I went to the bedroom and took the wooden box off the top of Joanie’s dressing table. I had decided from the moment I watched Diana’s Jeep drive out of sight that I had to open Joanie’s next letter. I couldn’t wait another three and a half weeks for her seven-month anniversary.
I opened the box and took out the envelope with the seven hash marks. “Forgive me,” I said, as I opened it.
My darling Mike,
I lied. I said that I would write letter #7 tomorrow. That was three weeks and two relapses ago. I’m getting physically weaker and mentally less able to construct sentences that make any sense. It’s a combination of the pain and the drugs.
I just re-read my first six letters, so I’ll spare you the “How can we not be together” guilt trip that I’ve been laying on you. It’s not your fault I’m dying. My life won’t go on, but yours should. I think I went through the grief process they tell you happens when people die. When I first learned about the cancer, I went into denial. Then bargaining, then anger, and now, finally, I’ve come out the other side. Acceptance. I’m dying; you’re living; and that’s how God has planned it. Who am I to argue? I have to accept the fact that He has more information than I do, so I’ll accept whatever He has in store for me.
I do wonder what He has in store for you, and my fondest wish is a long and happy life. When this all started I couldn’t deal with the thought of some other woman replacing me after I’m gone. But I’m over that. I know she won’t replace me. I also know you need someone to help you pick up where we left off. The other day while you were at work Big Jim and Angel came to visit me. I adore them, and I’m so happy that Jim has found someone to share his life after your Mom died. They asked me what everybody asks me. “Is there anything we can do?” I always say no. But this time I asked them to please help Mike get on with his life. Jim wasn’t sure he knew what I meant, but Angel did. So don’t be surprised if they fix you up with some nice woman one of these days. And don’t be mad at them. They have my blessings.
It’s now time for my confession. I told you in the last letter that I had a secret I’ve been keeping from you. It’s about Frankie. Two years ago he came to me in desperate trouble. You can guess the details. He needed money. $20,000. I had it from the money my mother left me, and I gave it to him. No strings attached. I told him he didn’t have to pay me back, but he could never ask me again. Jim found out (how the hell does he know everything?) and he was a little pissed at me and a lot pissed at your brother. The reason I’m telling you is to apologize. I know it wasn’t the best thing to do for Frankie, but I love him, and he was so pathetic when he asked that I had to.
Please forgive me and forgive him. He’s going to need a lot of help to get over his addiction, and he’s running out of people who give a shit. Please, please, please don’t be one of those people. Don’t stop loving him. Don’t stop trying to get him better.
Long before I got sick Jim told me something he heard on his favorite television show. When somebody close to you dies, you lose a friend here on earth, but you have an angel in heaven. I’ll do what I can for Frankie from heaven, but he still needs help down here. Don’t give up on him. Be his angel here on earth.
I’m too exhausted to keep writing. This is only the seventh monthly letter, and I hoped to write at least twelve. Not sure I’m going to make it. Just in case this is the last one, I want you to know that I’ve said everything that’s been on my mind. If I die in my sleep tonight, I’m ready. I’ll wait for you in heaven. Take your time.
I love you for eternity.
Joanie
I lowered the letter to my lap and looked up at God. I opened my mouth. But I couldn’t think of anything to say.
CHAPTER 48
Penina Benjamin held hands with her six-year-old son Dov as they walked along the tree-lined street toward the synagogue. Ari, her ten-year-old, had long ago given up public handholding.
“Eemah, can I go ahead?” Ari asked his mother.
“Yes,” she said. “Don’t run.”
Ari ran. Dov pulled away from his mother’s hand and chased after his big brother. The two boys bounded up the steps of the synagogue, raced through the open double doors, and entered the building.
“I win,” Ari said.
“You cheated,” Dov said.
The brothers stood in the open doorway and looked around the lobby. It was a typical, modern-day Southern California synagogue. Five-thousand-year-old traditions expressed in a contemporary chrome-and-glass statement that the architect convinced the Building Committee would have the look of their Jewish heritage without feeling so old-fashioned.
