An Old Man's Game

by Andy Weinberger

  At this point Loretta taps me sharply on the arm and announces that she’s heard enough. “I’m going to bed,” she says. “You said it was a fairy tale. It’s not. You made that up. It’s a bunch of lies.”

  “And you used to be such an intellectual,” I call after her as she disentangles herself from the couch and disappears down the hall. I skim down to the end of the page and start again.

  Sometimes when I read about it, I think that maybe, maybe what’s going on here is more akin to a magic act, a sleight of hand, a misdirection on a grand scale. We’re taught to always remember the slavery of Egypt, we are commanded specifically by God to remember those days, even while the exile in Babylon is ignored. There is no tale comparable to the Exodus story about our days in Babylon. And tonight I feel I have to ask why. Think about it. It was a time of terrible loss and displacement. A time when we were searching for our souls, fearful for our lives. A time when our priests and rabbis were groping for ways to hold the fabric of their people, their tribe, together. What emerged from the Babylonian Exile? Those seventy years of darkness? The near-death experience of our people?

  Whenever I examine that sliver of time, I am struck by the irony. How close we came to extinction. And the irony that we waited until we were in the midst of crisis, until it was almost too late for the Jews. That was the moment when we chose to produce our most enduring gifts to mankind. Because it was not just the written Torah that came out of the Babylonian Exile, it was also the Talmud. Believe it or not, the Talmud we argue about each week was written in Babylon. In captivity. In what is now modern-day Iraq. In fact, it was written in a city you may have even heard about—in Fallujah. Where American marines fought a bloody battle a few years ago. Imagine. And also out of the Babylonian Exile came the written Torah, the sacred scrolls of our faith.

  So why is this important, you ask? Who cares where the Torah and Talmud come from, as long as they’re here? We buy clothes made in India; we don’t think twice about that. I drive a car made in Japan; what’s the difference?

  Well, for starters, the Torah is not a polo shirt. It’s not a car or a color TV or a candy bar. It’s the focal point of our lives. It’s the heart of Jewish thought. It’s the reason we’re sitting here tonight. And, to me, at least, the fact that the Torah and the Talmud were written in Babylon, at a time when we were demonstrably in peril, raises many new and interesting questions. What did it mean, I wonder, to be in exile for seventy years? What did it look like on a daily basis? How did we get by in a land that was clearly not our own? I bring these things up because—unlike our time in Egypt—we have proof, solid evidence, proof even beyond what it says in the Bible.

  The fact is, in 587 BCE, after a futile rebellion, a sizable population of Jews was taken captive by the Chaldeans—that’s what we called the Babylonians back then—and relocated. We were not summarily slaughtered, we stayed alive as a people, and for that we should be grateful. But we were surely restricted. They probably kept us divided, or at least on a reservation of some sort. They probably limited what kinds of occupations we could pursue, and, given the way these things work in modern times, I’d be surprised if they didn’t have dozens of spies among us, agents watching for any signs of insurrection, reading what we wrote, listening to what we said among ourselves. They would be foolish not to. And it was in this terribly charged and suspicious atmosphere that our rabbis had to perform, had to pull the disparate elements of the tribe of Israel together and offer them hope of a better tomorrow. How did they do that?

  Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? It was a question for them, and it’s also one that each of you today must answer for yourself. I’ll tell you what I think. In my mind, the entire story of the Jews stems from the Exodus. That’s what we’re all about. Without Exodus, we do not exist. It’s that simple. I also think the Exodus was, in some measure, real. It was not imagined. Something occurred. What it was, we don’t know. When it was, we don’t know. Which Exodus it was, it’s hard to say. The Exodus experience might, might, have happened in Egypt. Being a man of science as well as faith, I must confess to you that I doubt it. We have no proof of anything in Egypt, but still. It’s in the Torah, so we have to give it some weight. It certainly happened in Babylon, however. And in more recent times, you can make a case for something like that happening in Russia and in France and in other places.

