out and then have you sign it,” he said.

“Then I’ll sign it, of course.”

As Mandell showed him to the door, the sergeant said. “My sister, the one who’s taking your course, she likes it.”

“Glad to hear it.” said Mandell. “What did you say her name was?”

“Same as mine. Holcombe. Doris Holcombe.”

“Oh yes. Tall, blond girl, she’s a good student.”

“I’ll tell her you said so, Mr. Mandell.”

“You do that. Sergeant.”

The voice on the telephone was excited and impatient. “Rabbi Small? I’d like to see you about something. It’s terribly important. Do you have office hours?”

“If it’s terribly important, my office hours are twenty-four hours a day. Whom am I talking to?”

“You don’t know me. My name is Segal. It’s about – well, I’d rather not say over the phone. If you’d let me know when I can come –”

“I’m free for the evening. Mr. Segal. You can come over anytime. Right now, if you like.”

“I’m on my way. Rabbi.”

Twenty minutes later as they shook hands. Rabbi Small said. “I’ve heard about you, Mr. Segal.”

“Oh? You take a flyer in the stock market?” And as the rabbi smiled in obvious negation, “Oh, I know, the real estate man, Mr. Maltzman, spoke to you, he said he was going to, he hasn’t got back to me yet. Is it all right?”

“I’m sure we’d all like to have you join our temple. Mr. Segal, there’s no special ceremony necessary.”

“But the Bar Mitzvah –”

“You were Bar Mitzvah when you reached the age of thirteen, whether you had a ceremony or didn’t. It just means that by our law you are of age.” He went on to explain the significance of the ceremony and how it had developed to its present proportion. Segal listened, but with no great interest.

“Good,” he said when the rabbi finished. “You know after I agreed to do it. I got to thinking about it. I was prepared to go through with it, but it occurred to me that it might be kind of embarrassing. I’m certainly glad I don’t have to.”

“Is that what you wanted to see me about. Mr. Segal?”

“Oh no, nothing to do with your temple. It’s about this William Green who’s involved in the murder. Have you been following it at all?”

“I read the local papers, and I listen to the news broadcasts.”

“You see. Rabbi. I’m living in the hotel for the time being, and I take my meals there, too. You can’t help overhearing conversation, and that’s all they’re talking about, the general consensus seems to be that this William Green did it. I gather that he’s new in town and that he was just visiting with the man who was murdered, and there seems to be some suggestion that the young man is somewhat strange, that he has no friends and keeps to himself. I heard one man say that the proof he was guilty was that the police were keeping him under wraps. I guess there was some truth to that, because in one newspaper story, it said they were unable to contact him, and in the news broadcast this evening, it said he was unavailable for questioning by the reporter, then he went on to say he was the son of Hester Grimes, well-known nightclub and TV entertainer, that brought me up sharp. Rabbi, because I know Hester Grimes.”

“And you mean he isn’t her son?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I mean. I don’t know her that Well, What I’m trying to say – Look here. I get asked to serve on lots of committees for civic campaigns and charity drives, it isn’t that I’m more charitable or civic-minded than the next fellow, but while the rationale is that I’m supposed to have proven administrative and executive ability, the main reason is that it’s presumed I’ll make a large contribution to the cause and induce my wealthy friends to do the same, well, last year I was involved in a charity bazaar where we got a lot of show people to come – to do a benefit, and when they come, the members of the committee are expected to entertain them, take them to dinner, have them to the house, the works, because they’re not getting paid, you see, although some of them do, anyway, I drew this Hester Grimes. I arranged to have her picked up at the airport and brought to our hotel, then we had dinner, and after her stint at the bazaar, we had her come back to our place, she is a delightful, charming woman, and we sat around and talked, and she told us quite a bit about herself. Grimes is her stage name. Rabbi, her real name is Green.”

“Then that accounts for –”

“Her original name is Esther Green, she’s a Jewish girl. Rabbi.”

The rabbi pursed his lips and considered, he was silent for quite some time as Segal waited expectantly, then he said quietly, “What is it you would like me to do. Mr. Segal?”

