Zaddik, page 13
“No more.”
“Okay. Look. You gotta understand. There’s a lotta pressure on this case.”
“Pressure from where?”
“From the Jews. Well, you should know. A Jew gets killed, a religious Jew, and the fucking bells go off all over town. Lotta rabbis calling up the mayor, talking about Nazis. And a Jew in the diamond district is ten times worse. Lotta money floating around there. Lotta money for the mayor come reelection, you know? So my chief, who’s a good guy, he’s got his balls in an uproar. And therefore my balls are in an uproar, too. So if you know anything you should tell me, tell me.”
“I don’t know anything about this,” said Taylor, who didn’t think that Hill, sitting on his deck in Eastchester with a beer in his hand, looked like his balls, or anything else, were in the least bit aroused. “That’s why I’m talking to you. And anything I do find out, Frank, well, of course, you got it.”
“Okay. So here’s what we got.”
Hill closed his eyes, and Taylor waited. He knew Hill was both feeling him out, seeing if he could trust him, and playing with him. I know you, Frank, Taylor thought. I’ve seen you, like the Satmarer rebbe saw me. Better. I know what your lawn is about. And I know why you offered me that beer. It’s all the big fuck you, isn’t it, Frank? The cop’s fuck you to the whole world, including yourself. And you’re lazy, aren’t you, Frank? That’s why your house looks like shit. It’s not the money. You’re lazy, you’re getting fat, and pretty soon you’re going to be a lousy excuse for a cop, if you’re not one already.
Have another beer, my man, thought Taylor. That first one wants company.
“I think I’ll have another brew,” said Hill, standing up. “Want anything to eat, a doughnut?”
“No, thanks, Frank,” said Taylor.
Hill disappeared into the kitchen, came out with a new beer, and sat back down. “Okay,” he began. “Gottleib and Stein died of exsanguination after having their throats cut. The killer didn’t do anything to Stein except for cutting her throat. One cut. Ear to ear. Got both carotids. Big fucking butcher’s knife. The guy left it.
“Gottleib was strung up by his ankles. He was gutted, man. Real fucking ugly.”
“Cult killing?” asked Taylor.
“I don’t know. No messages written in blood, anyway.”
“I’d like to look at photos if you don’t mind.”
“Why should I mind? Stop by the office Monday, I’ll show you the whole fucking file.”
“Prints?”
“Lots of prints, no makes. A set we figure belongs to the killer. We sent them out—FBI, Interpol, Israel, South Africa, the IDSO—that’s the International Diamond Security Organization. They’re a bunch of tough monkeys. South Africans. Met one once. Big guy, big boozer. All he could talk about was niggers. Hated them like crazy. Forget what he called them. Funny word. Anyway, nobody’s got nothing.
“So, anyway, there were diamonds all over the place. Our killer emptied the safe and threw the diamonds around. No way to tell what was taken.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause there’s no records, no inventory to match them up against. These fucking people. They keep everything in their heads, and everything’s a big fucking secret with them.”
“So what happened to Gottleib’s diamonds? You holding them?”
“What for? What are they evidence of? No, we took them over to the Diamond Club. A guy named Fred Feldman is the boss. So what happens is guys start showing up at the club with these scraps of paper saying that such-and-such a diamond is theirs, or they loaned Gottleib so many diamonds, and then they pick over the diamonds and take them home. Then we talk to them and they don’t know nothing.”
“Is Feldman being cooperative?”
“Sure, whatever the fuck good that does. The diamonds nobody claims, he’s gonna sell for Gottleib’s daughter. And make a good profit for himself, I’m sure.
“The whole fucking business is crazy. I mean, there’s thousands of bucks’ worth of diamonds, maybe hundreds of thousands, and these guys are just picking them up and taking them home. If I wasn’t just a dumb cop, I’d have liberated a few myself. But I’m too stupid, just a dumb mick.”
Hill fell silent for a moment, presumably mourning his missed chance. Taylor waited.
“There was about fifteen thousand cash; five in his office safe, ten in his vault,” Hill continued. “That went to the Diamond Club, too, and there’s more guys with slips of paper saying Gottleib owed them money. And there’s also guys saying they owed Gottleib money, and they want to make sure the money gets to his family.