  It’s an ongoing experience then. It’s about Jews being oppressed. It’s about Jews rising up, shrugging off our chains and seeking something better. And in this process what happens is that whenever we liberate ourselves, whenever we take those first tentative steps toward the Promised Land, in that instant we become more noble. We evolve as human beings.

  Just then I hear Loretta moaning in her sleep and get up to check on her. After a while she settles down, but by now my mind is worn-out thinking about the Exodus and its implications. He was a smart man maybe, but he was probably also dreaming and way out in front of his congregation. I make a mental note to call Sophie Applebaum first thing tomorrow morning, see if she has any more of his sermons lying around that she thinks I should read. Then I strip down to my shorts and crawl in beside Loretta. I lean back, lace my fingers behind my head, and stare at the ceiling. It’s a warm, sticky night. No need for covers. There’s an oddball hurricane loping up the coast of Baja, lots of moist air pouring in through the louvered windows. On the evening news, they put on a happy face. Smile, they say. Your life is out of control. A hurricane, how terribly inconvenient. Ha-ha-ha.

  Chapter 14

  THE COFFEE AT the Cabana Café in the Beverly Hills Hotel is dark and extra strong, which is just what a crusty gumshoe like me needs to get the kinks out of his system and greet the day. I’m early, or rather, Omar is late; but that’s okay. It’s a much longer drive for him from Boyle Heights, and it’s a genuine struggle for him to learn how to hang out among the rich, I know that. All around me glasses are tinkling, and not far behind me, a guitarist is sitting before a microphone patiently applying himself to an old Antônio Jobim standard from Brazil. Unless they’re paying me, I seldom come to places like this. The lives of the rich and famous are not inherently interesting to me, but I do it, I tell myself, for Omar. Even though we’re a million miles apart in our upbringing, there’s something special about Omar. Whenever we’re on a case together, he summons up my inner parent. It’s hard to explain, and even harder to stop. I’m always offering, always trying to give him a new slant on things. This morning, boys and girls, my unspoken lecture will be all about the rich. That’s what I’d like to talk about, anyway. My mind rambles back and forth on this. What the fuck are you doing, Amos? What do you want from him? I take a long stiff gulp of coffee and set the mug down, lay my palm over the top and feel the damp heat percolate around my fingers. I think I want Omar to imagine that the rich are human beings, too. I want him to realize that in the end, they’re just like him. Okay, they’ve got more, way more than they’ll ever need. There’s no doubt about that, and no, of course that ain’t right. But he needs at least to rub up against the enemy, to see and hear and smell what they’re like. We can talk about the revolution another day.

  I’m about to order when he shows up at last. He’s got on a tan sports coat, freshly polished shoes, and a clean gray dress shirt, but I can tell by the way he glances around that he feels out of place.

  The Cabana Café is some architect’s feverish dream from the late nineteenth century. The tables are outside, but covered against the elements by a lovely opaque glass roof. Ceiling fans slowly rotate, and there are hanging plants and phony Greek columns. There are nice white metal chairs with comfy green and beige cushions and a view of the pool, where a few starlets are already hard at work, oiling and toasting their nearly naked bodies on chaise lounges. The hotel staff is adjusting the umbrellas, and a gaggle of kids are cooing and laughing and splashing one another down at the shallow end.

  “Hey, sorry I’m late. Traffic was a bitch.”

  Our waiter steps
up and Omar asks for coffee. For a full minute he studies the two skinny, pink guys in IZOD T-shirts and shorts sitting next to us, meticulously plying away at their grapefruit with knife and fork.

  “This is where you like to eat? Really?”

  “Me? No. You know me, Omar. Salt of the earth. Viva Che. But they do make a marvelous eggs Benedict here. And I’ve been thinking we ought to celebrate, you and me.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, the case is coming right along. I mean, Jonah Siegel is out there now, on the run, sure, but a prime suspect. And, thanks to us, they can pin him to both murders. That’s good news.”