“Well, Rabbi, here’s this young man, just a kid, eighteen or nineteen years old, who is new in town, has no friends, and his mother is somewhere in Europe and probably doesn’t know anything about this. Now I’m new here and I don’t know this town, but I know how administrators work, they don’t go looking for trouble, and when it comes, they try to get rid of it as soon as possible, the easiest way. I know if he’s charged, he’ll be represented by a lawyer, maybe one that the court appoints, but – look. I don’t care how fair and decent the policemen or the town fathers are. I know that a young immature boy will not be treated like a grown man, and a friendless stranger won’t get the same kind of treatment that a resident of the town with family and friends would get. I thought you, as rabbi of the community; and since it’s a Jewish boy; you could claim some standing. I mean, even if I got him a lawyer, he couldn’t just enter the case and say he’s representing William Green where he hadn’t asked for him. You see?”

“All right, all right. Mr. Segal. I’ll arrange to see William Green and let him know, well, that he’s not alone.”

Henry Maltzman drummed his fingers impatiently on the desktop. “If you want to sell your house, Joe, you’ll fix it up. Have it painted –”

“Painted?” Krasker was aghast. “That will cost me a thousand, fifteen hundred bucks, maybe more.”

“So what? I’ll get you another five thousand for it.”

“Will you give me that in writing?”

“Yeah, That’ll be the day. Look. Joe: get this through your head. Houses aren’t bought; they’re sold, and if you want to sell them, they’ve got to be attractive. I took a party out to see your place last week, and he pulls out a jackknife and starts jabbing it into the doorframe where the paint is all bubbled and chipped. I asked him what he was doing, and he said he wanted to see if the wood was rotted. Get the point? When a place is run down, the customer always thinks it’s worse than it is. Now, it doesn’t have to cost you all that much to spruce it up. It doesn’t have to be an A number one job, like if you were doing it for yourself. I got a couple of Greek boys that will slap some paint on it for cheap, and it will look real good.”

Krasker finally let himself be convinced. “All right, let them come down and give me an estimate.”

Maltzman leaned back in his chair and smiled his satisfaction. “I’ll talk to them personally and tell them I want them to give you the best price they can. I throw a lot of work their way, and they’re good boys. Now, how about Sunday? I’m depending on you to come through for me.”

Krasker squirmed uncomfortably in his seat and focused his eyes on the desktop. It was not easy to disagree with Henry Maltzman. “I don’t know, Henry,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. It seems a terrible thing to fire a rabbi, especially where he hasn’t done anything.”

“That’s why: because he hasn’t done anything.” Maltzman answered quickly. “I’ve proposed I don’t know how many ideas that would build up the temple, increase the membership, and instead of going along, or even remaining neutral, he’s actually bucked me, said he wouldn’t permit it, or that it was against religion or something, and practically every other president has had the same experience with him. Besides, we’re not firing him, we’re just voting not to re-hire him.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Cummon. Joe! I checked into this, you know. When he first came, he was given a one-year contract, like a trial, then he was given a five-year contract, then a few years back, he was offered a life contract, and he turned it down, he wanted it only for one year, to be renewed each year. Now what does that mean? It means he wants to be free to leave. So each time his contract expires, it’s like a new deal, like when a lease expires. I’m not suggesting we send him a letter saying he has to leave, or that we’re getting another rabbi. I just want for the secretary to send him a letter saying, ‘Dear Rabbi, the board voted eight to seven or ten to five or whatever it is against renewing your contract.’ Now that doesn’t mean he’s fired. It means he’s like a tenant at will, he could stay on for years maybe. It’s just that he won’t have a contract.”

“Would we pay him?”

“Oh sure. If he does the work, we’ve got to, we’d pay him the way we pay Stanley, the janitor, hedoesn’t have a contract.”

Krasker nodded. “All right, so he’s a tenant at will. But like you said, he could stay on for years. How does that help you? You want him out, and I don’t mind admitting, I’d rather have somebody else. But how does it help, if he’s still here even though he doesn’t have a contract?”

