The Terrorist's Holiday

by Andrew Neiderman

  “No,” Tandem said. “I come from upstate New York, Sullivan County.”

  “Sullivan County?”

  “The county the New Prospect Hotel is in.”

  “Is it true that only Jewish people live up there?”

  “Hell no,” he said. “But the way they talk about it, you’d think so.”

  “It is true that they control all the money and the big businesses up there, is it not?” Hamid said.

  “Not all of it. A lot of it. They’re into everything. One gets in, he makes way for another and another. It’s the way they work. Like termites.”

  “You must’ve had Jewish friends living up there,” Clea said.

  “Not many. My family always worked for ’em one way or another, but I never had any real friends,” he said with a note of pride in his voice.

  Nessim found him more and more distasteful. It was one thing to fight a war against the Jews for control of a homeland in the Middle East and to dislike them for their politics and military strategy, but to clump them with termites … Ironically, Nessim was not anti-Semitic. He considered it a personal weakness to generalize your hatred. It was the difference between a psychotic and a soldier. He could kill anyone if there was some strategic or political value in it, but wanton killing … It lowered and reduced the image he had of himself and his cause.

  “We all have quite unusual backgrounds,” Clea said in measured tones.

  “And yet here we all are, together, fighting for the same cause,” Hamid said.

  “We’ve all been deprived of something by the Jews. You, your homeland; and me, my son,” Tandem added, nodding.

  “Your son?” Clea asked.

  “Mr. Tandem’s son worked at the New Prospect,” Nessim said. He could see the utter confusion and discomfort Clea was experiencing.

  “They promoted him into a waiter position,” Tandem said with bitterness. “He was big for his age. He worked his ass off bringing them their second portions and their special juices.” He added in a tone of mimicry, “This meat’s too rare. This meat’s too thick. This potato’s too hard.”.

  “I still don’t quite …”

  “It happened over a Christmas New Year’s holiday. He developed pneumonia. I never knew it. You see, the staff lived at the help’s quarters. It’s a separate building, away from the hotel proper. So the guests won’t be disturbed by their presence after hours. But the headwaiter knew. Everyone in that damn dining room knew the boy was ill. He was walking around with a temperature of one hundred and three, his face flushed. He wasn’t a particularly bright boy, you see,” Tandem said, his voice cracking, his eyes watering. “But he gave the work all he had—to please them and make big tips. That’s what it’s all about up there, dontcha know, big tips. Those fat, rich bastards, filling up their stomachs, ordering him around while he suffered with pneumonia.”

  “I don’t understand why he pushed himself so, if he was that sick,” Clea said, as softly as she could. “I mean …” She looked to Nessim.

  Tandem shook his head. “They made him work. They didn’t care. He was so glad he was doing a waiter’s job. They make big money up there for those holidays. You know what it means to a sixteen-year-old boy to make over a thousand dollars for ten days! He collapsed in the dining room and do you know what they did?” Clea didn’t respond. She waited quietly. “They were so concerned about the guests getting upset they made him stand up and walk out on his own. It was almost two hours later before anyone bothered to call me. They left him in the back of the kitchen with a towel on his forehead. They said he wanted it that way. What did he know? When I got there, the kid was shivering like crazy. All the while, that damn meal was being served. No one paid much attention to him. They were all worried about their tips. Tips!”

  “What happened then?”

  “I got him to the hospital, but it was another hour before a doctor examined him. By the time he got treated, he was struggling to breathe. I knew the moment he died, saw him take his last breath. I swore then that they would all pay.” Tandem had worked himself up. He was sitting forward, his fists clenched. “I never dreamed I’d get the opportunity. I’m grateful. Grateful.”

  “Did the hotel owners ever say anything, do anything …” Clea was sitting forward too.

  “What could they say? It’s a big hotel. Someone’s in charge of the dining room, the kitchen, the staff. It’s like an army. The generals don’t know their troops. The managers came to the hospital, both of them, and they waited in the lobby with my wife. When I told them he had died, they could only say they were sorry. They were sorry,” he repeated and smiled.

  “Amazing lack of consideration,” Hamid said.

  Tandem nodded. “You see how my wife is. I am not blind, even though I pretend to be. She’s been that way ever since.”

  “How did you come to know us?” Clea asked. She hoped Tandem would relax. He seemed ready to strangle someone to death at the slightest provocation.

  Nessim was uncomfortable in the presence of his rage. He was too unpredictable. He decided then and there that Tandem would not have anything specific to do with the operation.

  “Quite often, an officer in the Israeli army would stay at the New Prospect. It’s quite the recreational center of the world for the Zionist movement, you know. I worked there as their chief of security.”

  “Oh,” Clea said and looked at Nessim.

  “I often got to talk to these soldiers. One time I met a Major Nussbaum, something of a secret service man for them, I think,” he said, looking toward Hamid.

  Hamid closed his eyes and nodded. “And quite efficient. One of their top people.”

  “He was a little high one night. We talked for hours in the lounge. This was before my boy died,” Tandem said. “He described some Hezbollah strongholds and I remembered a name. The rest was easy. I made contact. I wanted to join up, fight with them, but they had other plans for me.” He paused, then said, “I move around a bit these days. Then they set me up here.”

