An Old Man's Game

by Andy Weinberger

  “I wouldn’t think so, no. He’d be a very flawed prophet. And that would be the end of his new religion. If I had to, I would have threatened him with the truth. I’d hold a mirror up to his whole life. All the lies. The family violence. The hypocrisy. And then I’d ask him if he was really that eager to step onto the public stage.”

  “Well, thank God you didn’t have to, Mr. Bloom.”

  He nods. “Yes, it’s a blessing, isn’t it?”

  I pause. Now I’m getting into really deep water. “So then, I’m still a little vague here, but how did the rabbi’s doctor figure into all this?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Dr. Ewing, the rabbi’s doctor. Someone broke into her office a few days after he died. Stole his medical file. Only trouble was, she was there at the time.”

  “That’s what Rothbart told me, yes.”

  “So you wouldn’t have any knowledge of that, would you?”

  “Just what I heard.”

  “And Jonah Siegel? You wouldn’t have any idea about what happened to him, I don’t suppose.”

  “Something’s happened to Jonah? Really? No, I wouldn’t have a clue about that. We don’t see each other often.”

  “But you do meet once in a while, is that right?”

  “Once in a while. When it suits me.”

  “And how’s that?”

  “Well, I hired him, you might say. Or rather, I gave him money from time to time. When I learned about the inflammatory sermons the rabbi was making, I thought it might make sense to have someone there on the inside, someone keeping tabs, you know. I have a lot of things on my plate. When I mentioned that I couldn’t be there every Friday night, Rothbart gave me his name. He said he was a good, honest kid, that I could rely on him.”

  “That was true, up until last week. I guess you didn’t see it in the papers. They found him in pieces on a train track near Pomona.”

  “Oh my God.” Bloom shakes his head. “No, I didn’t know that. I hadn’t seen him in a while, not since the day the rabbi died. I just assumed he was in shock, that he was grieving.”

  “Not anymore. But here’s the thing. From a certain point of view, even if you’re right, even if the rabbi wasn’t murdered, it might make sense to raise some doubts, wouldn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

  “Well, these clients of yours. They made it plain that they wanted to see him and his religion stopped.”

  “Yes.”

  “And then, lo and behold, he dies.”

  “Yes.”

  “But then, that’s where the money dries up, am I right, Mordecai? I mean, there’s no need to pay you another nickel if the problem’s solved, isn’t that correct? So, just for the sake of argument, if someone were to break into Dr. Ewing’s office and make off with his file, wouldn’t that suggest that Ezra’s death was more than an accident? That some kind of cover-up was going on? That it might, you know, be murder?”

  He’s looking straight at me again. His voice is steady, cool, unrelenting. “For the sake of argument, that might be true.”

  “And wouldn’t that draw greater scrutiny by people like me and the police? One death—okay, it might be an accident. That’s what the cops thought at first. But the rabbi and then, boom, the very next week, his doctor? Sort of odd, huh?”

  “It’s a curious turn of events, I’ll grant you that.”

  “And now, Jonah Siegel.”

  “A tragedy.”

  “A tragedy that maybe—just maybe—has something to do with the first two people, wouldn’t you agree?”

  He rubs his hands together briefly, not in any kind of malicious way, but as if to warm them up. “I’d be astonished if the police didn’t see a connection there,” he agrees. “It would seem pretty obvious.”

  I pause for a long hard moment and try to look dispassionately at Mordecai Bloom, who I’ve just decided to call Malcolm from now on. I’m looking at him, and trying my damnedest not to let what’s welling up inside of me explode. He’s not my kind of landsman. He’s not about to waste his emotions on me or anyone else. To him, I think, Jonah Siegel was just another employee. An investment. Easy come, easy go.

  I shift gears, bring it down to a simple quid pro quo. “And again, for the sake of argument, I don’t know how much we’re talking about, but if this were more complicated than just eliminating the rabbi, wouldn’t your clients be inclined to keep on funneling money in your direction? At least until they were sure everything was resolved?”