Several ushers, men with white carnations in their lapels, stood at the doors to the sanctuary on the opposite side of the lobby and smiled at the boys. One beckoned with his hand, but the two brothers didn’t move.
Penina entered. She was 6 feet tall with the beautifully proportioned body of an athlete, shoulder-length black hair that picked up the luster of her crimson silk blouse, and dark eyes that were filled with concern for her young sons. She was a magnet, and all eyes immediately shifted from the boys.
“Eemah,” Dov said, looking upset. “There’s no soldiers, no security.”
Penina squeezed his hand. “It’s alright. Things are different here. It’s safe.”
Three ushers made a beeline to the door to greet the beautiful woman.
“I got it fellas,” said the man who had first waved to the children. He clarified his statement by elbowing them out of the way and reaching his hand out while he was still ten feet away from Penina. “Shabbat Shalom,” he said. “I’m Jerry Goldstein.”
Penina extended her hand. “Shabbat Shalom. Penina Benjamin. These are my sons Ari and Dov.”
Goldstein was about sixty, a short compact man, with a full head of hair, most of which was still the original reddish-brown. But the Wilford Brimley mustache that accented his toothy smile was heavily peppered with gray. “Welcome to the best Jewish Congregation in all of Costa Luna, California,” he said. “Also the only one.”
“There’s no security,” Ari said. “No metal detectors. No soldiers.”
“You’re visiting from Israel, am I right?” Goldstein said.
The boy nodded his head.
“We don’t have that kind of security,” he said. “But the ushers know all the members, and when strangers come, we size them up.”
“How do you know we don’t have weapons?” Dov asked.
“Oy, the little one too is worried?” Goldstein shook his head at Penina. “Wait, I’ll be right back.”
He walked to a small table, opened a drawer, and returned with a hand-held scanner. “Okay boys. Arms out.” He ran the wand slowly over each child, stopping to look concerned when their belt buckles or buttons set off the beeper. Finally, he said, “Now Mom. Would you open your bag please?”
Penina opened her purse and Goldstein took a perfunctory look inside. “Looks fine to me. Services start in five minutes. I’ll take you in.”
He escorted them inside the sanctuary doors and down the center aisle. “Are you a Sabra?” he asked.
Penina smiled. “No, I was born in New York, but I’ve lived in Haifa since I was Dov’s age, so I feel like a Sabra.”
“Are you visiting family here?”
“Not family. Familyland. The boys have been hocking me for years to come here, and the airlines finally had such a good price, I couldn’t say no anymore. So here we are.”
“And here we are,” Goldstein said, as he stopped at the fifth pew from the front. “This is my wife, Roberta. Sweetheart, these are the Benjamins. Penina, Ari, and Dov. They’re visiting from Haifa.”
Roberta Goldstein was tan, trim, and tastefully dressed. Her hair was cut and colored expensively, with the blonde highlights that Penina was beginning to think were mandatory in the state of California.
Her soft brown eyes brightened as soon as she spotted the boys. “Shabbat Shalom,” she said, giving them a warm grandmotherly smile. Sh
e extended a hand to Penina. “You have family in Costa Luna?”
“I already asked,” Goldstein said, and quickly filled his wife in on the pertinent details.
“Just you and your sons are on vacation?” Roberta said, fishing for more information.
“My husband, he should rest in peace, was killed four years ago. A suicide bomber.”
“My condolences,” Goldstein said. “Now I understand why your son was so concerned with security. But this is America, Ari. It’s not like Eretz Yisroel. Yes, we look for terrorists. But in a little synagogue in the middle of nowhere, we don’t look so hard.”
“Are you staying for the Kiddush or are you running off to Familyland?” Roberta asked.
“It’s Shabbat. We’re not going to the amusement park today,” Penina said, looking at her sons. Dov rolled his eyes just enough to show that his vote hadn’t counted as much as hers.
“I’m impressed,” Goldstein said. “Very few tourists even come to temple on a Saturday morning. They’re always running to go on the rides. This isn’t as much fun as Familyland, but at least the lines to get in are shorter, right, boys?”
Dov shrugged. Ari smiled.
