“Badirl!” shouted the boy.
“One moment,” said Daoud.
“A fool,” said the woman, and she yanked the boy into the house and slammed the door.
Daoud stood alone on the steps and considered his options: He could knock, pursue the matter. But to what end? The picture had elicited no response from the woman, which meant the idiot son probably didn’t know her either. A long-tongued idiot, as she’d said. Shooting off his mouth. A waste of time.
He took a deep breath and noticed that the skies had begun to darken. His job was far from done—covering the rest of the village would take hours. But the chance for human contact diminished with every degree the sun dropped. Better to wait until morning, a workday, with men on the streets. In the meantime he’d be better off asking his questions around more populated areas: the bus depot, the train station. Chasing shadows into the small hours.
It was decided, then. He’d leave Silwan, work Jerusalem until he couldn’t keep his eyes open, come back tomorrow. First thing in the morning.
CHAPTER
11
The collision of fist with face, firecracker-sharp.
The Chinaman sat in the tent, watching the movie. Waiting for Charlie Khazak to finish with the truck driver.
Bruce Lee on a big TV screen, surrounded by seven masked bad guys in black pajamas. Bare-chested and sweating, unarmed against the bad guys’ knives and clubs. The bad guys moving in. A closeup of Bruce grimacing, screaming, a storm of lightning kicks and all the bad guys are down.
Not likely.
Applause and hoots came from some of the tables. Greasy-haired pooshtakim slouched with their arms around the bare shoulders of dumb, adoring girlfriends. Staring at the TV on the ladder as if it were some kind of god on a pedestal. Chain-smoking and drinking Turkish coffee, eating shishlik and watermelon, open-mouthed, spitting the seeds onto the dirt floor. Snotty little punks, laughing too loud. At this hour they should all be in bed. He picked out at least three or four he’d busted in the last year, probably others he couldn’t remember. A couple of them met his eyes, tried to give him a little shit with defiant looks, but turned away when he held the stare.
A hot night, and he was overdressed for it—jeans, boots, a body shirt, a loose cotton sport coat to cover his shoulder holster. Tired and grumpy from walking all night through the Arab neighborhoods, showing the girl’s picture and getting blank stares. Five hookers working the entire Green Line, all of them fat and ugly. Having to wait for one of them to finish blowing an Arab in the back of her car before he could question her; the other ones available but semiretarded. None of them knew the girl; none of them seemed to care, even after he’d warned them, even after Gray Man. Now, here he was, waiting again, for a shit like Charlie Khazak.
On the screen, Bruce had walked into a garden and encountered a fat bald guy with the body of a sumo wrestler. Was there a plot to this one? Bruce’s footwork didn’t seem to impress Fatso. Close-up of his ugly puss grinning. Bruce getting slammed around; then a neck chop and a two-hander to the back of the head turned the tables. More cheers and hoots. Someone had told him the guy had died from a brain tumor or something like that. Too many kicks to the head.
He took a cube of melon from his plate, let it melt in his mouth, looked around the tent, got restless, and walked outside. Charlie Khazak was still talking to the driver, standing next to the melon truck, playing dickering games.
The Chinaman kept his eye on the flow out of the Damascus Gate, watched a group of soldiers pass under the arch, patting one another on the back, looking like the teenagers they were. A couple of Arabs emerged, dressed in long white jallabiyahs. Another Arab, older, carrying a prayer rug. A solitary Hassid, tall, thin, wearing a wide mink hat. Like some black-garbed scarecrow, earlocks swinging as he walked. Where was a guy like that coming from at one in the morning on Shabbat—didn’t they screw their wives on Friday night? What was his game—a late wrestle with the Talmud? Or some other kind of wrestle? During the stakeouts on Gray Man he’d learned about the righteous ones. . . .
Shouts of laughter poured out of Charlie’s tent. No doubt Bruce had polished off someone else. As if in competition, the tent next door erupted in guffaws, backed by bass-heavy rock music.
Midnight party time at The Slave Market, every Friday, like clockwork. No party for Yossi Lee, walking through the tents, showing the picture to sleazy types and getting nothing.
