The Butcher's Theater

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “What made it a killer’s grin?”

  The hunchback’s head pushed forward and bobbed, like that of a turkey pecking at corn. “Not a happy grin, very crazy.”

  “She told you that.”

  “Yes.”

  “But she didn’t tell you which way he walked?”

  “No, sir, I—”

  “That’s enough whining.” The Chinaman pressed him for more: physical description, nationality, clothing, asking again what had been crazy about the eyes, wrong with the grin. He got nothing, which was no surprise. The pimp hadn’t seen the man, had heard everything secondhand from his girl.

  “If I could tell you more, I certainly would, sir.”

  “You’re a fine upstanding citizen.”

  “Very surely, sir. I want dearly to cooperate. I sent out the word so you would find me. Truly.”

  The Chinaman looked down at him, thought: The little bastard looks pretty crazy himself, waving his arms, rubbing that hump like he’s masturbating.

  “I’m going to talk to the girl myself, Gadallah. Where is she?”

  Ibn Hamdeh shrugged expansively. “Ran away, sir. Maybe to Amman.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Red Amira.”

  “Full name.”

  “Amira Nasser, of the red lips and the red hair.”

  Not physically similar to the first two victims. The Chinaman felt his enthusiasm waning. “When did you see her last?”

  “The night she saw Flat Eyes. She packed her bag and was gone.”

  “Wednesday night.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you just let her go?”

  “I am a friend, not a slavemaster.”

  “A real pal.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where does her family live?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “You said Amman. Why there?”

  “Amman is a beautiful city.”

  The Chinaman frowned skeptically, raised a fist. Ibn Hamdeh flashed stainless steel.

  “Allah’s truth, sir! She worked for me for two months, was productive, quiet. That’s all I know.”

  Two months—a short shift. It jibed with what he’d been told about Ibn Hamdeh. The hunchback was small-time all the way, not even close to a professional flesh peddler. He promised novice whores protection and lodgings in return for a percentage of their earnings but couldn’t hold on to them for very long. When they found out how little he delivered, they abandoned him for sturdier roosters. The Chinaman pressed him a while longer, showed him pictures of both victims and got negative replies, wrote down a general physical description of Amira Nasser, and wondered if he’d see her soon, cut open and shampooed and wrapped in white sheeting.

  “May I go now, sir?”

  “No. What’s your address?” Ibn Hamdeh told him the number of a hole in an alley off Aqabat el Mawlawiyeh, and the Chinaman wrote it down and radioed Headquarters for verification, requesting simultaneous record checks on both the hunchback and Amira. Ibn Hamdeh waited nervously for the data to come in, tapping his feet and caressing his deformity. When the radio spat back an answer, the address was correct. Ibn Hamdeh had been busted a year ago for pickpocketing, let off with probation, nothing violent in his file. Nothing at all on any Amira Nasser.

  The Chinaman gave Ibn Hamdeh a business card, told him to call him if he heard anything more about the flat-eyed man, pointed him toward the Jaffa Gate, and ordered him to get lost.

  “Thank you, sir. We must rid the city of the abomination. Life is not good, this way.” The hunchback stopped before the gate, made a sharp turn on Christian Quarter Street, and disappeared into the darkness.

  Flat eyes, thought the Chinaman, continuing east on David Street, then hooking north and taking the Souq Khan e-Zeit toward the Damascus Gate. A crazy grin. A redheaded whore. Probably another dead end.

  The souq had been watered before closing, the cobble-stones still wet and glowing in the bands of moonlight that seeped between the arches. The market street was deserted, save for Border Patrolmen and soldiers, giving way to noise and lights as he approached the Damascus Gate. He walked past the coffeehouses, ignoring the revelry and fanning away cigarette smoke, exited gratefully into the cool night air.

  The sky was a starlit dome, as black as mourning cloth. He flexed his muscles, cracked his knuckles, and began circulating among the tents of the Slave Market, buying a soda at one and standing at the back drinking it, watching a European-looking girl do a clumsy belly dance. Flat eyes, a crazy grin. The hunchback was probably a habitual liar, so maybe it was just another con—false cooperation aimed at weaseling out of a larceny bust. Or maybe not. Maybe he had put out the word because he wanted to talk.