“So we talk to all these guys, and they all say Gottleib was a fucking saint, and probably the Nazis killed him. Try talking to them about their business, it’s like asking them how often they fuck their wives. If I was the IRS, I’d arrest them all on general principles. They’re all so fucking rich, even though they don’t look it, and there’s no way they pay taxes.”
“What about Gottleib’s family?”
“Just the one daughter and some grandchildren. I don’t think the daughter’s been out of Brooklyn in her life, she don’t know nothing about her daddy’s business. So the daughter, who don’t speak English too good even though she was born here, she says the same thing: Papa was a saint, and the Nazis killed him. What is it with this Nazi business? You’d think they’re all still living in Germany, they talk about Nazis so much.”
“I don’t know,” said Taylor. “I guess they made a strong impression. The Nazis.” Taylor, his patience running out, decided to shake Hill up a little bit. “You have any luck running down that woman in Queens, the one Gottleib’s partner was seeing the day of the murder?” Taylor asked.
Hill made a pained face. “I thought you said you didn’t know anything about this.”
“I don’t. But I did talk to Gottleib’s partner.”
“Schumach. Tell me about it.”
“You know, the woman he saw in Queens. He told me he saw her again.”
“When?”
“Last Wednesday. Going into his building.”
“His office building?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck.”
“So, do you have anything on her?” Taylor asked.
“You know,” said Hill, “you should have told me this up front. I told you to tell me if you knew anything, and I didn’t mean when you fucking felt like it. I don’t like being jerked around. What else you know?”
“Nothing, Frank. Really.”
“Well, it makes it harder. You were a cop. You should understand. No games, okay?”
“No games.”
“Because, like I said, there’s pressure on this one, and it’s not going too good. Okay. The guy who owns the house is Korean. Owns a bunch of houses in Flushing, even though he can barely speak English. Fucking Koreans. Yellow Jews, you know? No offense. They make their money in those fruit stores, and then they get into real estate. Anyway, this guy don’t know who the hell he rented to, did it all over the phone, dropped the keys off in the mailbox, all he wants to know is where’s his money at. He got stiffed.”
“Did he talk to a man or a woman?” asked Taylor.
“A man.”
Taylor and Hill were quiet, both adding one and one and getting two. Schumach sees a woman in the house, but the landlord spoke to a man. Was the man he spoke to the killer?
“You think the woman was a dodge to get Schumach out of the office?” Taylor spoke what they were both thinking.
“I don’t know,” said Hill. “I want to talk to your friend Schumach, ream him out, the fuckhead. Find out what else he didn’t tell me.”
“So what do you think, Frank?” asked Taylor, feeling Hill slipping away, feeling him closing down, lumping Taylor with the enemy. “A nut case? A robbery?”
“I don’t know. Could be a religious thing. Gottleib was a Satmarer, and the Lubavitchers and Satmarers are always beating the crap out of each other. Just a few months ago, this Lubavitcher rabbi got beat up, got his clothes torn off and his beard shaved off because he was giving private Bible lessons to a Satmarer kid, teaching him stuff the Satmarers aren’t supposed to know, I guess, whatever the fuck that might be.”
“I didn’t see anything about that in the papers,” said Taylor.
“No, the rabbi refused to press charges. I think he was a fag. Probably diddling the kid. Anyway,” said Hill, “isn’t the Satmarer rabbi’s daughter supposed to marry the big Lubavitcher rabbi’s kid?”
“That’s off.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“I don’t think the Lubavitchers are involved,” said Taylor, hoping that was true.
“Fucking Hasids. They’re so fucking rich and so fucking weird. You’re Jewish, Taylor. Why do they dress like that?”
“One of them once told me it was like a safety belt,” Taylor said. “He said, ‘How can I get in trouble dressed like this? How can I go places I shouldn’t go, see people I shouldn’t see? How can I sin?’ ”
“Makes sense,” Hill said.
“Yup,” said Taylor.
“What more can I tell you?” Hill asked, sounding bored. “You gonna keep talking to people?”
“I guess. Probably. Maybe I can find Schumach’s blond bombshell.”
