by Roger Herst
She kissed Gabby’s neck, her lips warm, her soft breath tickling tender skin now awake to every sensation. Her fingers ascended softly up Gabby’s thigh, while her tongue gently followed the curvature of Gabby’s jaw. Gabby felt herself moving away from the person she’d always known herself to be.
The shrill ring of the telephone interrupted them, repeating relentlessly. For several moments, both women ignored it. Then, Gabby shook free, thinking suddenly that it might be her father. Though midnight in Washington, it might also be Chuck who seldom went to bed before 2:00 a.m., and would take advantage of the three hour time difference for urgent matters. Either way, the sound brought her back to her familiar self and left her uncertain and confused.
“I’m a little slow. Can you grab it, please,” she asked, shifting position to rise.
Lydia would have been just as happy to let the phone ring until the caller gave up, but she sensed Gabby’s confusion and reluctantly moved across the room the floor to answer it.
“Rabbi Gabrielle Lewyn, please,” requested a male voice.
Thinking it was Dr. Lewyn, Lydia stretched the cord to place the phone on the chair she had just abandoned.
The moment Gabby identified herself, the voice on the other end said, “Gabby, it’s Joel. I’ve just dropped off the kids at their mother’s apartment. How are you feeling?”
She had forgotten about his promise to call, but given her current turmoil, his call had come at a good time. The intrusion gave her time to examine her own conflicted feelings. “Much better, thanks. Dad says I have two alternatives: to rest and recover, or not to rest and feel miserable. Guess what I’m doing?”
“Feel well enough to have a drink with me? I could tool over to the Hilton for a nightcap there.”
She needed time to think and having a drink with Joel seemed perfect. “How are your boys?” she asked, shifting into her professional voice.
“Okay, I guess. But the daddy isn’t doing well. Same problem as before. Agnes is making it difficult. She won’t even talk about sending them back to Washington.”
“Sounds like you need to vent.”
“If you could, Gabby. It’s a living nightmare. I can’t conceive of anything worse.”
A glance at Lydia surprised her. She had pulled away and was now standing, her robe open, revealing her flawless body. She looked both seductive and vulnerable, and Gabby’s heart contracted with guilt and pain. But she needed time to think. Recovering from her distraction, she managed to say, “I can manage, Joel. Let’s meet near the reception desk in the lobby.”
“Are you on crutches?”
“I’m ready to enter the 400 meter sprint in the Para Olympics. When can you come?”
“I can be there in fifteen minutes. I’m dressed like I was this afternoon.”
“Good, because I’ll be in sweats.”
When she hung up, Lydia had closed her robe and was returning to the bed, where she lifted her feet onto the spread. “So it’s me or the dentist, is it?” she growled, employing the tone she used with students.
“He’s got troubles with his ex-wife and needs to talk this evening.”
Lydia shook her head, her damp hair still close to her scalp. “Playing rabbi again, Gabby? I could understand if he were one of the gorgeous men who patrol this city. Strong, tall, with flashing white teeth and wavy hair. Once in a while they still give me a tingle. But Joel Fox, DDS? Gimme a break! I can’t understand what you see in him.”
“I am a Rabbi, Lyddy,” she said gently, ignoring the provocation. “Joel’s a member of my congregation and a friend. Just a friend. There’s nothing between us.”
She hobbled to the bathroom to brush her hair and add a touch of makeup. She knew putting on her shoes would be difficult, but asking for Lydia’s help now seemed insensitive. Fortunately, the crutch proved a perfect tool with which to move her loafers in position to receive her feet.
Once out of the bathroom, she said to Lydia, “No need to wait up for me. I’ve got a key. You need sleep to be ready for your big matches tomorrow.” She expected a rude reply, but there was only silence. That was Lydia’s way – when hurt or angry, she either became hostile and abusive, or dead silent.