  Still, the time frame made sense: a week between murders, the killing on Thursday night, the dumping Friday morning. If Red Amira had been tagged as number three, her escape helped explain why the time lapse since Juliet. Maybe this guy had some sort of schedule that allowed him out only on Thursday and Friday.

  On the other hand, the red hair didn’t match. Maybe the whole story was bullshit.

  He took a big gulp of soda, planned his next moves: Check out this Red Amira—too late for that right now. Examine the spot where the American had propositioned her, see if there was a place for someone to hide, if there was room to conceal a car. Also a daylight job.

  If he found anything interesting, he’d call Dani tomorrow night. He had nothing yet that justified disturbing the guy’s Shabbat.

  The bellydancer shook her cymbals and ground her abdomen; pooshtakim hooted and cheered. Bland, appraised the Chinaman, definitely European, a college girl picking up extra shekels. No zest, too skinny to make it work—you could see her ribs when she undulated. He left the tent, saw Charlie Khazak standing outside his pleasure palace, sucking on a cigarette and wearing a snot-green shirt that seemed to glow in the dark. The shithead hadn’t forgotten their little heel-on-instep dance. When he saw who was looking at him, he threw away the smoke and backed into the tent, was gone when the Chinaman got there. Forty minutes later, he showed up, only to find the Chinaman stepping out of the shadows, using a shishlik skewer for a toothpick, yawning like some giant yellow cat.

  “Shabbat shalom, Charlie.”

  “Shabbat shalom. I’ve been asking around for you, trying to help out.”

  “Gee,” said the Chinaman, “I’m really touched.”

  “I’m serious, Lee. This murder shit is bad for all of us. Bad atmosphere, people staying home.”

  “How sad.” The Chinaman broke the skewer with his teeth, began chewing the wood, swallowing it.

  Charlie stared at him. “Want some dinner? On me.”

  “Nah, already had some. On you.” The Chinaman smiled, pulled eight more skewers out of his pocket, and let them drop to the dirt. He stretched and yawned again, cracked giant knuckles. More than a cat, Charlie decided. Fucking slant-eyed tiger, he should be caged.

  “So,” said the detective, “business stinks. What a pity. Who knows, you might have to turn to honest labor.” He’d been hearing the same tales of woe from other pimps and dealers. Since the papers had started pumping the Butcher story, there’d been a fifty percent slowdown on the Green Line, worse in the small pockets of iniquity that peppered the Muslim Quarter—sin-holes deep within the core of the Old City surrounded by a maze of narrow, dead-black streets, nameless alleys that went nowhere. You had to want something very badly to go there. The hint of a scare and the places shut down completely. All the whores were kicking about working with strangers, girls on the border staying off the streets, opting, temporarily, for the comforts of hearth and home. The pimps expending more effort to keep them in line, receiving less reward for their efforts.

  “Everything stinks,” said Charlie, lighting a cigarette. “I should move to America—got a cousin in New York, drives a Rolls-Royce.”

  “Do it. I’ll pay for your ticket.”

  The big screen TV was turned up loud
; from behind the flaps came the sound of squealing tires.

  “What’s on tonight?”

  “French Connection.”

  “Old,” said the Chinaman. “Got to be . . . what? Fifteen, twenty years old?”

  “A classic, Lee. They love the car chases.”

  “Then how come so few of them are watching? Your man behind the bar told me you had a newer one scheduled. Friday the Thirteenth, lots of knives and blood.”

  “Wrong time, wrong place,” said Charlie, looking miserable.

  “A temporary attack of good taste?” The Chinaman smiled. “Cheer up. It’ll pass. Tell me, Rabbi Khazak, what do you know about a whore named Amira Nasser?”

  “She the latest?”

  “Just answer.”

  “Brunette, cute, big tits.”

  “I thought she was a redhead.”

  Charlie thought for a moment. “Maybe. Yeah, I’ve seen her with red hair—but that’s a wig. Her natural color is dark.”

  “Does she usually go dark or red?”

  “She takes turns. I’ve seen her as a blonde too.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Maybe three weeks ago.”