  “But there’s still no motive,” Omar says. “Nobody kills anybody without a motive. Just isn’t done. I heard that on Hawaii Five-0 the other night.”

  “Ah, now that’s where you come in. Did you bring me pictures of those two shadow creatures?”

  He pulls out his cell phone, punches a few buttons, and hands it over to me. “I don’t know how good they are, man, but here, take a look.”

  He’s right, they aren’t that good, just a couple of middleaged gentlemen in dark suits and rumpled ties, eating lunch. One of them, though, is more formidable than the other. His face is vacant and listless and red; in fact, he reminds me of a sweaty guy who just walked off a football field. He has a wide forehead and tiny pig eyes that seem too far apart. Somewhere inside there’s a brain, I imagine, but God only knows what it’s thinking. His hair is clipped short, straight out of the army. And though it’s hard to tell from the angle of Omar’s pictures, he’s clearly not someone you’d ever want to tangle with. In one shot, his big, meaty hands are wrapped around a sandwich. In another, his finger is pointing down at the plate. His companion is quite different. He wears wire-rimmed glasses. He’s thin. He’s taller and a good bit older. For some reason he also strikes me as more contemplative, but maybe I just think that because I’m older too, and I like to think of myself as contemplative.

  “You’re right, not much to go on here. Maybe the police can do something with them, you know, like they do on television.”

  “You think so?”

  “I do. They can enhance anything these days. Even your miserable pictures, Omar.”

  The waitress arrives, and I talk him into taking a chance on the eggs Benedict. The guitarist in the background launches into a medley of Gershwin tunes, and the two dapper guys next to us have finished with their grapefruit. They’re downing the last of their coffee and folding their napkins and getting up to leave.

  “Okay,” Omar says, “I never claimed I was a photographer. But wait, there’s one here that’s a lot better than the others.” He grabs the phone from me, fiddles with it, then hands it back. “Here, boss. Maybe this will make your day.”

  It’s a snapshot of a California license plate, the rear end of the Audi that was tailing me.

  “You’re so right, Omar.” I reach into my jacket pocket for my own phone. “Let’s see what Lieutenant Malloy does with this.”

  He doesn’t answer his home number, but when I finally get through to him downtown, Malloy’s not so interested in Omar’s pictures. In fact, he couldn’t care less. “I’ve got some news,” he says. His voice is flat. “We’ve managed to locate Jonah Siegel.”

  “That’s great, Bill. What’s he got to say for himself?”

  “Not much, seeing as how he’s dead. They found a naked body three nights ago on the Union Pacific tracks just this side of Pomona. The engineer wasn’t going too fast, but it didn’t matter.”

  “Jesus, Bill.”

  “Actually, it didn’t matter because that’s not what killed him. He was already dead. Someone else took care of that. Bullet went right through the back of his head, looks like.”

  “You didn’t, by any chance, recover the slug, did you?”

  “Nah. There wasn’t anything to find. Whoever did this killed him, stripped him clean, then drove him to the tracks and dumped him. He’s been dead a while, they say, could be a week or more. Body’s kind of bloated.”

  He stops talking; I can almost hear the frustration in the silence that follows.

  I bring up Omar’s pictures again, say that since these folks are following me around, maybe there’s a connection to the murders. “Hell,” I say, “wherever I go these days, someone ends up dead. You think it means anything?”

  “It means you’re a magnet, Amos,” he says. “I like that. Maybe we should start following you around ourselves. Save the taxpayers money.”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” I tell him.

  Then I read him the license number, and he says sure, okay, he’ll look into it, but I can tell it’s the old cop talk coming out of his mouth and that he thinks this probably doesn’t amount to much. What he’d really like to do right now is find a bar somewhere downtown and drink himself into a higher frame of mind.

  Chapter 15

  OMAR IS ALL for driving down to the train tracks in Pomona to see if the cops missed anything. They’re always missing something, he says, but I say no, there’s no point. Now’s the time we need to take a deep breath and step back, look at the bigger picture.

