The Butcher's Theater

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Weaker than weak,” said Shmeltzer. “Speaking of rumors, Shin Bet’s confirmed Darousha’s definitely homosexual. Had an affair last year with a Jewish doctor. Hajab the watchman spends his off-hours at Darousha’s place in Ramallah, doing odd jobs. Maybe they’re into funny business. Want Shin Bet to stay on it?”

  “It’s low priority,” said Daniel, remembering what Ben David had said about latent homosexuals. “More important, have them contact the Mossad operative in Amman and run a trace on Amira.”

  “They weren’t overjoyed about the Beirut brothel, won’t like this any better, Dani. The whore’s no security risk. The case isn’t political. Having an operative leave Amman to comb the smaller towns is damned conspicuous.”

  “This whole mess has turned political,” said Daniel. “Laufer made a point of informing me that the Syrians are preparing a U.N. resolution ‘condemning the Zionist occupation for the wanton slaughter of innocent Arab women.’ After the automatic majority pushes it through, the heat’s going to be turned way up, so you may get more cooperation than you expected. Besides, we don’t need anything flashy from the operative, just a location.”

  “If they locate her, then what? Abduction?”

  “First let’s see if they can trace her. We’ll take it from there.”

  “Okay,” said Shmeltzer, thinking of another breakfast with his Sheraton friend. It would be all business from now on—no more fantasies of pillow play. Since he’d met Eva, other women seemed fashioned of cardboard.

  “Any other questions?” said Daniel.

  The Chinaman raised a finger. “What happens if we do get something interesting from Interpol or the Americans?”

  “Then we check out airline arrivals from the country where the matching crime occurred. Pare down our lists and start interviewing foreigners.”

  The big man groaned.

  “Yes, I know,” said Daniel. “Fun for all of us.”

  The phone rang. Daniel picked it up, heard Avi Cohen say “Dani?” in an infuriatingly cheerful tone of voice.

  “Yes, Cohen. You’d better have a good reason for missing the meeting.”

  “Real good, Dani.” The kid was gushing. “The best.”

  CHAPTER

  44

  It was kind of funny the way it happened, thought Avi. Ironic, even. But he’d pulled it off.

  He left the Russian Compound and walked to the cobbled parking lot, exhilarated, holding on to his good mood even after four hours of paperwork. He’d sweated through every word of it, had called no one for assistance. Wanting to prove to Sharavi that he could handle anything when he put his mind to it.

  The BMW was parked between two unmarkeds. He unlocked it, got in, popped the clutch, and spun out of the compound on squealing tires, past the disapproving eyes of two uniforms. Turning onto Rehov Yafo, he sped west for twenty meters before screeching to a halt behind a cement truck with an engine as loud as a fighter jet.

  A traffic jam. The glut of cars on Yafo was thick as pitch, motorists leaning on their horns, pedestrians taking advantage of the situation and jaywalking between the inert automobiles. He watched as a uniform on horseback blew his whistle and tried, without success, to get things moving.

  Classy, he thought, watching the mounted officer prance in and out of the jam. The horse was a fine-looking Arabian, its rider an older guy, looked Moroccan. Still a samal, Avi noticed. No career advancement, but the guy sat tall in the saddle. Keeping his dignity amidst all the fumes and clamor.

  The first time he’d seen a mounted policeman had been right after the ’67 liberation, on a trip to Jerusalem with his father, some sort of official business. They’d been stuck in a traffic jam just like this one, Avi a timid kid of five, eating sunflower seeds and spitting them out the car window, his father punching the horn and cursing, griping that an administrative assistant to an MK deserved better.

  That’s what I want to be, Abba.

  What, an administrative assistant?

  A horse policeman.

  Don’t be silly, boy. They’re showpieces, useless. A bit of candy for the Eastern types.

  They eat candy, Abba?

  His father rolled his eyes, lit one of those smelly Panamanian cigars, gave Avi an absent pat on the knee, and said:

  Back in Iraq and Morocco the Jews weren’t allowed to ride horses—the Arabs wouldn’t let them. So when they came to Israel, the first thing they wanted to do was jump on a horse. We bought a few for them, told them they could ride if they became policemen. It made them happy, Avi.