  “You’re getting very far afield here, Mr. Parisman. My clients, the people I deal with, are conservative, but they’re also calm and law-abiding. Do they have strong feelings about some things? Yes. But when they talk to me, it’s about swaying public opinion. They run ads in newspapers and magazines. They do telephone surveys. They put together ballot initiatives. They don’t resort to gangland killing. It’s just not their style.”

  “You said you do work for some evangelical organizations. Are they the same folks who jump up and down outside of abortion clinics?”

  He smiles at me now. “If you mean, are they the same ones who exercise their constitutional right to freedom of speech, then yes, I plead guilty.”

  “Sometimes they’ve gone beyond free speech,” I say. “Sometimes they’ve been known to kill.”

  “A few misguided individuals have taken the law into their own hands now and then. It’s unfortunate.”

  We stare at each other. “What about your friend, Eric Blanchard? I mean, he’s taken the law into his own hands, as you say, back in Kansas.”

  “Eric has some very strong views,” he says with a nod. “The Bible—certain portions of the Bible, at least—mean a lot to him. But he’s a good man, overall.”

  Our sparring match is coming to an end. “Look, Malcolm,” I say, pointing to all the books on his wall, “I appreciate how much you’ve learned in this life. And I know you’d never admit to any wrongdoing. Or authorizing any wrongdoing. I get that. But even if I’m only halfway right, even if the rabbi just dropped dead on his own, then, let’s see, we’re still maybe talking about burglary, and second-degree murder and—”

  “Fortunately, Mr. Parisman, that won’t be necessary. Everything you’ve just offered up—every word and every innuendo—it’s wonderfully inventive, but there’s not a grain of truth there. You really shouldn’t be a detective, you know. You’re missing your calling. You should stay at home and write fiction. That’s what I suggest.”

  The door opens behind me then, and Ada comes in. She leans over and whispers something in Bloom’s ear. He nods, and she heads for the door.

  “It’s been a pleasure talking to you, Mr. Parisman, but my secretary tells me I have another appointment now. So if you don’t mind—?”

  “Just one last hypothetical question. You’re a smart man. I’d like your honest appraisal of Ezra’s ideas. Do they have legs? I mean, do you really believe they would have changed the practice of Judaism in the end? Can you really create a religion that’s not based on fiction?”

  He thinks a moment before he responds. “Was he accurate about all the new archaeological findings? Perhaps. For the time being. But science doesn’t have the staying power of myth. Science is always evolving, isn’t it. Twenty years from now, another group of archaeologists may come along and dig up something new. Then what? Are we always doomed to respond to fresh information? Or at some point do we stop and say, these are the things we feel in our heart, these are the things we know to be true?”

  “Point taken.” I rise from my chair. He does too. He offers me his cold, limp hand and we shake, both of us grinning at the irony of it all. I turn on my heel.

  “Thanks for sparing some time for an unemployed detective,” I say as I open the door and head into the hall.

  I take four, maybe five steps. I’m thinking about his ancient books, I’m admiring the quiet intricacies of his carpet. That’s when I feel a surge from behind, something huge and malevolent. I
barely remember turning my head. After that, darkness.

  Chapter 22

  I AM TUMBLING, tumbling, head over heels, like a department-store dummy flung violently out of an airplane. I see the ground below me. The trees. The roads. The buildings. Everything is out of focus, spinning, but it’s all coming closer and closer, and I’m struggling, punching into the wind, trying somehow to spread my arms flat and make them into wings. All I need are wings. That’s what I think as I look down and the cold hard ground rushes toward me.

  “Are you okay?”

  I’m lying flat on the carpet, and Eric Blanchard’s eyes are three inches away, staring at me intently. I feel something throbbing at the back of my head and try to rise.

  “I wouldn’t do that just yet,” a smooth voice says from across the room. “He gave you quite a chop.”

  “Yeah, and I’m so sorry,” Blanchard says. He slips his folded sports coat under my head. “Here. This will make it more comfortable. Don’t move, all right?”

  I nod, or think I nod, and close my eyes once again. When I reopen them, Blanchard is still hunched over me. He looks genuinely concerned and also ashamed.

  “Do you want—can I get you a sip of water?” he asks.