“Plus you’re closer to God,” Goldstein added.
“I don’t think so,” Ari said. “Yesterday when I was riding the Space Plunge, I prayed a lot harder than I do in synagogue.”
The three adults laughed.
“How long are you staying in Costa Luna?” Roberta asked.
“Tomorrow we’re going back to the park,” Penina said. “Then Monday we fly home, with a short stop in New York to visit my late husband’s parents.”
“So today you can join us at our home for Shabbat lunch,“ Roberta said.
“Oh no, we’ll have lunch at the hotel,” Penina said.
“You would pass up my wife’s brisket and kasha varnishkes for hotel food?” Goldstein said.
“Really, we hate to impose.”
“It’s not an imposition. She cooks for twenty people, and we only have seven. Our Stacey and her husband are coming with our two grandsons. They leave toys and video games at our house, so Ari and Dov wouldn’t be bored.”
“Also our son Alex is coming. He’s a successful accountant, very handsome,” Roberta said. “He’s divorced, no children.”
“Roberta, this is a lunch, not a matchmaking service. You’ll scare her away,” Goldstein said. He shrugged and smiled at Penina and the boys. “Please, it would be a mitzvah for us to entertain people from the Holy Land.”
Mother and sons communicated in silence for a few seconds. Then Penina said, “That would be lovely. We accept.”
“Settled,” Goldstein said, just as the Rabbi and the Cantor entered from a side door next to the ark.
Penina looked around the sanctuary. She got the sense that several of the hundred or more people in the congregation were looking at her. But she was an attractive woman and used to being stared at. She was also a stranger in their midst, so it was to be expected. But, she thought, Ari is right. There’s no security here. A madman could walk in and kill us all.
“Shabbat Shalom,” the Rabbi said, and Penina put the thought out of her mind.
CHAPTER 49
Statistically speaking, Saturday, April 23, was business as usual for the LAPD. The first stabbing occurred at 12:08 a.m. in a bar on 137th Street in Compton. The first shooting was twelve minutes later and twenty miles west on the more fashionable Admiralty Way in Marina Del Rey. Both victims survived.
The first homicide occurred at 3:15 a.m. It was a classic recipe for disaster. Take two bikers and one biker chick, add generous amounts of drugs and alcohol, bring to a rapid boil, pepper the chick with an AK-47 until dead. Serve twenty to life.
Throughout the day, cars were stolen, homes were burglarized, drugs were dealt. Yet with all that crime to distract them, no one of consequence in the LAPD, the Mayor’s office, or the Governor’s office seemed to care about anything accept the Lamaar murders. Terry summed it up eloquently. “Everyone who is anyone in the state of California is on our fucking case.”
“Aren’t you the same Terry Biggs that just a few weeks ago was moaning about the fact that we haven’t been catching any high-visibility homicides?”
“Right now I’d settle for a low-profile crime,” Terry said. “Like picking your nose at a red light and flicking it out the window.”
I asked Muller to do a background check on Ike Rose. He came back an hour later with the top line. “Graduated from Northwestern, did comedy development at NBC, had a string of blockbuster films at Universal before he got to Lamaar. Like most studio bosses he has his detractors,” Muller said. “A couple of vocal stockholders, a radio shock jock, the usual assortment of petty little feuds, none of which seem like motives for murder.”
“How about his sex life?” Terry said.
“He’s a powerful Hollywood exec, so there’s no shortage of gorgeous women. He fucked around a lot, but that stopped ten years ago when he married his wife Carolyn. Since then no rumors, no scandal. He’s got three more years left on his contract with Lamaar. Stands to make around two hundred million if he stays on track. Is he a suspect?”
“No,” I said. “It just bothers me that two people at Lamaar got killed, and he’s trying to distance the company as far away as he can.”
“That could just be the corporate culture,” Muller said. “Lamaar always had a history of covering up anything that could hurt their image. Then they got taken over by Nakamachi. The old stereotype about the Japanese wanting to save face may be a cliché, but it’s true. Rose flies to Tokyo every three months to report in to the Japanese brass. I’m sure he doesn’t want them to add ‘What’s the current body count?’ to their agenda.”
