The Terrorist's Holiday

by Andrew Neiderman

  She yelled at the kid and that probably didn’t do the headache much good. Bill didn’t give a damn. He had taken a nap right after playing cards and woke up just in time to shower and shave himself. He is always in his own world anyway, she thought. Half the time he doesn’t know we exist.

  Then Lillian Rothberg called because they were supposed to meet with David Oberman before dinner. Naturally Toby wasn’t in the suite when Dynamite Lil had first called, and she was quite perturbed about that.

  “He was going to meet with us before dinner. I had the time set aside, Toby. You know he is a busy man.”

  “I don’t know how I forgot. You said you told me right before I went into the lounge?”

  “That’s right, dear. He’ll meet with us right after dinner, though.”

  “Why can’t we just discuss it all at the table? We’ll be together and …”

  “That’s no place for that sort of thing, Toby. It’s the First Seder. His family will be there … the kids, you know. It won’t take us long, darling.”

  “Right,” Toby said. She wasn’t going to argue with Dynamite Lil, not with the headache she had. She took some aspirin, showered and dressed, and fixed her hair for dinner. Even though Bruno would only see her from a distance, she wanted to be sure she looked damn good.

  They joined the crowd waiting outside the dining room doors. When the maître d’ opened the room, the crowd headed for it as though some kind of vacuum power was sucking them all in. Those unsure of their tables checked at the front desk. The maître d’ and his assistants greeted as many people as they could personally.

  The New Prospect dining room was a handsome room for one so large. Although it ran in a rectangle with a small L lip on the entrance side, parts of it were designed with different decor. The room could be partitioned into five different rooms, if need be. Sliding electric doors were housed in the walls and would move out and across to cut up the sections. Because of that, the parts were paneled in different colors and textures. With the large curtains that draped down from the ceiling and the heavy floor beams that ran across the top, it somehow all blended in well to give an interesting and tasteful effect. There was a continuous circulation of fresh air, and rows of big, crystal chandeliers ran the length and breadth of the room.

  All the tables were round, and although each had a hard plastic top, all were composed of heavy wood with large heavy legs. Most sat twelve people. Though they were spaced well apart, they were more or less sectioned as well so that each busboy and waiter could find his or her station. Small compact cabinets were located every five or six tables and it was from these that the busboys brought silverware, extra dishes, napkins, and other table properties. A coffee heater and glass coffeepots were placed atop each busboy’s cabinet.

  As the crowd entered the dining room, the busboys and waiters stood by their stations, watching and waiting expectantly. The group of people who eventually settled around their tables represented potential tips of varying sizes for the holiday. The seasoned dining room staff knew how to interpret and analyze the guests. They knew what a table of young people meant and what a table composed mainly of elderly guests purported. They knew what a table of children meant too. Most of the younger kids would be served in the children’s dining room, but the teenagers and preteens would sit with their parents.

  The acoustics in the dining room were remarkable for an area of its size. Voices carried well from one end to the other. Of course, when needed like it was needed tonight, a public address system was employed. As the dining room filled up, the murmur and hum of voices grew louder and louder. The clinking of dishes could be heard as busboys rearranged settings to fit requests. The room developed a symphony composed of music from tinkling glass and silverware.

  A long, rectangular table was set up front in the dining room. It was reserved for the rabbi and the cantor, their wives and children, and a choir hired to sing along with the cantor. The Seder would begin with the rabbi leading the traditional Passover services. It was customary, on Passover, for the youngest son of a family to answer what was known as the Four Questions. Serving as the symbolic youngest son for everyone in the dining room, Bobby Oberman sat at the rectangular table next to the rabbi. He had done this before, so he was not unduly nervous. Bobby was a very independent boy anyway, developing his self-image under the wing of his grandfather and being a product of his tutelage.

  When it was apparent that just about all the guests were seated in the dining room, David went to the microphone by the Seder Table, as it was now called, and introduced the rabbi, the cantor, the choir, and his son. Throughout the room, yarmulkes were placed on heads as the services began. When it came time for Bobby to answer the Four Questions, he stood up and , in a clear, firm voice, spoke into the microphone.

  “Wherein is this night different from all other nights?” the rabbi asked.

  “For on all other nights we may eat either leavened bread or unleavened, but on this night only unleavened.

  “On all other nights we may eat other kinds of herbs, but on this night only bitter herbs …”

  Bobby’s voice echoed throughout the room. Elderly people nodded and smiled. Some moved gently back and forth in their seats, moving to the rhythm of the rabbi’s and Bobby’s voices. The dining room had become a prayer hall. The atmosphere was somber. The voice of the cantor carried into every corner and appeared to touch everyone with its melody. Some were actually moved to tears by the words and music. Perhaps they thought of loved ones who were no longer with them.

  The services proved to be as emotionally beautiful as ever. When Bobby was finished, he ran back to David’s table and his father and mother hugged him. His grandfather gave him a glass of wine and sat back with pride, smiling.

  “And to think,” Gloria whispered to Solomon, “we had to talk you into coming for this.”