Gabby arrived at the reception desk before Joel did. As soon as she saw him, she hobbled to meet him. “Let’s not stay in the hotel,” she said. “I know a tavern down the street. If you’ll bear with me and go slow, I can make it without you having to re-park your car. I’m in desperate need of some fresh air.”
“I’m game if you are, Gabby. It’s great to see you moving around. My heart sunk into my stomach when you fell this afternoon. First thing I could think of was a concussion.”
They moved in spurts of walking and resting along Santa Monica Boulevard. Joel took the outside of the sidewalk, carrying Gabby’s handbag. O’Reilly’s Pub proved to be a block farther than she had thought, but she was getting the knack of the crutches and didn’t complain. So long as she did not put weight on her left leg, there was no pain.
The pub was dark and not crowded. Over a bar lined with beer taps, two television screens displayed basketball games. Below them, bartenders, dressed in turn of the century costumes, transferred drinks to the barmaids serving the tables. Two patrons, half standing and half-sitting on barstools, were kissing heavily, unconcerned about privacy.
They found a quiet booth in the restaurant section of the pub. Gabby surprised Joel by ordering an Irish coffee. She smiled and reassured him that it had been hours since she’d taken any medication. Doctors and dentists, it seemed, had at least some things in common. Joel ordered a Remy Martin.
“Worse than I imagined,” he said when she asked about his kids. “I revisited my boys’ school yesterday to confirm my feelings. Terrible. Twelve and thirteen year old girls looked like street hustlers in tight blouses with open midriffs. Seductive as hell. The boys were dressed like punks and thugs. Dyed hair, ear and nose rings, pants that drag on the concrete, and tattoos. If there were any classes teaching writing and arithmetic, I didn’t see them. All I saw was photography, drama, and, get this, modeling! They’re training these kids for show business and almost nothing else.”
“A different standard from our days, I guess,” she commented, encouraging him to continue.
“And to make matters worse, Agnes has employed lawyers who work with her in the movie business—smart-ass guys who are trying to intimidate me. They threaten to make this a very expensive suit. She’s turned the kids sour on the idea of returning to Washington. How can I make things better when they don’t want to come? I know it’s all her doing. She’s in the driver seat, you know.”
Gabby took his hand. “I can see how it’s tearing you up inside. Have you still got your lucky bullet?”
“Of course. Though I don’t feel very lucky these days.”
“Let me see it, please.”
He removed the cartridge from a pocket and balanced it the tabletop. She let it rest in place for a full minute before she scooped it into her fingers for closer examination. Light in the pub was dim, and she had to shift in the booth to capture the illumination from an overhead halogen lamp. She studied the cartridge as through it were an arcane rabbinic text. She turned it over and over for different perspectives.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“Nothing special,” she said with a warm smile, as her dimples disappeared into shadows. “I just want to understand what makes it so powerful. Talismans fascinate me.”
She started to return it to Joel, but paused to touch the brass casing to her lips. For a long moment, she held it there. “If I could, I’d instill this bullet with all the luck you deserve,” she whispered, handing it back across the table.
He took both the cartridge and her hand in his. “You’re my luck, Gabby. I value this bullet all the more now. It’s got your spirit in it. Incidentally, you played wonderfully this afternoon.”
“Anybody looks good on Lydia’s team.”
“True, but y
ou looked especially skillful. Your volleys were sensational. I can’t tell you how proud I was.”
“I appreciate that, Joel,” she replied. “It makes a difference when somebody is rooting for you. With you there, somehow, I don’t feel like an imposter who doesn’t belong in the tournament.”
Forty-five minutes later, he glanced at his watch and offered to hail a taxi back to the hotel.
“No need to rush,” she said, thinking it would be easier to return after Lydia was asleep. “Since I’m no longer in the tournament I don’t need my beauty sleep.”
“Tomorrow, I’m taking Ian and Donald for the day. Any chance we might link up? They really didn’t get to talk with you.”
“I’ll be at my father’s. If you call about midday, maybe I can meet you somewhere for an hour. I might need a break from his girlfriend.”