  “You don’t own this house then?”

  “No. It’s sort of a checkpoint, a hideaway, a rest stop for members of the organization who move across the country. X-2 stayed here last month,” he said proudly. “Of course you know he masterminded the massacre of the hundred Jewish tourists in Mexico City last year. We had a good talk.”

  “X-2?” Clea looked at Nessim.

  “He’s an American citizen with some political power,” Hamid said. “His true identity must be kept as secret as possible.”

  “I see.”

  There was a long moment of silence. Beatrice Tandem’s laughter turned their attention to the house again.

  “You’ll never believe this,” she said, as she came outside, still laughing, “but I spilled a whole pot of coffee by mistake and had to brew a new one.”

  She started across the patio with a tray.

  “Mr. Tandem forgot to mention one detail,” Hamid said, turning back to Clea. “The dinner his son served while being sick was a dinner dedicated to the American Jewish Congress.”

  “Yes,” Tandem said, a far-off look in his eyes, “and I’ve waited for years to serve them their proper dessert.”

  12

  Barry worked the key in the lock as softly as he could, but when he had opened it and pushed the door, he ran into the chain lock.

  “Damn it,” he said and closed the door again, waiting to see if Shirley­ would just open it now. She didn’t. He heard the television going and imagined her asleep on the couch as usual. There was nothing to do but press the bell button. The chimes played a rendition of “As Time Goes By,” the theme song from Casablanca, Shirley’s favorite movie. He had gotten it for her as an anniversary present. A little while later, the door was opened and she peered out at him.

  “It’s me, Shirl,” he said. Sometimes she didn’t wake up until she was off the
couch for a few minutes.

  “You? What time is it?” She wiped her eyes and massaged her cheeks vigorously.

  “Two thirty, Shirl. Open the door, Shirl.”

  “Two thirty?” She closed the door, slid out the chain, and then opened the door. He stepped in. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Did you get the Wallace Avenue killer?”

  “Not yet,” he said and went into the kitchen. She followed, dressed in her robe. “I’ve worked up an appetite sitting around on a stakeout,” he added, opening the refrigerator. There was some cold chicken on a plate. He took it out and sat down, hovering over it like a cat with a mouse in its paws. She brushed her hair back and plopped into a seat.

  “I let the kids stay up a half hour later because they wanted to see you,” she said.

  “Um.”

  He began to devour the chicken. She watched him eat, resting her face on the palm of her hand, propped up at the elbow.

  “We’ve got a suspect,” he said, nibbling at a leg bone as if it were corn on the cob, “but it looks like he’s skipped out. Had the apartment staked out all day and most of the night.”

  “Sure he’s skipped out. He killed someone. Who wouldn’t skip out? You gotta be a detective to realize this?”

  “I keep getting the feeling there’s more to this one, but I can’t get my fingers on anything substantial.”

  “Whaddaya mean by more?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “That’s just it.”

  “Makes a lotta sense, Barry. A lotta sense.”

  “I hope that’s not today’s paper sticking out of the garbage,” he said. She turned and looked.

  “I think it is.”

  “That’s not right. Really, so I get home late once in a while.”

  “Once in a while? Did you say once in a while?”

  She got up and pulled the paper out of the garbage. She inspected it and decided it was clean.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking it.

  “My mother’s waiting for us to invite her over for the First Seder,” she said as he unfolded the paper and spread it out before him.

  He began reading. “You think she’s sitting on the phone?”

  “A good part of the day she is. My father probably wants her to call and invite us, but they invited us last year. I’m sure she’s just waiting for me to call.”

  “That means your brother’s waiting too.”

  “Don’t I know it.’

  “I’m not sure yet whether I’m taking the holidays,” he said as he skimmed the paper’s first page.

  “Whaddaya talkin’ about, Barry? How can you not take those days? You were almost a rabbi.”

  “Not really almost, close, but not almost,” he said. “I’m right in the middle of this case.” He lifted his chicken-greased fingers for emphasis.

  “Murderers can wait for you to celebrate your holiday, Barry. My mother wouldn’t understand.”

  “You called her,” he said and pointed an accusing finger. “You’ve already called her and made the arrangements.”

  “I haven’t. Honest. It’s been bothering me day and night. I can’t eat without thinking about it. Why do you think there’s so much chicken left?”

  “Just hold off.”

  “Until when, Barry?”

  “Another day.”

  “It’s not right. She invited us last year.”

  “So we’ll fall behind one year. Man O Manoshevitz!” He turned the pages.

  “We’ve got to give the kids some sort of religious environment. I mean, what do we give them? You’re hardly home and when you are, you don’t talk about religion much. I’m practically an atheist, except when it comes to the holidays. I mean …”

  “Hold it,” he said holding up his hand.

  “What?”

  “This item here. This piece on page five.”

  “What item?” She leaned over.

  “‘Catskill Hotel to Host Israeli Military Hero’; Chaim Eban is going to the New Prospect.”

