Zaddik, page 8
“Wait,” said the rebbe. He stood up and walked around his desk, waddling right up to Dov Taylor. He must have been sitting on a telephone book, thought Taylor, who fought an urge to giggle. The rebbe barely came up to his chest, and with his long white beard he looked like some sort of Jewish hobbit.
Pinchus Mayer stepped back, and the rebbe stuck his index finger into Taylor’s sternum. Taylor flinched, and the rebbe poked him again, hard. “You know, Mr. Policeman,” he said, “your great-great-grandfather is in trouble, too. Like you. These troubles of ours, this tsuris, has a long, long history. You could help him. You could help each other. That would truly be a great deed, a mitzvah.
“You have no children, is that right?”
“Yes,” said Taylor.
“Good for you your great-great-grandfather did, eh?” The rebbe winked, nodded, and turned back to his desk. Mayer hustled Taylor out of the office, down the stairs, through the parlor, and out the door.
“It went very well, yes?” Mayer said breathlessly, pausing in the doorway. “He gave you his blessing. He touched you. What an honor. He gave you a task. He’s an amazing man, yes?”
“Amazing,” agreed Taylor. It’s amazing, he thought, that someone hasn’t locked him up in a padded cell.
“Of course,” said Mayer. “He liked you. I could tell. Amazing,” Mayer said, shutting the door in Taylor’s face. “Amazing.”
Dov Taylor stood for a moment on the rebbe’s front steps. The evening darkness was warm, yet something in the air promised colder nights to come. A ditty popped into Taylor’s head, and as he walked down the street to the subway he mumbled it under his breath to the tune of the “Swamp Fox Song” from the old “Walt Disney Show”: “Zaddik, zaddik, beanie on his head / Nobody knows what the zaddik said.”
Chapter 13 Trattoria Dell’Arte
Seventh Avenue
Thursday, September 9
ARIEL LEVIN SAT at a small table in the back of the chic Trattoria Dell’Arte and gulped his second glass of arak, a Lebanese licorice schnapps of which he was quite fond. Mary Rubel had just excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, and Levin was almost drooling as he watched her rear end swivel across the room.
When she had shown up at his office yesterday, Levin couldn’t believe his luck. First Gottleib’s diamond, now this.
Mary Rubel was almost six feet tall with golden hair down to her waist. In his office she had worn a tight black dress that stopped way above her knees, revealing smooth, strong, tanned thighs. And her breasts! Levin wanted nothing more from life than a chance to bury his head between those breasts.
Levin had been able to tell immediately that this delectable young widow was attracted to him. When she had handed him the ring she wanted reset, and their hands had touched, she had smiled. When he had told her that he could fix it, no problem, she had thanked him profusely. And when, emboldened, he had asked her out to dinner, she had accepted without hesitation.
And tonight was going wonderfully well. He had expected her to be late, as women invariably were, but she had been waiting for him when he had arrived at the restaurant. When they had been shown to their table, Levin had put his arm around her waist and had felt her lean into him. He had seen the well-groomed heads of artsy young women and their big-shot dates turning to follow them. He could feel the envy of the men, the jealousy of the women. Even the waitress had seemed impressed. And why not? thought Levin. They were, he was sure, a striking couple.
Levin’s sense of well-being, so different from his usual state of anxiety and anger, had increased during the meal. Mary Rubel seemed interested, even fascinated, in everything he had to say. When he told her about his exploits in the Israeli army—daring operations behind PLO lines that he dreamed up as he spoke—he saw her brown eyes sparkle. When he talked about his work, she asked intelligent questions that showed she was truly listening. And when his leg bumped hers under the table, she didn’t pull away.
Now Levin saw her coming back to the table, and again he felt the urge to pinch himself to see if he were dreaming. Tonight she was wearing a simple white linen sleeveless dress that accentuated her powerful shoulders, her long, golden arms, and her large, full breasts. She wore her hair up, and that drew attention to her graceful neck, her high cheekbones, and her wide-set, almost Oriental eyes. On her feet she wore simple sandals, laced up her muscular calves. To Levin, it seemed as if it were not for the floor, her legs would go on forever.