I thanked Muller and told him to put Rose on the back burner and go back to what he was doing.
The high point of our day came at noon. Terry’s wife Marilyn brought chicken sandwiches, potato salad, and lemonade. “I didn’t plan to feed you boys,” she said, “but I was at the supermarket and saw this.” She handed us a newspaper. The headline was in red ink. Gay Lover Beats Ronnie Lucas to Death.
The story, typical tabloid bullshit, said Lucas was killed by his homosexual lover because he wouldn’t divorce his wife.
“It’s the work of a fucking genius,” Terry said. “This was planted to make Lucas’s death look like your classic Hollywood sex scandal.”
“Who would do that?” Marilyn asked.
“A public relations person whose job is to distract people from the truth. And it looks like she’s pretty damn good at her job.”
Lunch was excellent. My day went downhill from there. Thirty cops each putting in an eight-hour shift equaled 240 hours of dead ends and brick walls.
And for my evening’s entertainment, I was going to talk to my dumb-ass brother and see if I could help him not get himself murdered.
Some fucking Saturday.
CHAPTER 50
Big Jim had mobilized the dogs. Normally, Skunkie has the run of the house, while the other three are relegated to the kennel out back. But now Dog Security had been upgraded to DEFCON 1.
Jett, the black Lab, was posted in the front yard. I could hear her barking a quarter of a mile before I got to the driveway. I parked and quieted her down by rubbing her belly, which is not a trick I would recommend to strangers.
Houdini was on duty inside the house. He’s a black-as-coal German Shepherd. Depending on the situation, he can nuzzle a baby or rip the throat out of a man with a gun. Obviously, Jim felt that little Skunkie needed backup. The rear flank was being protected by a pitbull named Shotgun. “The Lomax K-9 Division is looking good,” I said to Jim, who met me at the front door.
“We sleep well, but the FedEx guy is afraid to deliver.”
Frankie, Jim, and I sat down in the living room. Jim lit up a cigar. “I want to lay out a few ground rules,” he said. “Frankie, no bullshit and no gaping holes in your story. Don’t make Mike pump the details out of yo
u. As for you, Detective, don’t act like a cop. They’re too judgmental. Listen like a brother.”
“Fine. As long as we’re doing preambles,” I said, “I want to say something to Frankie. I know Joanie gave you $20,000. Dad knows too. I say that not in a judgmental cop way, but in the interest of full brotherly disclosure. If you want my help, don’t dance around any of the old secrets. Otherwise, you’re on your own. Understood?”
Frankie smiled. He was a handsome son of a bitch. Five days ago he looked like a bum. Today he looked like he’d spent a month at a spa. He had always been in great physical shape, and his T-shirt did justice to his well-toned arms and chest. His gray face had returned to its original Southern California surfer dude color. His eyes, which had been all the colors of the American flag, were minus the red, and the ratty clump of brown hair that had been matted to his head was now casually tossed.
“I swear I’ll tell the truth,” he said. “Sorry about hitting Joanie up for the money. I was desperate, and I couldn’t ask you or anyone else. I didn’t tell Pop, but I know he found out, because he threatened my life if I ever do it again.”
“And who’s threatening your life currently?” I said.
“Vicki Pardini. Don’t bother doing one of those police searches on her. She’s never been arrested, but I seem to have inspired her to turn to crime. She put a fucking contract out on me. No bullshit. She hired someone to kill me.”
“Who and why?” I asked.
“I don’t know, and it’s a long story. A year ago I started managing the health club. Vicki was a member. Thirty-five, fantastic body, married, no kids. She came on to me right away. Your basic bored Beverly Hills housewife. I’ve been there and didn’t want to go back. Especially since her husband’s got an Italian name and he’s in the construction business. So I was friendly, but I kept my distance. I even made up a fake fiancée and talked about her a lot.”
“Is her old man in the mob?”
“No. She told me he wasn’t, but she said he’s a real asshole. Tries to intimidate people, makes lots of jokes about his cement mixers, acts likes he’s Don fucking Corleone.”
The Rabbit Factory Page 20