“A bombshell?”
“From the way he described her, yeah.”
“Yeah. Like he would know. You know, they’re all the time going to whores, the Hasids.”
“That true?”
“Absolutely. I guess their wives won’t go down on them. I guess that makes my wife Jewish, right?”
Taylor laughed politely, but he hated it when men joked about their wives. Hill’s Jew jokes were starting to piss him off, too, although when he was a cop he heard them all the time and they didn’t bother him at all.
“My wife’s Protestant. The worst. Catholic girls give the best blow jobs,” Hill continued. “They think if they give blow jobs instead of fucking, they stay virgins. Well, if you find her, Taylor, the blonde, you come straight to me, right?”
“Right.”
“Tell me, is it true they only fuck on Saturdays?”
“The Hasids or Catholic girls?”
“The Hasids.”
“No, it’s not true,” said Taylor.
“A Jewish guy told me that.”
“Well, it’s bullshit.”
“I figured that. Jesus, I see more kids and pregnant girls in Williamsburg than I do in Harlem. How could they make so many babies if they only fuck on Saturday?”
“You got it.”
“I mean, all those kids, they must fuck like rabbits. You know, I also heard they fuck through holes in the sheets. They never get naked in bed. Is that true?”
“Some do, some don’t.”
“You speak the language, Taylor?”
“No.”
Hill belched. “Get you another cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks, Frank. I guess I’ll be going.”
“Okay,” said Hill, standing up with Taylor. “Remember what I said. Anything you find out, you come to me.”
“And you’ll keep in touch with me, right, Frank?”
“Sure,” said Hill, who had no intention of doing any such thing.
Hill led Taylor back through the house and out the front door. Taylor was in his car, driving back to the city, before he realized that he had never even given a thought to telling Hill about the Satmarer rebbe’s diamond. Well, thought Taylor, fuck Hill. Still, Taylor had not made a conscious decision to keep the diamond from the detective. It was as if the rebbe had given Taylor a posthypnotic suggestion to forget about it when he spoke with the police. And perhaps, thought Taylor, he had.
Chapter 21 West Fifty-ninth Street, Manhattan
Saturday, September 11
ARIEL LEVIN WASN’T SURE what was making him hotter, Mary Rubel riding his penis—squeezing it with her vagina and then letting it go—or the sight of her heavy breasts bouncing up and down as she leaned over him, her hands pinning his wrists to the bed. Whichever, he knew he was going to come if he didn’t do something fast. So he closed his eyes and tried to think about the Mets’ infield. Murray at first, Randolph at second, Schofield at short, Magadan at third, and catching…
Levin came.
This was the fourth time he had had sex with Rubel—that first night, last night, this morning in his office, and now—and he had never lasted more than a few minutes. This woman, he thought, was like a man. No kissing. No foreplay. Just jump on top and hump away. Levin had never had a woman who was so obviously hot for him, and he wished he could slow things down, show her how much he knew, show her how he could please her. He had been taught certain tricks by the whores in Tel Aviv. He knew he could entrance her, make her yearn for him, but she wasn’t giving him the chance.
Rubel rolled off him. “I think we have a little problem, Ariel,” she said. “Just stay there. Don’t move. I’ll get a washcloth.”
Levin looked down. Blood. Blood all over his belly, his penis, his balls, his thighs. Shit. The woman was having her period.
Levin felt a twinge of revulsion and then a spasm of anger. Why hadn’t she told him? Making love to a woman who was bleeding was something he simply didn’t do. It was disgusting.
But how could he complain, how could he stay angry? She was a shiksa. What did she know? The goyim fucked like that all the time. They were pigs. Besides, not only was she one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, but maybe she was going to be able to solve his problem: what to do with Gottleib’s diamond.
This morning he had taken her to his office and shown her the stone. He had seen her look at him with a new respect, almost awe. And then she had gotten down on her knees, unzipped his fly, and given him a blow job right there in front of the open safe.