“Would you like dessert?” asked Levin, who no longer knew nor cared how much this meal was costing him.
“No, thank you,” Mary Rubel said.
“Would you like coffee?”
“Actually, I am rather tired.”
Levin felt a cold ocean wave of disappointment wash over him. He literally shuddered from the chill, like a dog shaking itself after a bath.
“You would like to come over to my place for some coffee or brandy, Ariel?” Mary Rubel continued after a moment. “I live not far from here, a short walk.”
“That would be very nice,” said Levin, not trusting himself to say more, not wanting to appear too anxious.
Levin paid the bill, barely giving a thought to the fact that it was over one hundred and fifty dollars. He even included a 15 percent tip instead of his normal 10.
As soon as they entered Rubel’s apartment on West Fifty-ninth Street and shut the door behind them, Levin pulled her to him and stood on his toes to kiss her. She kissed back, her tongue meeting his, and they began to undress in the darkened hallway. She led him to her bedroom, trailing clothes in her wake, and allowed him to throw her down on the bed.
Levin was fully erect by the time he took off his black bikini undershorts and threw himself on top of her, his brain spinning at the sight of her—a pornographic dream come true. She took him in her hand and guided him into her, and he was momentarily surprised to find her so wet. But soon he was beyond surprise, and all he knew was that he was going to come. Biting down hard on the inside of his cheek, he tried to hold back, and he thought he was succeeding until she reared up and reached underneath her to squeeze the base of his penis. Levin came instantly, his bliss tainted by a sharp stab of regret and the thought that she would despise him for having such slender control. But even as his orgasm took him, he felt her nails rake his back, and he heard her cry out that she was coming. Her legs locked around his waist and she squeezed so hard that he had to fight the urge to ask her to stop.
Afterward, lying in bed, drinking cognac, Levin told her about the diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires he had turned into wonderful rings, necklaces, and bracelets. He said that it often pained him to make such elegant jewelry for the fat, ugly old women who shopped in the diamond district. By all rights, he said, his creations should be worn only by women as beautiful as she.
Curled up next to him, her leg thrown over his thighs, she asked him if he would spend the night. He said yes. She asked him if sometime he would show her some of these treasures, and Levin promised that Saturday, when the shops were closed for the Sabbath and the street was quiet and empty, he would take her to the office to show her a diamond that was one of the world’s wonders.
Later, with Levin snoring loudly, Maria Radziwell slipped out of bed and made a phone call. She whispered a few words into the receiver, hung up, and went to the bathroom to swallow two sleeping pills. Then she climbed back into bed and curled up as far away from Ariel Levin as possible.
Waiting for the pills to work, her thoughts drifted to the Magician, Ladislaw Czartoryski, who many years ago had promised to take her away from Warsaw’s grim streets and make her rich. He would give her a new name, he said, and a new life. He would give her Paris. He would give her the world. All she had to do was sleep with him and sleep with anyone he told her to sleep with.
The Magician told her how he had searched for her, using the Party’s files, until he had found her in Madame Rizitzkha’s cathouse. He told her how much she resembled the old photographs of her great-grandmother, Catherine, who, he said, had also been a whore and had used her body to marry Wilhelm Radziwell, a Prussian prince, and, after leaving him, had seduced Cecil Rhodes, the great English imperialist, founder of the De Beers diamond syndicate.
Maria was entranced. Magically, she had suddenly acquired the glamorous family history to which she had always believed she was entitled. Of course she had aristocratic blood in her veins. How could someone as tall and strong and beautiful as she, beautiful as any movie star, simply have sprung from the loins of her father, a lowly clerk, or the womb of her mother, a frumpy schoolteacher? Maria had always prayed that the life she knew would turn out to be nothing more than a bad dream, and now this rich, silver-haired man, this important Party official, was shaking her, waking her up to a new life.