  “Who runs her?”

  “Whoever wants to—she’s an idiot.”

  The Chinaman sensed that he meant it literally. “Retarded?”

  “Or close to it. It’s not obvious—she looks fine, very adorable. But talk to her and you can see there’s nothing upstairs.”

  “Does she make up stories?”

  “I don’t know her that well, Lee. She connected to the Butcher?”

  The Butcher. Fucking press.

  “Little Hook says he’s been running her.”

  “Little Hook says all sorts of shit.”

  “Could he be?”

  “Sure. I told you she’s an idiot.”

  “Where does she come from?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  The Chinaman placed a hand on Charlie’s shoulder.

  “Where’s she from, Charlie?”

  “Go ahead, beat me, Lee,” said Charlie wearily. “Why the hell would I hold back? I want this thing cleared up more than you do.”

  The Chinaman took hold of Charlie’s shirt, rubbed the synthetic fabric between his thumb and forefinger, half expecting it to throw off sparks. When he spoke, his voice was knotted with tension.

  “I doubt that, asshole.”

  “I didn’t mean—” Charlie sputtered, but the big man released him and walked away, heading back toward the Damascus Gate in a long, loose, predator’s stride.

  “What’s so interesting down there?” the girl called from bed.

  “The view,” said Avi. “There’s a beautiful moon out tonight.” But he didn’t invite her to share it.

  He wore skintight red briefs and nothing else, stood on the balcony and stretched, knowing he looked great.

  “Come on in, Avraham,” said the girl, in her best sultry voice. She sat up, let the covers fall to her waist. Put a hand under each healthy breast and said, “The babies are waiting.”

  Avi ignored her, took another look across the courtyard at the ground-floor apartment. Malkovsky had gone in three hours ago. It was doubtful he’d be out again. But something kept drawing him back to the balcony, making him think magically, the way he had as a child: An explosion would occur the moment he withdrew his attention.

  “Av-ra-ham!”

  Spoiled kid. Why was she rushing? He’d already satisfied her twice.

  The door to the apartment remained closed. The Malkovskys had finished their meal by eight, singing Shabbat songs in an off-key chorus. Fat Sender had come waddling out once at eight-thirty, loosening his belt. For a moment Avi thought he was going to see something, but the big pig had simply eaten too much, needed air, a few extra centimeters around the waist. Now it was eleven—he was probably in bed, maybe mauling his wife, maybe worse. But in for the night.

  Still, it was nice out on the balcony.

  “Avi, if you don’t come here real soon, I’m going to sleep!”

  He waited a few moments, just to make sure she knew she couldn’t push him around. Gave one last look at the apartment and walked inside.

  “Okay, honey,” he said, standing at the side of the bed. He put his hands on his hips and showed off his body. “Ready.”

  She pouted, folded her arms across her chest, the breast tops swelling with sweet promise. “Well, I don’t know if I am.”

  Avi peeled off his briefs, showed himself to her, and touched her under the covers. “I think you are, my darling.”

  “Oh, yes, Avi.”

  CHAPTER

  38

  Friday, at ten-thirty in the morning, Daniel called Beit Gvura. Though the settlement was near—midway between Jerusalem and Hebron—phone connections were poor. A chronic thing—Kagan had protested it on the Knesset floor, claimed it was all part of a government conspiracy. Daniel had to dial nine times before getting through.

  One of Moshe Kagan’s minions answered, announcing “Gvura. Weakness is death” in American-accented Hebrew.

  Daniel introduced himself and the man said, “What do you want?”

  “I need to talk with Rabbi Kagan.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Out. I’m Bob Arnon—I’m his deputy. What do you want?”

  “To talk with Rabbi Kagan. Where is he, Adon Arnon?”

  “In Hadera. Visiting the Mendelsohns—maybe you heard of them.”

  The sarcasm was heavy. Shlomo Mendelsohn, cut down at nineteen. By all accounts a kind, sensitive boy who’d combined army service with three years of study at the Hebron yeshiva. One afternoon—a Friday, Daniel remembered; yeshiva boys got off early on Erev Shabbat—he’d been selecting tomatoes from an outdoor stall at the Hebron souq when an Arab emerged from the throng of shoppers, shouted a slogan, and stabbed him three times in the back. The boy had fallen into the bin of vegetables, washing them crimson as he bled to death, unaided by scores of Arab onlookers.