  “Water sounds good,” I whisper. I lay back. None of this makes any sense to me. The walls are still turning like a carousel, and the pain pounding at the back of my head is not helping to clear things up.

  “Here,” Eric says, propping me onto my elbows. “Drink this.” He hands me a paper cup. He wipes his mouth with his large fat hand. I can’t see him all that clearly in the light, but it seems as if he’s sweating and his face is flushed. “I didn’t mean to hit you. Well, that’s not true, I take that back. I did mean to hit you, but I was—I wasn’t in my right mind. When I saw you coming out of Malcolm’s office, I remembered how you and that other guy attacked me in my apartment and something kicked in. I can’t explain it. It’s kinda like I was back in Iraq again and—”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I understand. I have the same problem myself.”

  “You do?”

  I nod and pull myself with great determination onto my feet. Everything hurts, but at least now I’m vertical. My lip is split, and there’s a little wet blood on my chin, which comes from my nose, I discover, after it landed along with the rest of my face on the floor. I’m just inches now from the goon who clocked me over the head. I can smell his breath. He’s holding me steady, leaning in, too close for comfort, and now he wants to make nice. Go figure.

  “Look Eric,” I say, pushing myself away, “let’s you and me put a lid on this, okay? Omar and I—we may have overstepped ourselves back at your place. Things got out of hand. I’m sorry for that. I am. I was just doing my job. Just trying to guess what happened to the rabbi. And Dr. Ewing. And Jonah Siegel. Everything pointed at you. I thought maybe you could help us.”

  “I don’t know anyone named Ewing,” Blanchard says, confused. His eyes narrow. “Who is he?”

  “It’s a she,” says Bloom. He’s standing right behind him. “She was the rabbi’s doctor, and she’s dead now. A friend of Howard Rothbart’s.”

  “Oh, him.” Blanchard says. “Him I know.”

  There’s a chill in the hall, as though someone flicked on the air-conditioning, and I button up my jacket. What I want to do most of all now is just leave. “Anyway,” I say, “what we did to you was wrong. And you just returned the favor. Now we’re even. Eye for an eye. You understand. I think I’ll be on my way.”

  “You sure you’re all right?” Blanchard asks. “You want some aspirin? You’re okay to drive?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Bloom turns to Ada, who is standing there patiently at the end of the hall, her hands folded primly together. Whether she’s at all familiar with this kind of violence in the workplace is hard to say. Nothing shows on her face. “Why don’t you walk him out to his car, Ada,” Bloom says as he turns to go back into his office. “We want our Mr. Parisman to live a nice long life.”

  For five minutes I sit behind the wheel with my eyes closed. The throbbing at the back of my skull is ebbing, but it’ll be a while before my Dodger cap fits again. There’s a box of Kleenex on the front seat. I pull one out, spit on it, and rub the blood off my chin. I get most of it, but my nose is beginning to swell. I start the engine, put my foot gently to the pedal, turn the corner and crawl along about three blocks down Grand Avenue. The large old gracious houses on either side of the road and the dappled light filtering through the magnolia trees have a soothing effect on me. Malcolm Bloom was smart to choose this neighborhood, I think. It suits him. Then I spot a familiar pair of faces in my rearview mirror and I pull over. It’s Jason and Remo.

  They park their unmarked car and approach me from behind. Remo stands on the curb. His jacket is open, and I can see his shoulder holster. I roll down my windows. “Afternoon, officers,” I say to Jason, who’s in the street. His hands are on his hips. “Was I speeding?”

  “Don’t get smart,” he says. “What were you doing there?”

  “I had an appointment with Mr. Bloom.”

  “What for?”

  “Well, it was kind of private, but since we’re old friends, I can tell you. We discussed international relations.”

  “Did you now?”

  “Sort of, yeah.”

  Remo leans in on the passenger side, sees my bloody nose. “What the hell happened to you?” he wants to know.

  I touch my cheek gently. “Oh, you mean this? After my chat with Bloom, I ran into Eric Blanchard. Only this time, I didn’t have Omar around to protect me.”

  “You okay?” says Remo.