By daybreak the tents would be down, the entire area just a dirt lot again, crowded with ten-dollar-a-day laborers waiting to be picked up by contractors. The only evidence of the party scene, the garbage: piles of broken bamboo shishlik skewers and melon rind, seeds dotting the dirt like dead bugs.
A Border Patrol jeep drove down Sultan Suleiman, stopped, and flashed blue lights over the walls, striping the Damascus Gate and driving on. Belly-dancing music came from one of the coffeehouses just inside the gate. A hangout for older Arabs—men only; the women were stuck at home. Card games and backgammon, the air a fog of tobacco smoke filtered through rosewater narghilas. Scratchy recordings of finger cymbals and whining violins, the same love song played for an hour—what use was all that romance, with no women around? Maybe they were all queer—the way they sucked on their narghilas, you could hear the gurgle.
Charlie Khazak paid the driver. Two boys materialized from behind the truck and started unloading the melons, carrying five, six at a time, back to the tent. Hot night like this, they’d sell faster than they came in.
The Chinaman stretched impatiently, walked over to Charlie, and said, “Come on.”
“Patience.” Charlie smiled and turned back to the Arab, who was counting his money with a tongue-moistened finger. Charlie smiled again, a vulture smile on a vulture face. Skinny, dark. Pocked, sunken cheeks, Iraqi beak nose, and one dark line of eyebrow. Bald on top with pointy sideburns and a long fringe of hair on the sides that ran over onto his collar. A purple and green paisley shirt with balloon sleeves, tight black pants, needle-toed patent-leather shoes. A pooshtak all grown up. The guy’s father had been a rabbi in Baghdad; the wages of righteousness, a punk son.
“Patience, nothing,” said the Chinaman and put his hand heavily on Charlie’s shoulder. All bones. One good squeeze and the guy would be out of commission.
He exerted the tiniest bit of pressure and Charlie said good-bye to the Arab.
The two of them walked back to the tent, past the tables with pooshtakim greeting Charlie as if he were some sort of pop star, to the rear, where shishlik and skimpy hamburgers sizzled on charcoal grills and a sleepy-looking bartender filled orders behind a makeshift bar of melon cartons piled one on top of the other. Charlie grabbed a bottle of Coke from the ice bucket and offered it to the Chinaman, who took it and dropped it back in the bucket. Charlie shrugged, and the Chinaman motioned him into a dark corner next to a pyramid of melons, away from the eyes of the others.
“Look at this,” he said, pulling out the picture. “Know her?”
Charlie took the photo, furrowed his forehead so that the single eyebrow dipped in the center.
“Cute. Is she sleeping or dead?”
“Ever sell her?”
“Me?” Charlie feigned hurt feelings. “I’m a restaurateur, not a flesh peddler.”
A roar of approval rose from the crowd at the tables. Bruce Lee had just finished vanquishing a small army of bad guys.
“The mysteries of the Orient,” said Charlie, watching the film. “Right up your alley.”
“Cut the shit. I’m tired.”
Something in the detective’s voice wiped the smile off Charlie’s face. Handing the photo back, he said: “Don’t know her.”
“Ever seen her around?”
The faintest hesitation, but the Chinaman picked up on it.
“No.”
The Chinaman inched closer to Charlie, so that they could smell each other. “If you’re holding out on me, I’ll find out, shmuck. And I’ll come back and jam one of those melons up your a
ss.”
The bartender looked up. Smiling faintly, enjoying the sight of the boss being bossed.
Charlie put his hands on his hips. Raised his voice for the benefit of the bartender: “Get the hell out of here, Lee. I’m busy.”
The Chinaman lifted a melon from the pyramid, knocked on it as if testing for freshness, then let it roll off his palm and fall to the ground. The melon landed with a dull thud and exploded, pink pulp and juice splattering in the dust. The barman looked up, remained in his place. No one else seemed to have noticed. All locked in on Bruce.
“Oops.” The Chinaman smiled.
Charlie started to protest, but before he could say anything the Chinaman placed his right boot heel on the tent-keeper’s right instep, leaned in, and put a little weight on it. Charlie’s eyes opened wide with pain.