“You don’t like her?”
“I wouldn’t say that, but it’s hard to accept a replacement for one’s own mother. She could be the Queen of England and I’d still feel uneasy. I guess she’s all right. She’s just not my cup of tea, that’s all.”
When a waitress arrived, they ordered another round of drinks and sat in companionable silence for a time, their hands entwined. His were the fingers of a dentist, scrubbed clean with perfectly trimmed nails and smooth knuckles. The skin was slightly dry from continuous immersion into water, with no freckles or sunspots. Her hands were callused from holding a tennis racquet. Her nails were short and, thanks to a nervous habit she’d never outgrown, the nail on the fourth finger of her left hand was chewed to the quick.
“Kendra Neils, one of the girls from your gun club told me something interesting,” she said finally, cautiously introducing a new subject. “She seems to have a lot of street smarts and, when I asked how kids get guns in her neighborhood, she said contact is made through a go-between called a Switchboard. These intermediaries can be found at designated times and places. You simply let one of them know you’re in the market. He then transmits the offer to another, and perhaps another, until some trusted individual talks directly to the dealer. A Switchboard provides the dealer with information about the customer. If the dealer likes the deal, a rendezvous is arranged. Money and the weapon are transferred later. The Switchboard collects a fee up front, just in case the buyer changes his mind.”
“Gun running is an old trade,” Joel commented. “In the past, dealers sold mostly stolen handguns—the very guns your Coalition wants to eliminate. But these days, they’re also trading assault weapons. There’s an endless supply of inexpensive automatic weapons smuggled in from China and Eastern European countries.”
“Bart Skulkin was returning a gun to a dealer the night he was murdered.”
“Wasn’t he trying to close down access to kids in his school?”
“Yes. He led an anti-gun campaign.”
“Maybe he marked the returned pistol to identify it later. Or perhaps he brought a camera to get evidence.”
“If we can locate the dealer through the Switchboard Bart dealt with, he could lead us to the killer or killers.”
“That’s a rough world, Gabby. This is something for the police, not you. Remember these men are armed. They’ve already shown that they’re not squeamish about bumping off folks who get in their way. We also know something else, something important.”
“What’s that?” “They’re damn good marksmen, far better than average.”
“Sometimes I think Bart might have been working in conjunction with the police.”
“There’s no evidence of that. I doubt law enforcement would expose a schoolteacher to that kind of danger. Placing an amateur in harm’s way is a career-ending move for any police chief.”
“I have a suspicion the police know who the dealers are.”
“Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean there’s evidence to convict them. Murdering someone is a capital crime, but selling guns without a state license is only a misdemeanor.”
“But what about selling to kids?”
“That’s a serious felony. My guess is that the dealers sell only to kids eighteen and over, which makes the offense less onerous. They spend less time in prison if they get caught. I also think they probably move around, like drug dealers. Here today and gone to another city tomorrow. I’ve heard there’s an established network that moves them around. The minute things get hot in one location, they take off.”
She sighed. “Sounds hopeless, doesn’t it?”
He reserved his response until he had an opportunity to think it through. “I’m afraid Bart’s death may never be solved.”
“Tzedik, tzedik tirdof,” she recited in Hebrew.
“What’s that mean?”
“Seek justice. That’s what we’re put on this planet for. According to the Prophets of Israel, we’re compelled to seek justice. And we aren’t doing our job if Bart’s killer goes free. I’ve got an idea how to expedite matters. Daryl Bender, the kid who gave Bart the pistol to return, is doing time in Norbeck Detention Center in Virginia. I know someone who can arrange for me to visit him.”
“This is much bigger than you, Gabby. Anacostia was a cesspool well before either of us came to Washington and decades before Bart started teaching school. He apparently got involved in something that he shouldn’t have and look what happened. This isn’t your fight. This isn’t your community.”
“If I go to Norbeck, will you go with me?”