  That one doesn’t look happy, Abba. He looks tough.

  He’s happy, believe me. We made all of them happy, that’s what politics is all about.

  Avi looked in the rearview mirror, saw a light turn green, and watched a herd of westbound cars rushing to join the tail end of the jam. He put on the emergency brake, got out of the BMW, and walked to the center of the road in order to see what the problem was.

  “Get back in, you idiot!” someone shouted. “Don’t be standing there when it’s time to move!”

  Avi ignored the chorus of horns that rose behind him. Little chance of anything moving, he thought. Traffic was at a standstill clear up to the King George intersection.

  “Idiot! Subversive!”

  He could see what was causing it now: An eastbound cab had stalled. For some reason the driver had attempted to push his vehicle across the road into westbound traffic and had ended up straddling both sides, trapped by gridlock. Now all lanes in both directions were blocked and tempers were heating.

  Avi looked for escape—he’d jump the sidewalk if he had to. But both sides of Yafo were bordered by shops, not even a break for a wrong-way alley.

  Wonderful—he’d be late for his appointment with Sharavi. The Yemenite had sounded none too pleased about his missing the staff meeting.

  No problem there. He’d be pleased when he found out how well things had gone. All the paperwork wrapped up neatly.

  He heard a whistle, looked up, and saw the mounted policeman shouting at him and waving him back inside. He pulled out his police ID but the uniform had already turned his back and didn’t see it.

  “Showpiece,” said Avi, and got back in the car. Rolling up the windows and turning on the air conditioner, he lit up a cigarette, turned off the engine, put the key in auxiliary, and slipped a Culture Club cassette into the tape deck. “Karma Chameleon” came on. That crazy George guy was as queer as a five-legged sheep but he could really sing.

  Avi turned up the volume, hummed along to lyrics he didn’t fully understand, and blessed his good fortune.

  To hell with horses and meetings and superior officers. Nothing was going to spoil his good mood.

  He reclined the seat, sat low, and reminisced about last night.

  Ironic, really funny, how he’d almost missed it. Because the balcony had become almost a hobby, he’d been spending so much time out there the South African girl was starting to nag. (“Are you some kind of voyeur, Avraham? Shall I buy you a telescope?”)

  Generally he could keep her annoyance at bay with affection and time-outs for first-rate sex—the little extra moves that let a girl know you had her pleasure in mind. He made sure always to give her a good workout, varying the positions, stretching it out until she was right on the brink, then backing off, then moving in again, so when she came she was really tired and fell right asleep. Unaware, moments later, when he left the bed.

  Then back to the balcony.

  Last night, though, he’d been exhausted himself. The girl had prepared two giant steaks for dinner—her monthly allowance was unbelievable; the only time he’d seen filet mignon like that was when his family traveled to Europe.

  Steak and fried potatoes and chopped salad. Along with a bottle of Bordeaux and half a chocolate cake. After all that, Avi had felt fuzzy around the edges but still able to oblige, thank you, madame.

  She’d taken hold of him, pulled him to the bed, giggling. Then forty-four minutes (he’d timed i
t) of straightaway pumping with the girl holding on to him as if he were a life preserver, Avi feeling himself sweat, the wine popping out of him in fermented droplets.

  After that one, he’d been tired too. Listening to the rhythm of the girl’s breathing, then sinking into deep, dreamless sleep.

  No balcony, for the first time since he’d been on the Wolfson surveillance.

  Then screams—he didn’t know how many of them he’d missed. But loud enough to yank him awake, shuddering. The girl awoke, too, sat up holding the sheet to her body, just like in the movies—what the hell was she hiding?

  Another scream. Avi swung his legs out of bed, shook his head to make sure it was really happening.

  “Avraham,” the girl croaked. “What’s going on?”

  Avi was up now. The girl reached out for him.

  “Avraham!”

  The grogginess had made her look ugly, thought Avi. Damaged. And he knew that it was the way she’d look in five years. All the time. While running to the balcony he decided he’d break it off with her, soon.

  “What is it, Avraham?”

  “Shh.”

  Malkovsky was in the courtyard, barefoot and wearing a white robe that made him look like a polar bear. Lumbering in circles, chasing a child—a girl of about twelve.