“What the—” he said, then forced himself to smile. The granddaddy pooshtak, toughing it out, not wanting to look like a pussy in front of his fans. Not that they had eyes for anyone but Bruce.
“Tell me what you know.” The Chinaman smiled back.
“Off my foot, you baboon.”
The Chinaman continued smiling. Pressed down harder and talked nonchalantly, as if the two of them were buddies. Having a chat about sports or something.
“Listen, Adon Khazak,” he said, “I’ve no interest in finding out what naughtiness you’ve been up to. Tonight.” More pressure. “Just tell me about this girl.”
Charlie gasped and the bartender came closer, bottle of Goldstar in one hand. “Charlie—”
“Get the hell out of here, stupid! Do your job!”
The bartender cursed under his breath, went back to washing glasses.
“Like I told you,” Charlie said between his teeth. Sweat ran down his nose, beading at the tip of the beak, rolling off into the dirt. “I don’t know her. Now get the hell off my foot before you break something.”
“You’ve seen her around.”
“What of it? She’s a face, a nothing.”
“Where and when,” said the Chinaman.
“Get off and I’ll tell you.”
The Chinaman gave a good-natured shrug and broke contact. Charlie spat into the ground, did a sneaky little dance. Concealed his pain by pulling out a pack of Marlboros and a box of matches, jamming a cigarette between his lips, and making a show of lighting a match against his thumbnail.
He sucked in smoke, blew it out through his nostrils. Repeated the gesture. Formed his features into a tough-guy grimace.
“Very impressive,” said the Chinaman. “The girl.”
“She’s been around once or twice, okay? That’s all.”
“On a Friday?”
“That’s the only time we’re here, Lee.” A kick at a stray chunk of pulp.
“Was she alone or with someone?”
“I saw her with a guy.”
“What kind of guy?”
“An Arab.”
“Name.”
“How the hell should I know? They never came in. I just saw them hanging around. It was a long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Month, maybe two.”
“How do you know he was an Arab?”
“He looked like one. And he was talking Arabic.” As if explaining to a moron.
“What did this Arab look like?”
“Skinny, lots of hair, mustache. Cheap clothes.”
“How tall?”
“Medium.”
“Be more specific.”
“Not tall, not short. In the middle—maybe a meter eight.”
“How old?”
“Eighteen or nineteen.”
“What else about him do you remember?”
“Nothing. He looked like a million others.”
“What’d you mean, lots of hair?”
“What does it mean to you?”
“Charlié,” said the Chinaman, meaningfully.
“Thick, bushy, okay?”
“Straight or curly?”
“Straight, I think. Like yours.” A smile. “Maybe he’s your cousin, Lee.”
“What style?”
“Who the hell remembers?”
“She an Arab too?”
“Who else would hang around with an Arab, Lee?”
“One of your cousins.”
Charlie spat again. Inhaled his cigarette and ordered the bartender to clean up the mess.
“Street girl?” asked the Chinaman.
“How would I know that?”
The Chinaman cracked the knuckles of one hand.
“You’re a cunt peddler is how, Charlie.”
“I’m not into that shit anymore, Lee. I sell melons, that’s all. Maybe this guy was pimping her, but all I saw was them hanging out. Once or twice.”
“Ever see her with anyone else?”
“No. Just the two of them, hanging around—it was over a month ago.”
“But you remember her.”
Charlie grinned and patted his chest.
“I’m a connoisseur of beauty, you know? And she was good-looking. Big round ass, nice tits for someone that young. Even in those stupid clothes she was all right.”
“She wore cheap clothes too?”
“Both of them. He was a nothing, a farmer. Give her a makeover, she’d be a fine piece.”
“Tell me what else you know,” said the Chinaman, restraining an urge to slap the little shit.
“That’s it.”
“Sure about that?”
Charlie shrugged, took a drag on his cigarette.
“Step on my foot again, Lee. From here on in, anything I tell you will be fairy tales.”
“Ever see this Arab without her?”
“I don’t look at boys. Do you?”