Lying in bed, listening to Levin snore, Maria tried to recapture that sense of excitement, that feeling of the future unfolding fresh and new. But it was gone. The Magician had indeed awoken her, and he had delivered on many of his promises. But he had never mentioned the Cutter, who seemed immune to her charms and of whom she felt ever more frightened. Czartoryski had never mentioned smelly Israelis, or murder, or the possibility that she would have to stay in this horrible New York while, she felt sure, the police drew near.
Careful not to wake Levin, Maria Radziwell slipped out of bed to take another two pills and washed them down with a glass of cognac. Then, wrapping herself in a blanket, she curled up on a chair in her living room and fell into the unconsciousness she knew as sleep.
Chapter 14 SoHo, Manhattan
Friday, September 10
DOV TAYLOR was standing on a hill, looking down at a castle. Dirt roads ran from the castle into a village of tumbledown wooden houses and shops. Smoke curled up from their chimneys.
His grandmother Rebecca stood by his side, wearing a colorful print dress and her fur wrap with the animal’s head and the tiny red marble eyes. A man, a tall bearded Hasid wearing a shtreiml, was walking up the hill toward them, waving his hand and calling out to them in Yiddish.
“Who is he?” Taylor asked his grandmother.
“It’s Rabbi Hirsh Leib,” she answered.
“What is he saying?” Taylor asked.
“He’s telling you to answer your phone,” said Rebecca. “It’s ringing, ringing, ringing…”
Dov Taylor awoke and reached for the phone. It was Naomi, the girl from the bank. He had not spoken to her since she had left his apartment Tuesday morning.
“You awake?”
“Just.”
“Are you coming in to work today, Dov?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Are you sick?”
“No.”
“ ’Cause if you’re sick, I’d be glad to come over, make you some soup or something.”
“No, Naomi. Really, I’m fine. I’ve been busy.”
“Busy? What’ve you been busy with?”
“Just something.”
“You’re going to get fired.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What’s the matter, Dov? Is it me? Did I do something wrong?”
“No, no. Look, Naomi, I just woke up. Let me call you back.”
“I didn’t mean to make fun of your tefillin. I kind of think it’s neat what you’re doing.”
“It’s not that. Really, everything’s fine. I’ll call you back.”
“When?”
“This afternoon, okay?”
“You want me to come over tonight?”
“Can’t. Got to see someone.”
“A woman?”
“No, not a woman. A man. A rabbi. I gotta see a rabbi. I’ll call you, I promise.”
“Call me.”
“I said I’d call, I’ll call.”
“I’m feeling very insecure, Dov. I mean, I’m sorry, I don’t want to bother you.”
“Don’t apologize. You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”
“All right.”
“I’ll call.”
“Please, call.”
“Good-bye, Naomi.”
Taylor hung up. He opened the drawer by his bed, saw his tallis and tefillin resting in their blue velvet pouches, and closed the drawer. That’s finished, he thought, lying back down. Now what?
He closed his eyes, trying to return to his dream. No, it was gone.
Dreaming of Rebecca usually made him happy, but now the good feeling was overlaid with anxiety. Anxious about what? he asked himself. Then he sat up and dialed Rabbi Kalman’s number at the yeshiva.
“I spoke to Teitel yesterday,” Taylor told Rabbi Kalman. “Actually, I spoke to him, he spoke to Hirsh Leib. Then, this morning, I had a dream and Hirsh Leib was in it.”
“Very interesting,” said Rabbi Kalman. “You’ll tell me about it later. So, you’ve decided to help?”
“Yes,” said Dov Taylor, who until that moment had not known that he had decided and in fact was still not sure that he had. “I mean, I’ll talk to the police. I’ll talk to some people. If I can help, sure, I’ll help. But I still don’t think I can do anything the police can’t do.”
“Of course you can. Listen. Why don’t you come to shul tonight to welcome the Shabbos. I will meet you out front at, let me see, all right, four o’clock. Afterward, you will be my guest for the first Shabbos meal. And after that you can tell me all about your meeting with the Satmarer rebbe. And your dream. You will, of course, spend the night at my home.”