  “What are you talking about?” he says.

  “Okay,” I say. We’re still sitting there at the Cabana Café, nursing the last of our coffee, still rattled by what we’ve just learned on the phone. “You’ve got three murders. The first one was supposed to look like an act of God. A middle-aged guy—”

  “An overweight, middle-aged guy,” Omar corrects me. “A smoker, besides.”

  “Okay, an overweight middle-aged guy out having lunch. Suddenly drops dead. Heart attack. Aneurysm. Could happen, I suppose. Certainly has happened before, people even younger than him. But you know what gets me, Omar? What I keep coming back to? If the Board hadn’t bothered to make any inquiries, it would have been called an accident, or God’s will, and that would have been the end of it.”

  “So somebody there thought it was murder.”

  “Somebody thought something. Who knows what. Of course, they might have just been going through the motions. And maybe they had to. He wasn’t simply your average, run-of-the-mill rabbi, after all. The guy was a rock star. He had fans.”

  “He had enemies too.”

  “That’s not at all clear. There’s no evidence. So maybe it’s true what those Israeli doughnut guys said. Maybe they were worried about the impact on the temple. On dues. On membership. Maybe they wanted to get past it.”

  “I doubt that,” Omar says. “If that was the case, why didn’t they just accept the official police report? Even the family was willing to do that.”

  “Okay, maybe some folks on the Board heard a rumor, or maybe even more than a rumor, maybe they knew something. Maybe they had reason to suspect foul play. I’ll buy that. And maybe they also knew that no matter what, the police wouldn’t get too worked up about it.”

  “Well, they didn’t, did they?”

  “Not at first, no.”

  “But then—and this is what I don’t get—why would they go ahead and hire you?”

  “What’re you saying, Omar? That they brought me in because I was rusty?”

  He wags his head, smiles sheepishly. “Don’t take this the wrong way, amigo, I love you to death. But think about it. There are lots of private eyes out there who do this kind of thing. Why didn’t they hire a serious detective agency? Why’d they pull you out of retirement? Let’s face it, man, you’re not at the top of your game anymore. They knew that going in. I mean, c’mon, when’s the last time you worked a homicide?”

  “When John Travolta was big,” I say. “It’s been a while.”

  “Exactly.”

  The waitress refreshes our coffee, and because it’s too painful to dwell immediately on the truth of what Omar had just said, I shift the subject. What does he think about Dr. Ewing’s death?

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” he says, puffing the air from his cheeks, “no way that was an accident.”

  “No,” I agree, “but it also doesn�
��t make sense that they would deliberately target her. Not just because she was the rabbi’s doctor.”

  “No.”

  “And even if someone wanted to kill her, why’d they do it like that? And how would they know she’d be in her office at midnight?”

  “So what’s your idea?”

  I take another gulp of coffee, but I’ve had too much already and now it’s beginning to make my heart race, so I set it down and fold my hands in my lap. “I think it really was a burglary that went south, like Malloy said. I think they broke in, and they went looking for the rabbi’s record, which they must have found, because it’s not there anymore. Then Dr. Ewing showed up and they panicked. I think they didn’t know what else to do.”

  “But if they took his record, and if the cops already heard that he wasn’t on any special medication, what the hell good would it do?”

  There’s a little kink now in the nape of my neck, and I reach back to free it up with my fingers. “Well, that’s a great question, isn’t it? Just so you know, I don’t have much faith in those guys who work for Malloy. I doubt that Jason and Remo had much of a chat with the doctor. They took a few notes is all they probably did. And I’m sure the doctor didn’t let them go near the file cabinet. Not without a warrant.”

  “So maybe there was something wrong with him, after all.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay, so these burglars stole his file. Why?”

  “I’m just guessing, Omar. That’s about all we can do. Guess. Maybe they wanted to cover their tracks. You remember how those Russian communists were always airbrushing important people out of photographs? Making them vanish?”

  Omar looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “No, man, I don’t have any idea what the hell you’re talking about.”