The Chinaman lifted his hand. Charlie recoiled, stumbling backward, and the Chinaman caught him before he fell. Lifted him by the scruff, like a rag doll.
“Tsk, tsk,” he said, patting the tent-keeper’s face gently. “Just a love pat.”
“Go to hell, Lee.”
“Shabbat shalom.”
Back on his Vespa, he processed what he’d learned. Charlie’s recognition had turned the girl from a picture into someone real. But when you got right down to it he didn’t know much more than when he’d started.
She was loose, hung around with an Arab guy, which meant she was probably an Arab. Maybe a Christian—some of them were a little more modern. No way would a Muslim daddy allow his girl out at night, unchaperoned, least of all at The Slave Market.
Unless she was an orphan or a whore.
No one at the orphanages had known her.
A whore, probably. Or an unwanted daughter sold by her family—it was against the law, but some of the poorer families still did it. The girls, unwanted baggage, traded for cash to rich families in Amman or one of the oil states. The real slave market. Charlie had said her clothes were cheap. . . .
He kicked in the scooter’s engine, flipped it around, drove south around the Old City. Past the Border Patrol jeep, which had stopped for a cigarette break near the Jaffa Gate. Swinging away from the walls, up to Keren Hayesod, zipping through the Rehavya district. Toward his flat on Herzl on the west side of town.
A lead, but pitiful. Good-looking, poor Arab girl with a poor Arab boyfriend. Big deal.
It was too late to knock on any more doors—not that that approach was worth much anyway. A day of it had brought him dumb stares, shakes of the head. Some of them pretending his Arabic was too poor to understand—pure crap; he was plenty fluent. Others simply shrugging. Know-nothing Ahmeds. For all he knew, he’d already talked to the right person and had been lied to.
If she had a family, they should have claimed her.
Probably a whore. But none of the pimps or the street girls knew her. Maybe a rookie. Short career.
Maybe the long-haired boyfriend was the killer, or maybe he was just a guy who’d screwed her once or twice, then went on to something else. Thin, medium-sized, with a mustache. Like saying a
guy with two arms, two legs. Nothing worth reporting to Dani.
Yossi Lee, ace investigator. He’d been on his feet for twelve hours, with little to show for it. Had gulped down greasy felafel that sat undigested in his stomach. Aliza had said she’d try to wait up for him, but he knew she’d be sleeping, little Rafi curled in the crib by the bed. Yesterday the kid had said “apple,” which seemed pretty good for sixteen months. Muscles on him, too; ready for soccer before you knew it. Maybe he’d get a chance to bounce him around a little before hitting the street again. No walk in the park this Saturday, though. Shit.
The wind in his face felt good. He liked the city this way, sweet and empty. As if all of it belonged to him. King Yossi, the Jewish Genghis.
He’d drive around a little more. Give himself time to wind down.
CHAPTER
12
Daniel awoke at three in the morning, troubled by vague remembrances of dark, bloody dreams. Metal through flesh, his hand severed, floating through space, out of reach. Crying like a child, mud-soaked and feeble . . .
He changed positions, hugged the pillow, wrapped himself in the top sheet and tried to relax. But instead, he grew edgier and rolled over again, facing Laura.
She was covered to her chin, breathing shallowly through barely parted lips. A wave of hair fell over one eye; a hint of tapered fingernail extended from beneath the sheet. He touched the nail, brushed away the hair. She stirred, made a throaty, contented sound, and stretched so that the sole of one foot rested on his ankle. He inched closer, kissed her cheeks, her eyes, dry lips tasting faintly of morning.
She smiled in her sleep and he moved up against her and kissed her chin. She opened her eyes, looked at him with confusion, and closed them again. Her body tensed, and she turned away from him. Then her eyes opened again. She mouthed the word oh and wrapped her arms around him.
They embraced, lying on their sides, face to face, kissing, nuzzling, rocking in a tangle of sheets. She raised one leg and rested it on his thigh, took him and guided him inside of her. They made love that way, slowly, sleepily, until climax brought them wide awake.
Afterward, they lay connected for a while. Then Laura said, “Daniel . . . I’m thirsty,” with mischief in her voice.
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