“That’s very kind of you, Rabbi. I’d love to have dinner with your family, but I couldn’t possibly sleep over.”
“You must.
“No, really, I can’t.”
“I must insist. In any case, how would you get home to your apartment?”
“I’d call a cab.”
“No, my friend. Not from my home. Not on Shabbos. There is no telephoning, and there is no riding in automobiles.”
“Well, I could take the subway.”
“No, you could not. That would mean traveling outside the community, and that would mean transgressing the t’hum Shabbos, the Sabbath boundary. So, you see, you must spend the night. You will have my son Moshe’s old room. You will be very comfortable. Besides, there is someone I wish you to meet. Someone who will be helpful to you.”
“Okay, Rabbi. All right. Thank you. I’ll sleep over. But tomorrow morning, I have to go.”
“We’ll discuss it.”
“I’m serious, Rabbi.”
“We’ll discuss it. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Taylor rummaged in his desk and came up with a small notebook, the kind he used to carry to crime scenes. A little more digging produced a pen. He set the notebook and pen on his desk and stared at them.
This is something I can do, he thought. I’ve been trained. I have the skills. It will be pleasurable doing something I know how to do.
You’re killing time, he told himself. You’re just filling up the emptiness.
Okay, okay. I’ll accept that. But isn’t that what everyone does? We fill up our time waiting to die. We fill it up with work, with booze, with family.
He opened his address book and found the name he was looking for. Phil Horowitz.
When Taylor was twelve or thirteen, Horowitz had been one of his heroes. A short, stocky teenager, Horowitz wore black leather jackets, bicycle chains, and drove a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. He worked for NBC, picking up film at Idlewild Airport and delivering it at top speed through rush-hour traffic to the NBC studios in Manhattan. He used to tell Taylor stories about smashing the windows of cars that got in his way, and Taylor listened raptly. Here was one tough Jew. Here was a Jew who didn’t take any shit from anyone.
Many years later, after Taylor had become a cop, he was walking in the old neighborhood and saw a short, bearded Hasid walking toward him. It was Horowitz.
“Phil, what happened?” Taylor had asked, amazed. If there was an unlikelier candidate for piety than Phil Horowitz, Taylor couldn’t imagine one. Was he in disguise for some reason?
But Horowitz told him that he had joined the Lubavitchers, and that now, for the first time in his life, he was happy.
“And what do you do now?” Taylor had asked.
As an answer, Horowitz opened his long, black, Hasidic overcoat and showed Taylor the gun resting in its shoulder holster. “I’m a diamond courier,” Horowitz had said proudly, and at that moment Taylor realized that Horowitz was the same thug he had always been, only now, instead of black leather, he wore the black robes of the Hasid.
Taylor dialed the number, and Horowitz answered. Taylor asked him if he had heard about the murder in the diamond district, and Horowitz grunted. “But I don’t know anything about it,” he said.
“I’d like to talk to you, Phil,” Taylor said.
“Sure, Dov. You can talk to me anytime. But I don’t know anything about this, and I’m not going to talk about business.”
“I’m not a cop anymore, Phil.”
“But you’re still a nosy prick, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay. Come over. How about tonight? Want to spend the Shabbos with us?”
“Can’t, Phil. Got a date. How about tomorrow night, after?”
“After eight. Okay. Mom’ll be glad to see you.”
Taylor hung up and then called the Eighteenth Precinct. He was told that Frank Hill was heading up the investigation into the murders of Zalman Gottleib and Shirley Stein. Sergeant Hill, however, was off today. After some shmoozing with the desk sergeant, Taylor got Hill’s home phone number and wrote it down.
I should be paid for this, he thought. If I’m going to play detective, I should get paid. I should get paid a lot. How about two hundred a day? Plus expenses. That sounds right.
That’s another thing we fill up the emptiness with: money.
Above Frank Hill’s number, Taylor wrote CALLS in capital letters. What was Gottleib’s partner’s name? Do I still have the newspaper article about the killings?
No. I threw it away. I like throwing things away. I like everything neat, clean, and tidy. I am always throwing things out.