  “So?”

  “The New Prospect,” he said, looking up. “The New Prospect.”

  “The New Prospect. So?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the second time I’ve seen that hotel’s name today.”

  “Wonderful. Fantastic. You know, I’ve never really appreciated the wealth of information you bring home, Barry.”

  “I wonder,” he said. “I wonder …”

  “Wonder what?”

  “If it means anything.”

  “I’m really beginning to worry about you,” she said. “Now, let’s get back to our discussion concerning the First Seder… .”

  “I was expecting you to call,” Rabbi Kaufman said. Barry had called him first thing in the morning. He woke up thinking about the news article.

  “I’d like to stop by and talk to you for a few minutes today.”

  “Stop by. You’ve had no luck?”

  “I don’t know what I’ve had,” Barry said. “That’s why I want to see you.”

  “Okay,” Kaufman said. “Come. I’ll be here all morning.”

  Barry met Baker outside their office at the precinct. Apparently no one had shown up at the Mandel apartment since they left.

  “There’s nothing on these people,” Baker said. “It’s as if they just appeared. No records going back anywhere. Apparently, we’ve come across some illegal aliens. I told Phil to turn it over to INS.”

  “That’s what Rabbi Kaufman told me.”

  “So he oughta be working for the federal government.”

  “Remember that brochure we found in that empty apartment?” Barry said as they walked into the office.

  “Brochure?”

  “About the New Prospect Hotel. In the Catskills.”

  “Oh, yeah. What about it?”

  “Guess who just happens to be going up to the New Prospect for the Jewish holidays.”

  “Rabbi Kaufman and his boys.”

  “No. Chaim Eban.”

  “Who?”

  “An Israeli military hero.”

  “So?”

  “You don’t think there’s any connection between all these leads and facts?”

  “What leads and facts?”

  “I was going to try it out on the chief, but I figured I’d see how you reacted first.”

  “You think these so-called conspirators are goin’ to try to do somethin’ against this military hero?”

  “It occurred to me, yes.”

  “Talk about Jewish paranoia. Jesus.”

  “I’m going to tell the chief anyway,” Barry said.

  “He’s a bit pissed off about this case,” Baker said. “I had to tell him about the ice pick and how we got it.”

  “Well, maybe he’ll realize this isn’t just a routine matter,” Barry said. Baker shook his head and smiled. A few minutes later, Barry was sitting in the captain’s office, pulling on his shirt collar.

  Captain Petersen—a stout man with thick, hairy forearms and a stomach that was as hard as the wall, despite its balloonlike appearance—paced back and forth. He had listened with his usual impatience, an impatience that always made Barry feel he had to rush his information before something else happened and took the chief’s mind off what he was saying.

  “So that’s why I think I should follow these leads,” Barry added.

  “Leads, huh? So far you’ve told me one helluva dumb story, Wintraub.” He spun around and slapped his left palm with the back of his right hand’s fingers. “You got the address of the guy who works in this fish market. You went there because you were given the murder weapon by members of the JDL. Who they are, you won’t say even though they were withholding evidence.”

  “I couldn’t have gotten it otherwise.”


  “Did it ever occur to you that they might be settin’ someone up?”

  “We thought of that, but as Baker said, the Mandels are apparently a fictional family. Illegal aliens. INS is looking into it. There is some justification for our suspicions.”

  “Okay … So then you went to this apartment, found it had been left in a hurry, but happened on a newspaper with an ad circled. You went to the address in the ad, but no one lived there or had for two weeks. Why’d you go to that address anyhow?” Chief Petersen asked, arms out and palms raised. He wore a deceptive look of innocent curiosity.

  “Thought they might be there or the people might know where they were. In any case, we’d learn more about them than we knew.”

  “Amazing. But when you got there, you found out no one was there.”

  “So the super said.”

  “So the super said. And then on the way out of the apartment, in which no one lived for weeks, you found this brochure from the New Prospect Hotel.”

  “And then when I saw the news article …”

  “I know, I know. Look, Wintraub, suppose I pick up this phone now and call the Office of Security in the State Department and tell them one of my detectives thinks Chaim Eban might be in some danger when he goes up to the New Prospect. They’re going to ask me why you think that, Wintraub,” Petersen said, smiling and changing the tone of his voice. It was as if he was talking to a complete idiot. “You know, some hard evidence?”

  “They won’t laugh at you, Chief. The Israelis, especially, respect caution. They’ve come to understand it.”

  “Is that right? All right,” he said. “I’ll make the call, but frankly, I think we’ve got a simple one-on-one situation here. This looks like a revenge killing or a confrontation killing. Nothing more. Your mysteriously empty apartments, lost cats, and illegal aliens add nothing to that theory, Wintraub. These people split because the heat’s on. Go out there and continue to try to trace them down. Just work on a murder, will ya, and not an international conspiracy.”

  “Right, Chief,” Barry said, standing. Baker stood in the doorway, smirking as usual.

  “Maybe you oughta go back to your JDL source. They’re apparently doing a better police job than you are,” Petersen said, sitting behind his desk.