It had been the best he had ever had. It had been like sticking his cock in a washing machine built just for him. Afterward she had asked him what he was going to do with the diamond, and he had boasted that he had several buyers lined up, buyers who were bidding against each other. He’d told her that he was going to sell it for a million dollars, and he’d watched her brown, almond-shaped eyes grow wide. Slavic eyes, he had thought. Her ancestors had been raped by Mongols. Now it’s my Jewish cock.
And then, to his delight, she had told him that she had an uncle, a very wealthy man, who lived now in Rome and who happened to be visiting New York. He had told her that he had brought a great deal of money with him in order to invest in diamonds. Would Levin like her to call him?
Well, what did she mean by a lot of money? Levin had asked her. Enough, she’d said. Then yes, Levin had said. Why not? The more buyers, he’d said, the better.
Rubel returned from the bathroom with a warm washcloth, sat down on the bed, and began wiping Levin’s genitals. “I am sorry, Ariel,” she said. “I did not think it had started yet. And I wanted to so badly.”
“It’s all right,” Levin said a little stiffly. “What’s a little blood?”
“I am so glad you are not angry,” she said. “My husband, he was Jewish, you know, he would never make love to me when I was bleeding. He did not want even to touch me.”
“That’s old-fashioned,” said Levin. “I’m not like that. It’s just, well, it makes a mess.”
“You are angry. Oh, Ariel, I am so sorry.”
“I told you. I’m not angry. Come here,” Levin said, opening his arms. “I’ll show you.”
“No,” said Rubel, leaning over to kiss Levin on the forehead and then standing up. “Let me first take care of myself.”
Rubel disappeared into the bathroom, and when she returned Levin saw the string of a tampon dangling from between her long, powerful legs. Somehow that made her look all the more naked, and Levin felt himself stirring again. My God, he thought, I can’t get enough of this woman.
“Can I get you anything, Ariel?” Rubel asked. “Something to drink?”
“Do we have any champagne left?” asked Levin.
“Yes, I will get some. And then I will call my uncle, yes?”
“Sure. But there’s no hurry,” Levin said, reaching for her. “Your husband was crazy. There are other things we can do when you have your period. Like we did in the office.”
Rubel twisted away from his touch, laughed, and, throwing her head back, ran her hands through her thick hair. The gesture thrust her breasts out, and Levin was hard again.
“You are a bad man, Ariel,” Rubel said. “First I will get the champagne. Then I will call my uncle and you will talk with him. After that,” she said, pointing to Levin’s erect penis, “we will discuss these other things.”
Levin stroked Rubel’s back as she spoke Polish into the phone. Then she handed it to him.
“Mr. Levin?” said Ladislaw Czartoryski in a lightly accented voice.
“Yes?” said Levin.
“I am Mr. Cartovsky. Mr. Vladimir Cartovsky. My niece tells me that you own an extraordinary diamond, and she tells me that you are willing to part with it.”
“Yes, I do, sir,” said Levin. “A magnificent stone.”
“I am most eager to see it, Mr. Levin. I am very interested in diamonds, and I have come to New York expressly to pursue this interest.”
“Well, this is a very special stone, Mr. Cartovsky. Not for just anyone. It is very old, very beautiful, and, I have to tell you, it is very expensive.”
“I am sure it is, Mr. Levin. If it were not, I would not be interested in it.”
“I must tell you, Mr. Cartovsky, that this diamond has no GIA certificate, and I can’t allow it to be appraised. I cannot reveal why.”
Levin had learned long ago that nothing sold a diamond so well as intrigue. A great stone should have a great story to go with it. In fact, mused Levin, Gottleib’s stone did have a great, bloody story, but not one that he was about to share with Cartovsky.
“I’m sure you understand,” Levin continued. “If people were to learn of it, well, there would be gossip. The government would become involved. The IRS. Therefore, Mr. Cartovsky, we must be discreet.”
“I understand, Mr. Levin. I feel just as you do.”
“This stone, sir, well, it’s unique. I can assure you that there’s not another like it in the world. I can tell you,” said Levin, warming to his story, “that it once belonged to a Persian prince. It has passed through many hands, and, I do not exaggerate, many men have died for it. Over time, Mr. Cartovsky, its very existence has become a secret possessed by a select few. So, I hope your niece did not mislead you. A stone like this, well, I am not anxious to sell.”