  “I was coming. I was coming. I just enjoy knowing you want me to come,” he said in a voice of uncharacteristic softness. She squeezed her father-in-law’s hand.

  Halfway across the dining room, Clea and Nessim sat quietly and watched the services. With a yarmulke on his head, he was indistinguishable from any other young Jewish male in the place. They sat at a table with five other couples, three of whom had come up to the hotel together and were closely knit. Their conversations centered around themselves, and after the preliminary introductions and some small talk, they paid little attention to Nessim, Clea, and the other couple, a man and a woman in their early forties, both with rather sad faces. They sat staring at everything most of the time, speaking short sentences and whispering when they spoke to each other.

  Nessim thought they appeared rather timid and withdrawn, and they were a remarkable contrast to the boisterous and gay group of three couples with them. The woman’s name was Amy and the man’s name was Seymour. They introduced themselves as Amy and Seymour Kleinman, the woman’s name first. Clea thought that meant the man had taken the woman’s name in marriage. Nessim only smiled when she asked him, but it made her reluctant to initiate any conversation for fear of a real faux pas.

  Nessim was grateful for the uninteresting people at their table. He was worried that Clea would grow attached to people, even in the short span of two days, and would think of them when the building was brought down. As it was, he had uneasy feelings about the way she was going to react to the carnage. The room, now a mass of humanity, crawled, hummed, and beat with a rhythm of life that reminded him of a crowded street in Jerusalem, especially during tourist season.

  He couldn’t help but look up at the massive ceiling above them, studying its construction. In his mind’s eye, he could see where certain chunks and sections of it would fall. He envisioned the people at the various tables surprised by the collapse of wood, pipe, metal, and cement. He saw where the heavy beams would snap and visualized just how they would slam down on a table of animated elderly people, talking now with their han
ds, almost all at once in their enthusiasm. He studied a table consisting of two families, set directly under one of the rather big chandeliers. It would fall like a sharp metal bomb, its pieces splattering and sending projectiles of glass and metal into the faces of the people around the table.

  Tables close to the walls would be sandwiched by the crumbling plaster and wood. The floor and the sides of the room would close in on them like giant mouths, swallowing them into a stomach of fire and smoke. He saw three immense paintings across the far walls and imagined how they would come slicing down in the guise of guillotines, decapitating and cutting through the bodies of the people in their paths.

  As Nessim perused this potential scene of death and disaster, he thought up freak lethal scenes. Silverware jumping and spinning from the vibrations and explosions flew through the air and into people­. Heavy tables turning over over would crush and break bones. Some of these tables might actually be lifted into the air and sent smashing into a group at another table, squashing them as a flyswatter squashes a fly. The room was as deadly as any gas chamber. A common water glass would become as lethal as stilettos on springs.

  There would be more screams, more hysterical shouting, more cries for help than in the worst Middle Eastern battle scene. For these people, it would be as though the world had come to an end.

  The hotel was as good as placed atop a volcano. The survivors would never forget the chaos, the human pain and agony, the horrible scenes of death, the maiming, the streams and pools of human blood.

  It would take days to organize and free the bodies mangled and twisted around parts of the building. All the while, the newspapers and television networks would bring the scenes to the world. The availability of the media and the improvement of communications would make the aftermath of this act as terrifying and as significant as ten times the death and destruction of a World War II battle. Most likely he, Clea, and Yusuf would be spirited out of the United States and taken back to the Middle East. He would be known forever as the man who completed the Seder Project.

  19

  “As you see,” Shirley announced when Barry walked up to their table, “I do have a husband.”

  Barry smiled at the people around the table—another couple with three teenage children, a girl and twin boys, and the wife’s parents. The grandparents looked up at Barry as though he was some kind of domesticated monster. The children seemed dazed or bored into a stupor. Their parents smiled back stupidly.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, sitting down.

  “You missed the ceremonies,” Shirley said. “They were just beautiful, just beautiful.”

  He shook his head but didn’t offer any explanations. It was apparent from the silence around the table that everyone was expecting something.

  “This is Mr. and Mrs. Rosenblatt,” Shirley said, introducing the old couple first. Barry nodded and smiled in their direction. The old man gave him a quick smile, but the old lady just nodded back, her face still screwed up in a reproachful gaze. “And their daughter, Lucille, with her husband, Morris, and their children Betty, Michael, and Martin. That’s Michael,” Shirley said pointing to the boy on the left.

  “No, I’m Martin,” he replied.

  “I’m always mixing them up myself,” Morris said and stood up to lean across the table and shake hands with Barry. Barry stood up too. Lucille smiled and mouthed a hello.

  “Evening,” Barry said. “Well, what’s the menu?” He picked up the long card beside his setting.

  “No hamburgers, Dad,” Jason said with a mournful expression.

  “This isn’t McDonald’s,” Shirley chastised. “For once, you’ll eat well.”

  “He doesn’t eat well at home?” the old lady said quickly. Her question carried the subtle tone of criticism.

  “You know children. I make them the best meals, but they pick and pick.”

  “You said it,” Lucille said, trying to rescue Shirley from her mother. “But wait until they get to be Michael’s and Martin’s age. These two don’t stop. The refrigerator is a swinging door in our house.”