  One of the daughters, second to the oldest. Avi remembered her because she always looked so serious, walked separately from the others.

  Sheindel—that was her name.

  Sheindel was in pajamas. Her blond hair, usually braided, fanned around her shoulders as she ran from the polar bear.

  Screaming: “No, no, no! No more!”

  “Come here, Sheindeleh! Come here. I’m sorry!”

  “No! Get away! I hate you!”

  “Shah shtill! Quiet!” Malkovsky reached out to grab her, moving sluggishly because of his weight.

  Avi ran back into the bedroom. Throwing on trousers and a shirt that he didn’t bother to button, he kept his ears attuned to the cries from below.

  “No! Get away from me! I hate you! Aahh!”

  “Stop running, I order you!”

  “I hate you! I hate you! Aaahhh!”

  Avi put the light on. The South African honey yelped and threw herself under the covers. He fumbled as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. Where were his handcuffs, dammit! Always prepared and now look at him . . . the wine . . . Ah, there on the nightstand. He pocketed them. Now the gun . . .

  “Help!” Sheindel was screaming.

  “Shut your mouth, stupid girl!”

  “No, no, get away! Help!”

  Avi’s eyes were clear now. He found the 9 mm hanging in its holster over the chair, pulled the gun out, stuck it under his waistband, and ran for the door.

  “Is it terrorists?” asked the girl, still under the covers.

  “No. Back to sleep.” Avi flung open the door, thinking: There are different types of terrorism.

  He sprinted for the stairwell, leaped down the stairs four at a time, pumped up and strangely elated. When he got to the courtyard, lights were switching on throughout the nearby apartments, checkering the complex.

  Malkovsky’s back was to him. Sheindel was nowhere in sight. Then Avi heard sucking sobs and hyperventilation and realized that she was hidden behind her father, concealed by his mass. She’d backed herself into a corner. Malkovsky was advancing toward her, huffing, arms spread wide.

  “Sheindel,” he cajoled. “I’m your tateh.”

  “No!” Sob, breath. “You’re a”—sob, breath—“rasha!” Evil man.

  “Don’t touch her,” said Avi.

  Malkovsky jerked around, saw the Beretta pointed at him. His eyes were agitated, his face moonlight-pale and greasy with perspiration.

  “What?” he said.

  “I’m a police detective. Get away from her, Malkovsky. Lie on the ground.”

  Malkovsky hesitated. Avi walked up to him, keeping the gun aimed. Malkovsky stepped backward. Avi grabbed the lapel of the white robe with one hand, put one foot around Malkovsky’s ankle, and tripped him with a judo move he’d learned in basic training.

  The bigger they were, the easier they fell, he thought, watching Malkovsky collapse facedown. Something to do with leverage, according to the self-defense instructor, but until now Avi had never really believed it.

  Working swiftly, enjoying his competence, he yanked Malkovsky’s arms behind his back. The man’s corpulence made it hard to stretch the limbs far enough to cuff them, but he tugged hard and finally clamped the cuffs over soft, hairy wrists.

  “Oy, you’re hurting me,” said Malkovsky. His breathing was labored and rapid. He turned his head to the side and Avi saw blood seeping into his mustache and beard; the fall had bruised him.

  “Tsk, tsk,” said Avi, making sure the cuffs were secure.

  Malkovsky moaned.

  Wouldn’t it be funny if the fat bastard gave out right here—heart attack or something? True justice, but the paperwork would be a nightmare.

  “Oy.”

  “Shut up.”

  Malkovsky safely trussed, Avi turned to the child. She was sitting on the ground, knees drawn up, head buried in her arms.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “You’re all right.”

  Her small body convulsed. Avi wanted to comfort her, didn’t know if touching her was the right thing to do.

  Footsteps sounded in the courtyard. An older couple—neighbors coming to gawk. Avi showed them his police tification and told them to go back inside. They stared at Malkovsky’s prostrate bulk. Avi repeated his order and they complied. More tenants came filing into the courtyard. Avi shooed them away, forcefully, until finally he was alone again with Malkovsky and the girl. But the others were still there, watching. He could hear windows sliding open, whispers and mutters. Saw their silhouettes, outlined muddily in the half-light.