“Okay. Look. You gotta understand. There’s a lotta pressure on this case.”
“Pressure from where?”
“From the Jews. Well, you should know. A Jew gets killed, a religious Jew, and the fucking bells go off all over town. Lotta rabbis calling up the mayor, talking about Nazis. And a Jew in the diamond district is ten times worse. Lotta money floating around there. Lotta money for the mayor come reelection, you know? So my chief, who’s a good guy, he’s got his balls in an uproar. And therefore my balls are in an uproar, too. So if you know anything you should tell me, tell me.”
“I don’t know anything about this,” said Taylor, who didn’t think that Hill, sitting on his deck in Eastchester with a beer in his hand, looked like his balls, or anything else, were in the least bit aroused. “That’s why I’m talking to you. And anything I do find out, Frank, well, of course, you got it.”
“Okay. So here’s what we got.”
Hill closed his eyes, and Taylor waited. He knew Hill was both feeling him out, seeing if he could trust him, and playing with him. I know you, Frank, Taylor thought. I’ve seen you, like the Satmarer rebbe saw me. Better. I know what your lawn is about. And I know why you offered me that beer. It’s all the big fuck you, isn’t it, Frank? The cop’s fuck you to the whole world, including yourself. And you’re lazy, aren’t you, Frank? That’s why your house looks like shit. It’s not the money. You’re lazy, you’re getting fat, and pretty soon you’re going to be a lousy excuse for a cop, if you’re not one already.
Have another beer, my man, thought Taylor. That first one wants company.
“I think I’ll have another brew,” said Hill, standing up. “Want anything to eat, a doughnut?”
“No, thanks, Frank,” said Taylor.
Hill disappeared into the kitchen, came out with a new beer, and sat back down. “Okay,” he began. “Gottleib and Stein died of exsanguination after having their throats cut. The killer didn’t do anything to Stein except for cutting her throat. One cut. Ear to ear. Got both carotids. Big fucking butcher’s knife. The guy left it.
“Gottleib was strung up by his ankles. He was gutted, man. Real fucking ugly.”
“Cult killing?” asked Taylor.
“I don’t know. No messages written in blood, anyway.”
“I’d like to look at photos if you don’t mind.”
“Why should I mind? Stop by the office Monday, I’ll show you the whole fucking file.”
“Prints?”
“Lots of prints, no makes. A set we figure belongs to the killer. We sent them out—FBI, Interpol, Israel, South Africa, the IDSO—that’s the International Diamond Security Organization. They’re a bunch of tough monkeys. South Africans. Met one once. Big guy, big boozer. All he could talk about was niggers. Hated them like crazy. Forget what he called them. Funny word. Anyway, nobody’s got nothing.
“So, anyway, there were diamonds all over the place. Our killer emptied the safe and threw the diamonds around. No way to tell what was taken.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause there’s no records, no inventory to match them up against. These fucking people. They keep everything in their heads, and everything’s a big fucking secret with them.”
“So what happened to Gottleib’s diamonds? You holding them?”
“What for? What are they evidence of? No, we took them over to the Diamond Club. A guy named Fred Feldman is the boss. So what happens is guys start showing up at the club with these scraps of paper saying that such-and-such a diamond is theirs, or they loaned Gottleib so many diamonds, and then they pick over the diamonds and take them home. Then we talk to them and they don’t know nothing.”
“Is Feldman being cooperative?”
“Sure, whatever the fuck good that does. The diamonds nobody claims, he’s gonna sell for Gottleib’s daughter. And make a good profit for himself, I’m sure.
“The whole fucking business is crazy. I mean, there’s thousands of bucks’ worth of diamonds, maybe hundreds of thousands, and these guys are just picking them up and taking them home. If I wasn’t just a dumb cop, I’d have liberated a few myself. But I’m too stupid, just a dumb mick.”
Hill fell silent for a moment, presumably mourning his missed chance. Taylor waited.
“There was about fifteen thousand cash; five in his office safe, ten in his vault,” Hill continued. “That went to the Diamond Club, too, and there’s more guys with slips of paper saying Gottleib owed them money. And there’s also guys saying they owed Gottleib money, and they want to make sure the money gets to his family.