  The twins smiled together, but their sister still looked bored. Keith began tapping his fork on the still full soup bowl.

  “Stop it. Aren’t you going to eat any of that?” Shirley asked Keith as she eyed old lady Rosenblatt.

  “It’s ugh. It tastes like …”

  “Never mind,” she said quickly. “So,” Shirley said to Barry in a soft voice when the Rosenblatts started a conversation of their own with their daughter and son-in-law, “where the hell were you?”

  “Got involved. I’ll tell you later. It’s good that I’m here,” he added in as important and as impressive a voice as he could muster. She was affected.

  “Really?”

  “Matter of fact, Shirl, I’m thinking of asking you to help on this.”

  “Me?”

  “We’ll talk later,” he said. He caught sight of Tom Boggs walking through the dining room and heading for David Oberman’s table nearby.

  “Dad,” Jason said, tugging on Barry’s jacket. “Dad.”

  “What?”

  “Who washes all these dishes, huh? Who?”

  “They’ve got help for that, Jason. Don’t worry about it.”

  “They’ve got a dishwasher machine,” Keith said smugly. “Whaddaya think, stupid.”

  “Your wife’s been telling us you’re a policeman,” Morris said suddenly in an attempt to break out a general conversation. “Detective?”

  “That’s right.”

  The teenage girl became a little more animated, but Mrs. Rosenblatt still looked quite disapproving. Barry didn’t offer any additional information about himself and his work and the conversation just seemed to linger there, suspended in the air as Morris and Lucille sat staring at him with stupid smiles on their faces.

  “Must be interesting,” the woman finally said. “Are you like Sam Spade or something …”

  “More like the rabbi who slept late,” Shirley said and laughed at her own joke.

  “Pardon?” Morris still smiled. His face looked stuck in that expression.

  “Barry was going to be a rabbi.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Rosenblatt said. She took another look at him. “He doesn’t even look Jewish.”

  “I’m afraid,” David Oberman said, leaning over toward Lillian Rothberg, “that I’m not going to be able to walk around and greet people with you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Something’s come up. Gloria will though.”

  “Fine,” Lillian said, eyeing Gloria Oberman. She really didn’t want to greet people with Gloria Oberman at her side. None of the men would pay attention to her. They’d be hypnotized by the former model. But, it was better than nothing, she thought. At least she’d make some new contacts.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Gloria said. “I don’t drink coffee.”

  “Really?” Toby Marcus asked, picking up Gloria’s remark quickly. She had always worshipped Gloria’s looks. The woman was a goddess to her. There must be some secrets, something magical that she did to keep so beautiful. “Is that for … health and beauty reasons?”

  “Well, too much coffee does affect blood pressure,” Abe Rothberg said.

  “It’s mostly because I never liked the taste,” Gloria said, smiling. She said it so matter of fact and naturally that Toby felt deflated.

  “Oh,” she said. “I thought …” She looked off, across the dining room. Bruno was standing away from his tables now, the meal completed. He looked as handsome as ever, but he wasn’t looking her way.

  “If you’ll all excuse me then,” David said as he stood up.

  “I would never let anything ruin my meal,” Solomon Oberman said. “Especially a Seder meal.”

  “So you admit things were easier then, huh?” David quipped and smiled.

  �
�Easier?” His father just laughed at that. David patted him on the shoulder.

  “I’ll talk to you later, Dad,” he said and went out. Gloria and Lillian excused themselves as well and started their rounds in the dining room.

  Barry saw David Oberman get up. He caught his nod and quickly gulped down his coffee.

  “Well,” he said, “you’ll have to excuse me.” Then added, “I have to make an important phone call.”

  “Huh?” Shirley said. Barry gave her as chastising a look as he could.

  “Is it … about a case?” Lucille asked, leaning toward him.

  “I’m not supposed to talk about it,” he said, winking.

  “I understand,” she said, but she couldn’t hide her look of disappointment.

  He got up and put one hand on each of his boys’ shoulders. They both looked up expectantly.

  “Behave yourselves,” he said. “If I’m not back in a while, you can meet me in the lobby,” he told Shirley. She grimaced.

  After he left, Mrs. Rosenblatt leaned over to whisper in her ear.

  “I think you’d be better off if he was a rabbi, no?”

  “Ugh,” Jason said overhearing her comment. “Then we’d hafta eat kosher pizza and I hate it.”

  The twins laughed and their sister smiled for the first time.

  “Don’t say anything until we get into my office,” David said as Barry joined him. They walked out of the dining room together and met Tom Boggs in the office.

  “I’ve spoken to the maître d’,” he said. “She’s at table 34. We’ll follow a bellhop to the table so we can see her.”

  “What’s he going to give her?”

  “It’ll be a mistaken message, but we’ll be able to find out who she is.”

  “Come back to the office when you’re finished,” David said.

  As soon as they stepped back into the lobby, Boggs signaled to the bellhop and he started for the dining room.

  “If my wife sees me going in again, she’s going to think I’m crazy,” Barry said.