  “Terrific,” I lie. “Couldn’t be better.”

  “I thought Malloy told you to stay the hell away from him,” Jason says.

  “Lieutenant Malloy was being careful. He’s also much younger than me, so he has all the time in the world to solve these cases. Me, I’m not that lucky.”

  “You keep having chats with Blanchard, pretty soon it won’t be a question of luck. Just when.” Jason sort of smiles after he says this. He’s the wittier of the two, I think, not that that means much. Everything he knows about being a cop he learned from watching Dragnet.

  “Actually, he turns out to be a pretty nice guy,” I say. “Honest, once you get past all that PTSD stuff from Iraq. Gave me a drink of water. He means well, he really does, he just goes a wee bit nuts every now and then.”

  “That’s why we’re following him around, I guess.”

  I turn the ignition back on. My head is still pounding. “Yeah, well, I’m beginning to have second thoughts about the wisdom of that. Where is Lieutenant Malloy? Do you have any idea? We need to talk.”

  “He went home early. Ain’t that right, Remo? Had a cold. You could try him there, you know the address.”

  “As it happens, I do.”

  Jason and Remo retreat back to their car and do a slow U-turn. They’re still going to keep their eyes on Blanchard until Malloy tells them otherwise. I force myself to keep driving, and the driving takes my mind off the pain. It’s not gone, but now at least I tell myself I can live with it. I find my way back to the Pasadena Freeway at Orange Grove. Traffic is light heading into Los Angeles this late in the afternoon. Most folks are coming the other way. That changes once I climb the hill near Chavez Ravine and stare down into Chinatown. It’s a splendid view, but I know I’m not going there. I tap my turn signal and slip smoothly into the far-right lane, just ahead of a vintage red VW bus. If you live here long enough you can drive without having to think, which, in the miserable shape I’m in at the moment, is a good thing. That’s the hidden beauty of LA. You’re always on the road, you’re going somewhere, and it doesn’t matter when you get there because, unless you drive a squad car, everyone else is in the same gray air-conditioned swamp.

  Bill Malloy bought himself a little cream-colored Spanish bungalow in the Los Feliz district years ago and never left. The house isn’t all that exciting t
o look at. Just a modest home, with a few flourishes. The roof is old, the windows need to be replaced, and in deference to the recurring drought, he’s let the lawn go to seed. But in today’s market, hey, it’s probably golden. Not that he’s ever going to sell it, of course. Once Malloy puts down roots, well, that’s where they’ll bury him. He lets me in. He’s wearing an old ratty USC sweatshirt and a faded pair of Levi’s. His hair is uncombed, he hasn’t shaved, and he’s barefoot.

  “You look just terrible, Lieutenant.”

  He glances at my puffy nose and swollen head. “I could say the same about you, Amos, but I was raised a gentleman.”

  We go into his living room, which is nicer than mine, by which I mean it’s just slightly more inviting. He and his wife have kept it spare but clean. There’s a couple of dark green padded chairs and a matching couch that they probably bought on sale from Sears years ago. The light streaming in from outside gives the whole space a sanctity, or at least a calmness designed by a higher power. Bill is still recovering, both from being an alcoholic and a Catholic, but every time I come see him here, I feel like I’m sitting in a church pew and a pipe organ is playing.

  I start out by recounting what happened in Pasadena. How Blanchard lost control and walloped me in the hallway as I was leaving, but that he was so sorry, and I told him forget about it, now we’re even. I tell him how Malcolm Bloom was quite certain that the rabbi’s death was all an accident. How for the sake of the temple, he decided to bring me in to add credibility.

  “Credibility,” Malloy says. He chews on it a minute. “Huh. So you were all about show?”

  “Optics was the word he used,” I say. “The Board didn’t expect much, but they have a vested interest in protecting the temple and the congregation. I don’t think they cared what I came up with in the end, as long as it was nice and neat and believable.”

  Then I tell him how Bloom had no intention of ever bankrolling the rabbi’s ideas about a new Judaism, but that he was at the luncheon to string him along and to monitor things for his clients.

  “And who are they?”