“So we talk to all these guys, and they all say Gottleib was a fucking saint, and probably the Nazis killed him. Try talking to them about their business, it’s like asking them how often they fuck their wives. If I was the IRS, I’d arrest them all on general principles. They’re all so fucking rich, even though they don’t look it, and there’s no way they pay taxes.”
“What about Gottleib’s family?”
“Just the one daughter and some grandchildren. I don’t think the daughter’s been out of Brooklyn in her life, she don’t know nothing about her daddy’s business. So the daughter, who don’t speak English too good even though she was born here, she says the same thing: Papa was a saint, and the Nazis killed him. What is it with this Nazi business? You’d think they’re all still living in Germany, they talk about Nazis so much.”
“I don’t know,” said Taylor. “I guess they made a strong impression. The Nazis.” Taylor, his patience running out, decided to shake Hill up a little bit. “You have any luck running down that woman in Queens, the one Gottleib’s partner was seeing the day of the murder?” Taylor asked.
Hill made a pained face. “I thought you said you didn’t know anything about this.”
“I don’t. But I did talk to Gottleib’s partner.”
“Schumach. Tell me about it.”
“You know, the woman he saw in Queens. He told me he saw her again.”
“When?”
“Last Wednesday. Going into his building.”
“His office building?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck.”
“So, do you have anything on her?” Taylor asked.
“You know,” said Hill, “you should have told me this up front. I told you to tell me if you knew anything, and I didn’t mean when you fucking felt like it. I don’t like being jerked around. What else you know?”
“Nothing, Frank. Really.”
“Well, it makes it harder. You were a cop. You should understand. No games, okay?”
“No games.”
“Because, like I said, there’s pressure on this one, and it’s not going too good. Okay. The guy who owns the house is Korean. Owns a bunch of houses in Flushing, even though he can barely speak English. Fucking Koreans. Yellow Jews, you know? No offense. They make their money in those fruit stores, and then they get into real estate. Anyway, this guy don’t know who the hell he rented to, did it all over the phone, dropped the keys off in the mailbox, all he wants to know is where’s his money at. He got stiffed.”
“Did he talk to a man or a woman?” asked Taylor.
“A man.”
Taylor and Hill were quiet, both adding one and one and getting two. Schumach sees a woman in the house, but the landlord spoke to a man. Was the man he spoke to the killer?
“You think the woman was a dodge to get Schumach out of the office?” Taylor spoke what they were both thinking.
“I don’t know,” said Hill. “I want to talk to your friend Schumach, ream him out, the fuckhead. Find out what else he didn’t tell me.”
“So what do you think, Frank?” asked Taylor, feeling Hill slipping away, feeling him closing down, lumping Taylor with the enemy. “A nut case? A robbery?”
“I don’t know. Could be a religious thing. Gottleib was a Satmarer, and the Lubavitchers and Satmarers are always beating the crap out of each other. Just a few months ago, this Lubavitcher rabbi got beat up, got his clothes torn off and his beard shaved off because he was giving private Bible lessons to a Satmarer kid, teaching him stuff the Satmarers aren’t supposed to know, I guess, whatever the fuck that might be.”
“I didn’t see anything about that in the papers,” said Taylor.
“No, the rabbi refused to press charges. I think he was a fag. Probably diddling the kid. Anyway,” said Hill, “isn’t the Satmarer rabbi’s daughter supposed to marry the big Lubavitcher rabbi’s kid?”
“That’s off.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“I don’t think the Lubavitchers are involved,” said Taylor, hoping that was true.
“Fucking Hasids. They’re so fucking rich and so fucking weird. You’re Jewish, Taylor. Why do they dress like that?”
“One of them once told me it was like a safety belt,” Taylor said. “He said, ‘How can I get in trouble dressed like this? How can I go places I shouldn’t go, see people I shouldn’t see? How can I sin?’ ”
“Makes sense,” Hill said.
“Yup,” said Taylor.
“What more can I tell you?” Hill asked, sounding bored. “You gonna keep talking to people?”
“I guess. Probably. Maybe I can find Schumach’s blond bombshell.”