Her spirit intrigued him. He wanted to say yes, if for no other reason than to be with her. “It’s not my first choice,” he said. “But if you want me to go along, I’ll make myself available. Only I don’t like where you’re headed. Not for one moment. If the police can’t find Bart's killer, what makes you think you can?”
She had to think about that for a long while before she answered. “Because I want to, Joel. Bart was one of my closest friends. Not an acquaintance, but a real friend. To the police, he’s just a statistic.”
It was after midnight by the time they returned to the Hilton lobby. While they waited for an elevator to take Gabby to the twelfth floor, Joel asked. “Can we, for a moment, pretend it’s still New Year’s Eve?”
The question confused her. “Why?”
“So I can return the kiss you gave me then.”
The whiskey in her Irish coffees had made her a little tipsy, and the evening had already taken her places she’d never dreamed she’d go. Joel’s request seemed both touching and safe in a way she needed badly. “I’d like that very much,” she said. With both hands holding her crutches, she could do little more than extend her cheek to him. She was a little off-balance and he misjudged the exact distance; instead of touching her cheek, his lips brushed hers. That was all right with her, because, at the very same time, she was also moving to kiss him.
It was very dark when Gabby slipped into her hotel room. She tried to maneuver without light, but bumped into a chair with a sharp bang. Lydia stirred but said nothing. Gabby held her position for several seconds, until she was certain Lydia was not awake. Then, she moved into the bathroom, closing the door before she turned on the light to wash her face and brush her teeth.
Once under the covers in bed, she lay on her back, thinking about Lydia and Joel and her relationship to both of them. Thank God, Lydia was not awake. In the morning, her attention was bound to be on tennis and that was for the best. She still had the tournament to complete.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BUZZARD’S POINT
Back in Washington, Gabby exchanged her crutches for a black plastic splint that held her ankle, foot, and lower leg in a stable position and could be removed while she slept or bathed. Perhaps the greatest disadvantage was that, for three weeks, she was unable to practice for the upcoming Washington Pro-Am at the Fitzgerald Tennis Center. On the positive side, she viewed her convalescence as an opportunity to catch up on a backlog of congregational business—telephone calls postponed, thank-you letters unwritten, documents unexecuted, and stacks of articles unread. Chuck Browner effi
ciently organized her schedule and, when there were few interruptions, she made laudable progress.
A few minutes before 11:00 a.m. on Monday, Joel Fox phoned to inquire how she was feeling.
“I’m off the crutches and that’s an improvement,” she said, sounding upbeat. “It’s no longer painful to walk, but I’m paranoid about re-injuring the muscle. Keeps me off the courts, which I guess should make some of my congregants happy.”
“Not me,” Joel asserted. “Since I’m now a card-carrying member of the congregation, I have a right to express my opinion, and I think your tennis is just fabulous. How many Jews can claim that their rabbi is a champion? If it doesn’t interfere with your duties, we should all be proud of you.”
“Some probably are, but others are skeptical. It’s a question of image. I don’t fit the stereotype. And how about you, Joel? Anything new in L.A. with your kids?”
“Agnes thinks it’s a privilege to bring up kids in her adopted nirvana. She’s only been in California a year and considers herself rendered from Hell to paradise. The fact that the school neglects the basics and concentrates on the spiritual lives of its pupils is just grand in her book. Meanwhile, the transfer of wealth from my pocket to the legal profession has already begun. It would be cheaper to move to L.A. to be near Don and Ian.”
That caused Gabby an unexpected pang, but she rallied with a diplomatic response. “That’s an intriguing concept. Other than your dental practice, what keeps you in Washington?”
The question was so fundamental that he had given it little thought. “A bunch of reasons, I guess. My practice, my work with the NRA, and, of course, my friends.” He paused. “And people like you, Gabby. You’ve been a great support. I know how you detest the gun culture but, for some unknown reason, you haven’t written me off. Most women won’t answer my phone calls. They just dismiss me as a psychopath and keep their distance. For certain, I won’t find a rabbi like you in California.”