  The army and the police had moved in quickly, dozens of suspects rounded up for questioning and released, the murderer still at large. A splinter group in Beirut claimed credit for the kill, but Headquarters suspected a gang of punks operating out of the Surif area. The best information was that they’d escaped across the border to Jordan.

  Moshe Kagan had been campaigning for Knesset at the time; the case was custom-made for him. He jumped in, comforted the family and got close to them. Shlomo’s father made public statements calling Kagan Israel’s true redeemer. After the thirty days of mourning were up, Kagan led a parade of enraged supporters through the Arab section of Hebron, arm in arm with Mr. Mendelsohn. Displaying the dead boy’s angelic face on slogan-laden placards, trumpeting the need for an iron-fist policy when it came to “mad dogs and Arabs.” Windows were broken, knuckles bloodied; the army was called in to keep the peace. The papers ran pictures of Jewish soldiers busting Jewish protesters and when the election was over, Kagan had garnered enough votes to earn a single Knesset seat. His detractors said Shlomo had been his meal ticket.

  “When do you expect him back?” asked Daniel.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Before Shabbat?”

  “What do you think? He’s shomer shabbat,” said Arnon with contempt.

  “Connect me to his house. I’ll talk to his wife.”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “If I should let you bother her. She’s cooking, preparing.”

  “Mr. Arnon, I’m going to speak with her one way or another, even if it means coming out there in person. And I’m shomer shabbat myself—the trip will disrupt my Shabbat preparation.”

  Silence on the line. Arnon snorted, then said, “Hold on. I’ll connect you. If your government hasn’t screwed up the lines completely.”

  Daniel waited several minutes, began to wonder if he’d been cut off, before Kagan’s wife came on. He’d
seen her at rallies—a tall, handsome woman, taller than her husband, with wide black eyes and pale skin free of makeup—but had never spoken to her and was surprised at the quality of her voice, which was soft and girlish, untainted by hostility.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector,” she told him, “my husband’s out of town and I don’t expect him back until shortly before Shabbat.”

  “I’d like to speak with him as soon after Shabbat as possible.”

  “We’re having a melaveh malkah Saturday night, honoring a new bride and groom. Would Sunday morning be all right?”

  “Sunday would be fine. Let’s say nine o’clock. In your home.”

  “Thank you, Inspector. I’ll write it down.”

  “Thank you, Rebbetzin Kagan. Shabbat shalom.”

  “Shabbat shalom.”

  He hung up thinking What a gracious woman, filed his papers, and looked at his watch. Ten-thirty A.M. He’d been at the office since five forty-five, reading and reviewing, recycling useless data—succumbing to Laufer’s suggestion that he’d missed something. Waiting for the discovery of another body.

  But there had been no call, just a troubling inertia.

  Two full weeks—two Friday mornings—since Juliet, and nothing. No rhythm, not even the certainty of bloodshed.

  He was disappointed, he realized. Another murder might have yielded clues, some bit of carelessness that would finally establish a firm lead to the killer.

  Praying for murder, Sharavi?

  Disgusted with himself, he checked out and left for the day, determined to forget the job until the end of Shabbat. To get his soul back in alignment, be able to pray with a clear head.

  He visited his father at the shop, stayed longer than usual, eating pita and drinking orange juice, admiring several new pieces of jewelry. When he invited his father to come for Saturday lunch, he received the usual answer.

  “I’d love to, son, but I’m already obligated.”

  A shrug and a grimace—his father was still embarrassed after all this time. Daniel smiled inwardly, thinking of plump cheerful Mrs. Moscowitz pursuing Yehesqel Sharavi, with soup and cholent and golden roast chicken. They’d been carrying on this way for over a year, his father complaining but making no attempt to escape. The man had been a widower for so long, perhaps he felt powerless in the presence of a strong woman. Or maybe, thought Daniel, he was underestimating this relationship.