  Real voyeurs. A damned exhibition.

  Where the hell was the mother?

  Malkovsky started praying, something familiar—Avi had heard it before but couldn’t place it.

  The girl sobbed. He put his hand on her shoulder and she jerked away.

  He told Malkovsky to stay put, kept his eye on Sheindel, and went to the door of the Malkovsky apartment. The wife opened the door before he’d finished the first knock; she’d been waiting behind it all the time.

  She just stood there, staring at him. Her hair was long and blond—first time he’d ever seen it uncovered.

  “Come outside,” Avi told her.

  She walked out slowly, as if sleepwalking. Looked at her husband and began cursing him in Yiddish.

  Well, listen to that, thought Avi—piece of shit, whore-master—he wouldn’t have thought a religious one knew words like that.

  “Bayla, please,” said Malkovsky. “Help me.”

  His wife walked over to him, smiled at Avi, then began kicking the fat man violently in the ribs.

  Malkovsky bellowed with pain, squirmed helplessly, like a steer trussed for slaughter.

  Sheindel was biting her knuckles to keep from hyperventilating.

  Avi pulled the wife away, told her: “Cut it out, take care of your daughter.”

  Mrs. Malkovsky curled her hands into claws, looked down at her husband, and spat on him.

  “Momzer! Meeskeit! Shoyn opgetrent?”

  Sheindel let go of her knuckles and started to wail.

  “Oy,” moaned Malkovsky, praying as his wife cursed him. Avi recognized the prayer, now. The El Molei Rakhamim, the prayer for the dead.

  “Shtik dreck! Yentzer!” screamed Bayla Malkovsky. “Shoyn opgetrent? Shoyn opgetrent—gai in drerd arein!” She lunged at Malkovsky. Avi restrained her and she twisted in his grasp, spitting and cursing, then began clawing at him, going for his eyes.

  Avi slapped her across the face. She stared at him, stupidly. A pretty woman, actually, when you looked past the grimness and the hysteria and the baggy dress. She started crying, clenched her jaws shut to stem the tears. Meanwhile the kid was sobbi
ng her heart out.

  “Cut it out,” he told the mother. “Do your job, for God’s sake.”

  Mrs. Malkovsky went limp and started to weep, joining her daughter in a sobbing duet.

  Great. Yom Kippur.

  “Oy,” she said, tearing at her hair. “Riboynoy shel oylam!”

  “Oy, nothing,” said Avi. “God helps those who help themselves. If you’d done your job in the first place, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  The woman stopped mid-sob, frozen with shame. She yanked out a healthy clump of hair and nodded her head violently. Up and down, up and down, bobbing like some kind of robot whose controls had short-circuited.

  “Take care of your daughter,” said Avi, losing patience. “Go inside.”

  Still bobbing, the woman capitulated, walking over to Sheindel and touching her lightly on the shoulder. The girl looked up, wet-faced. Her mother stretched out arms that had been forced into steadiness, uttered vague maternal comfort.

  Avi watched the kid’s reaction, the gun still trained on Malkovsky’s broad back.

  “Sheindeleh,” said Mrs. Malkovsky. “Bubbeleh.” She knelt, put her arm around the girl. Sheindel allowed herself to be embraced but made no move to reciprocate.

  Well, thought Avi, at least she hadn’t pushed her away, so maybe there was something still there. Still, to let it go this far . . .

  Mrs. Malkovsky stood and raised Sheindel to her feet.

  “Get inside,” said Avi, surprised by how gruff he sounded.

  The two of them walked into the apartment.

  “Now, as for you,” Avi told Malkovsky.

  The fat man groaned.

  “What’s the matter?” said a new voice. “What’s going on?”

  A little bald man with a gray bandage of a mustache had come out into the courtyard. He was wearing a sport coat over pajamas, looked ridiculous. Greenberg, the building manager. Avi had seen him nosing around.

  “You,” said Greenberg, staring at the Beretta. “The one who uses the tennis court and swimming pool all the time.”

  “I’m Detective Cohen, on special assignment from police headquarters and I need you to make a call for me.