“It wouldn’t – much.” Maltzman admitted. “Although I think it would help some. Stands to reason, if the guy has no contract, he can be fired anytime. Okay, so say something happens where he interferes with what we on the board want to do, we can always say, ‘If you don’t like it. Rabbi, pick up your marbles and go somewhere else.’ But it’s my hunch it won’t happen that way. I’m banking that as soon as he gets the letter from the secretary; he’ll sit down and write a letter of resignation, that’s the way I figure it.” He smiled. “And we’ll send him a letter right back, accepting his resignation.”

“Well –”

“I’m counting on you. Joe.”

“Well, what happens if we take a vote and the rabbi wins?”

Maltzman shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing, we’re back at square one, the secretary writes him a letter telling him that the board voted to renew his contract, and –”

“No,” Krasker shook his head impatiently. “It’s bound to get back to the rabbi who voted against him, and that could be embarrassing if you have to come to him about your kid’s Bar Mitzvah, or daughter’s wedding.”

“Sure, I’ve thought of that. So we’ll vote by secret ballot, the votes go to the secretary to count. If the rabbi wins, he just announces it. If the rabbi loses, if there’s a little fuss, he announces the score, he doesn’t name names because you don’t sign your ballot.”

“Well how does it look?”

“It looks close. Joe. Damn close. I don’t mind admitting. I’m counting on you. I went over it yesterday with Bill Shaefer. You do his accounting, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve had his account for years.”

“Well, I went over each and every name, and with yours we have eight, which is just enough. Bill was sure you’d go along, but I said I wanted to hear it from you myself, personal. How about it, Joe? Can I count on you?”

The reference to Bill Shaefer, one of his bigger accounts, was not lost on Krasker. “Oh sure, Henry. It’s just that I wanted to know all the ins and outs. Know what I mean?”

“Oh, sure. I don’t blame you.” He reached for a file on his desk.

But Krasker was reluctant to leave. “What you said at the meeting Sunday, about this guy Jordon, was it true? About him being an anti-Semite?”

“It’s true all right.”

“Because I’ve got this account, a doctor, and we were talking about the murder, and he was saying what a nice guy Jordon was, and how he always made a big contribution to the Hospital Fund.”

“So what? He also probably liked dogs, and was kind to children. Hitler liked dogs, too, and music. But he didn’t like us. One thing has nothing to do with the other.”

“Well, I just thought you’d like to know.”

Anne Kaufman was a silversmith with a shop in town. It was just a hole-in-the-wall sort of place with a workroom in back, where she sat on a high stool at her bench making the rings, pendants, earrings, and cufflinks that she sold in the tiny more. When the doorbell jangled, she would dismount from her stool and come out front to wait on trade.

In spite of the difference in their ages – her children were already in high school – Anne and Molly Mandell were close friends. Molly had used her good offices at the bank to help her get the loan that had enabled her to set up the shop in the first place, and she was grateful, and since they were both downtown in the business district most of the day: they saw each other frequently; which was why Molly had offered to speak to her about Maltzman’s plan.

When Anne called to ask if she had made plans for lunch, it seemed like a good opportunity.

“No, Anne. I thought I’d get a sandwich at Creighton’s. What did you have in mind?”

“I thought maybe you could get a sandwich at the deli and bring it here, and I’d make some coffee on the hot plate.”

“Sounds good to me. See you around noon.”

When she arrived a few minutes after twelve, Mrs. Kaufman locked the door and hung up the Back at One O’clock sign in the window, she offered her visitor the old wicker arm chair in which she occasionally relaxed, while she herself perched on her work stool, she poured coffee, and then as Molly unwrapped her sandwich, she said. “Did you know this Ellsworth Jordon? The paper said he was a director in the bank.”

“Oh; I knew him all right.” Molly said grimly. “He’d come in almost every day. Not because he was a director, but because he had nothing else to do, the other directors, you don’t see them from one month to the next.”

“Was he – you know – anti-Semitic?”