“A bombshell?”
“From the way he described her, yeah.”
“Yeah. Like he would know. You know, they’re all the time going to whores, the Hasids.”
“That true?”
“Absolutely. I guess their wives won’t go down on them. I guess that makes my wife Jewish, right?”
Taylor laughed politely, but he hated it when men joked about their wives. Hill’s Jew jokes were starting to piss him off, too, although when he was a cop he heard them all the time and they didn’t bother him at all.
“My wife’s Protestant. The worst. Catholic girls give the best blow jobs,” Hill continued. “They think if they give blow jobs instead of fucking, they stay virgins. Well, if you find her, Taylor, the blonde, you come straight to me, right?”
“Right.”
“Tell me, is it true they only fuck on Saturdays?”
“The Hasids or Catholic girls?”
“The Hasids.”
“No, it’s not true,” said Taylor.
“A Jewish guy told me that.”
“Well, it’s bullshit.”
“I figured that. Jesus, I see more kids and pregnant girls in Williamsburg than I do in Harlem. How could they make so many babies if they only fuck on Saturday?”
“You got it.”
“I mean, all those kids, they must fuck like rabbits. You know, I also heard they fuck through holes in the sheets. They never get naked in bed. Is that true?”
“Some do, some don’t.”
“You speak the language, Taylor?”
“No.”
Hill belched. “Get you another cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks, Frank. I guess I’ll be going.”
“Okay,” said Hill, standing up with Taylor. “Remember what I said. Anything you find out, you come to me.”
“And you’ll keep in touch with me, right, Frank?”
“Sure,” said Hill, who had no intention of doing any such thing.
Hill led Taylor back through the house and out the front door. Taylor was in his car, driving back to the city, before he realized that he had never even given a thought to telling Hill about the Satmarer rebbe’s diamond. Well, thought Taylor, fuck Hill. Still, Taylor had not made a conscious decision to keep the diamond from the detective. It was as if the rebbe had given Taylor a posthypnotic suggestion to forget about it when he spoke with the police. And perhaps, thought Taylor, he had.
Chapter 21 West Fifty-ninth Street, Manhattan
Saturday, September 11
ARIEL LEVIN WASN’T SURE what was making him hotter, Mary Rubel riding his penis—squeezing it with her vagina and then letting it go—or the sight of her heavy breasts bouncing up and down as she leaned over him, her hands pinning his wrists to the bed. Whichever, he knew he was going to come if he didn’t do something fast. So he closed his eyes and tried to think about the Mets’ infield. Murray at first, Randolph at second, Schofield at short, Magadan at third, and catching…
Levin came.
This was the fourth time he had had sex with Rubel—that first night, last night, this morning in his office, and now—and he had never lasted more than a few minutes. This woman, he thought, was like a man. No kissing. No foreplay. Just jump on top and hump away. Levin had never had a woman who was so obviously hot for him, and he wished he could slow things down, show her how much he knew, show her how he could please her. He had been taught certain tricks by the whores in Tel Aviv. He knew he could entrance her, make her yearn for him, but she wasn’t giving him the chance.
Rubel rolled off him. “I think we have a little problem, Ariel,” she said. “Just stay there. Don’t move. I’ll get a washcloth.”
Levin looked down. Blood. Blood all over his belly, his penis, his balls, his thighs. Shit. The woman was having her period.
Levin felt a twinge of revulsion and then a spasm of anger. Why hadn’t she told him? Making love to a woman who was bleeding was something he simply didn’t do. It was disgusting.
But how could he complain, how could he stay angry? She was a shiksa. What did she know? The goyim fucked like that all the time. They were pigs. Besides, not only was she one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, but maybe she was going to be able to solve his problem: what to do with Gottleib’s diamond.
This morning he had taken her to his office and shown her the stone. He had seen her look at him with a new respect, almost awe. And then she had gotten down on her knees, unzipped his fly, and given him a blow job right there in front of the open safe.
It had been the best he had ever had. It had been like sticking his cock in a washing machine built just for him. Afterward she had asked him what he was going to do with the diamond, and he had boasted that he had several buyers lined up, buyers who were bidding against each other. He’d told her that he was going to sell it for a million dollars, and he’d watched her brown, almond-shaped eyes grow wide. Slavic eyes, he had thought. Her ancestors had been raped by Mongols. Now it’s my Jewish cock.
And then, to his delight, she had told him that she had an uncle, a very wealthy man, who lived now in Rome and who happened to be visiting New York. He had told her that he had brought a great deal of money with him in order to invest in diamonds. Would Levin like her to call him?
Well, what did she mean by a lot of money? Levin had asked her. Enough, she’d said. Then yes, Levin had said. Why not? The more buyers, he’d said, the better.
Rubel returned from the bathroom with a warm washcloth, sat down on the bed, and began wiping Levin’s genitals. “I am sorry, Ariel,” she said. “I did not think it had started yet. And I wanted to so badly.”
“It’s all right,” Levin said a little stiffly. “What’s a little blood?”
“I am so glad you are not angry,” she said. “My husband, he was Jewish, you know, he would never make love to me when I was bleeding. He did not want even to touch me.”
“That’s old-fashioned,” said Levin. “I’m not like that. It’s just, well, it makes a mess.”
“You are angry. Oh, Ariel, I am so sorry.”
“I told you. I’m not angry. Come here,” Levin said, opening his arms. “I’ll show you.”
“No,” said Rubel, leaning over to kiss Levin on the forehead and then standing up. “Let me first take care of myself.”
Rubel disappeared into the bathroom, and when she returned Levin saw the string of a tampon dangling from between her long, powerful legs. Somehow that made her look all the more naked, and Levin felt himself stirring again. My God, he thought, I can’t get enough of this woman.
“Can I get you anything, Ariel?” Rubel asked. “Something to drink?”
“Do we have any champagne left?” asked Levin.
“Yes, I will get some. And then I will call my uncle, yes?”
“Sure. But there’s no hurry,” Levin said, reaching for her. “Your husband was crazy. There are other things we can do when you have your period. Like we did in the office.”
Rubel twisted away from his touch, laughed, and, throwing her head back, ran her hands through her thick hair. The gesture thrust her breasts out, and Levin was hard again.
“You are a bad man, Ariel,” Rubel said. “First I will get the champagne. Then I will call my uncle and you will talk with him. After that,” she said, pointing to Levin’s erect penis, “we will discuss these other things.”
Levin stroked Rubel’s back as she spoke Polish into the phone. Then she handed it to him.
“Mr. Levin?” said Ladislaw Czartoryski in a lightly accented voice.
“Yes?” said Levin.
“I am Mr. Cartovsky. Mr. Vladimir Cartovsky. My niece tells me that you own an extraordinary diamond, and she tells me that you are willing to part with it.”
“Yes, I do, sir,” said Levin. “A magnificent stone.”
“I am most eager to see it, Mr. Levin. I am very interested in diamonds, and I have come to New York expressly to pursue this interest.”
“Well, this is a very special stone, Mr. Cartovsky. Not for just anyone. It is very old, very beautiful, and, I have to tell you, it is very expensive.”
“I am sure it is, Mr. Levin. If it were not, I would not be interested in it.”
“I must tell you, Mr. Cartovsky, that this diamond has no GIA certificate, and I can’t allow it to be appraised. I cannot reveal why.”
Levin had learned long ago that nothing sold a diamond so well as intrigue. A great stone should have a great story to go with it. In fact, mused Levin, Gottleib’s stone did have a great, bloody story, but not one that he was about to share with Cartovsky.
“I’m sure you understand,” Levin continued. “If people were to learn of it, well, there would be gossip. The government would become involved. The IRS. Therefore, Mr. Cartovsky, we must be discreet.”
“I understand, Mr. Levin. I feel just as you do.”
“This stone, sir, well, it’s unique. I can assure you that there’s not another like it in the world. I can tell you,” said Levin, warming to his story, “that it once belonged to a Persian prince. It has passed through many hands, and, I do not exaggerate, many men have died for it. Over time, Mr. Cartovsky, its very existence has become a secret possessed by a select few. So, I hope your niece did not mislead you. A stone like this, well, I am not anxious to sell.”
