But they were not open.
“Nuisance,” she called, knowing this would mean nothing to him. He didn’t answer to his name. Maybe he was hiding. Sometimes he would sleep under the blankets, sometimes under the radiator, any place that it was warm. And anxiety in her voice meant nothing. Nuisance followed Nuisance’s plans for Nuisance’s benefit. Like the time he had run through her spaghetti.
But when Nuisance did not appear even when she was typing something crucial into the computer, such as a note on a list of things to do, namely check Rawson’s name in Burke’s Peerage, a listing of all the lords of England that might give her some clue to his reasons for things, she became worried.
And she did the last-resort thing for Nuisance, what always made him come. She turned on the can opener. And still he didn’t come out from hiding.
Perhaps he had gotten wise to the sound of the can opener without a can? She tried it with tuna and egg combination. She even put it in a dish and called out that she was serving food.
And still no satisfied little patting feet of Nuisance, no little self-satisfied ball of gray and white fur.
Then she began to check every hole and crevice and space in the apartment. And when she reached the bathroom and pulled open the shower curtain, she screamed.
Hanging from the shower nozzle was a ball of gray and white fur, its tongue sticking out, its neck twisted by a hangman’s noose.
Someone had strangled Nuisance.
“No,” she screamed, and ran for the phone to call Detective Modelstein. This time she got him.
“Who would do something like that? Why would anyone do something like that? Who could do something like that?” she sobbed.
The detective told her to stay there and do nothing. He knew exactly why.
XIII
Rectitude is so robust and sovereign a virtue that it maintains all things in true perspective: it is undeviating and renders unto each his true desserts and what is rightly his.
—WALTER MAP
Queste del Saint Graal, 1225
Claire lay Nuisance on sheets of newspaper, and when she folded it over him she said, “There, there baby,” thankful to him for being in her life if only briefly. Because while he was there she had not been alone.
She was not going to get another pet because she felt that with all her losses, her father and now Nuisance, she wasn’t going to let the world get at a love of hers again. But even as she thought this, she knew it was not true. And it had nothing to do with getting another pet.
She realized a great truth in her pain. She was going to love again, and she was probably going to suffer for it again. But in accepting that, at that moment, she understood that the world could never make her stop. It could only bury her.
All the confidence she had expressed, and sometimes believed, and sometimes forced herself to believe when she doubted, now was hers.
She put the body wrapped in newspapers in a shoe box and waited for Arthur.
He came in ashen-faced and berating himself.
“Hey, Claire, I made an awful mistake,” he said. “You’re in an awful position here. I should’ve known better. I should’ve known.”
“A crazy brutal man killed a cat,” she said. Why was he so upset? He didn’t love Nuisance.
“Hey, it means if they can get your cat, they can get you. So don’t make trouble. The problem is they’re not crazy. This isn’t crazy at all. I wish it were. I didn’t know they’d do this.”
“Who are they, Arthur?” she asked. She made him sit down at the kitchen table. She decided not to show him the open shoe box.
“The people who have been coming at you other ways. First, they try nice; then, they try pressure; then, they try this. I didn’t think they’d go this far. You couldn’t figure them for this.”
He seemed to have difficulty moving his body and his hands. Claire wanted to comfort him. He was a brave man and he didn’t know it. She was sure of that. And a decent man. She was sure of that, too. He was also cute, but she would never tell him that because he undoubtedly didn’t think of himself like that, this tough, worldly New York cop. He would only get even more excited.
“What do we do now, Arthur?”
“They’ve shown they can get to you. They’ve shown they’re willing to break into your apartment and kill. They’ve raised the stakes too high. Much too high.”
“Would you like some coffee?”
“Not now. Claire, did you hear me? The stakes are too high now. They cajole, they promise you, they threaten, they even lean on you a bit, and just before they kill you, they give you a last chance. There is no other step here they’re gonna take but killing you.”
“I’m not so sure, Arthur. I am going to make some coffee for myself.”
“What do you mean you’re not sure?”
“I want some more facts. I don’t want to cave in to wild fear. I’d like some more information.”
“All right. I think they’re gonna kill you. And this whole thing isn’t worth it.”
“Can your department offer me protection?”
Artie nodded.
“And how effective is it?”
He was startled by her shrewdness.
“Probably could save you,” said Artie. “Maybe not. Do you really understand what happened here?”
“I received a threat from someone who would murder cats,” said Claire.
Arthur’s hands tried to explain what he seemed unable to. They opened helplessly, almost begging.
“Look, the kind of people who sneak into apartments and kill pets are the same people who put bullets into people’s faces. And the people who hire them to kill animals are very good bets to hire them to do likewise to you. Did the message get through? Do you understand? This is not a tour of New York City you are taking, hearing about the sights. They killed your kitty so you wouldn’t think they were doing some cheap shot over the phone.”
“Killing a cat and killing a human being are two different things, Arthur. For one, I believe killing a human being incurs a charge of murder. And we know something else from their killing Nuisance,” she said, boiling some water.
“Yeah, what is that?” snarled Artie.
“They chose not to kill me.”
“What is that? What is that meshugas I’m hearing? Somebody breaks into your apartment, kills your pet, and you’ve figured out they haven’t killed you yet, and therefore we should all plant daisies in the sunshine. Lady, get out of this game. Give them what they want. The price is too high.”
“It’s too high here also, Arthur. Someone killed my father. I don’t know for certain it was some random mugging that got out of hand. I don’t know that. My father is dead. Now someone has murdered what I consider a friend of mine. You may just think of Nuisance as a pet. But for me he was a friend. And they violated his life, and they are not going to get away with it. They have crossed any possible line of compromise.”
“And when they kill you?”
“You yourself said your department probably could protect me. I’ve met you, Arthur. I trust you. This is something they shall not get away with. You were right when you told me not to make some sort of deal with them, and you’re still right.”
“You’re ready to die for this, then? You know, dead. I want you to know exactly what we are talking about, because this is dead or alive time.”
“I don’t think it is that. I think they’ve gone to a lot of trouble not to kill me. I don’t think it is in their interests to kill me for whatever their reasons. That is the way I see it.”
“And who are you?”
“I’m Claire Andrews, Arthur. You should get to know me sometime. Do you want coffee?”
“Was that the coffee you served me the other night?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” she said.
“From your experience in these matters, you deduce they’re not going to kill you. Is that what I’m hearing?”
&nbs
p; “You heard,” said Claire.
“All right. I’ll get some people over here.”
“You look extremely angry, Arthur.”
“I am fucking outraged!” yelled Artie. He wanted to break chairs, scream down walls.
“Is it because I am taking over decision-making you think should be reserved for the New York Police Department?”
“Look, you want to get even. Get even smart. Trust me. I know what I’m doing. Give them what they want. I promise you they won’t get away with it. I’ll get them. I plant a hot stone in some package Baruch Schnauer is dealing, and then I’ll come in airtight. Five years from now. I’ll set him up against another rabbi. It’ll come hard and perfect, and he won’t get away. He won’t get away with it, and everyone will remember this incident and they’ll say he was always a crook. Please don’t put your life on the line.”
“And your friend Mordechai Baluzzian?”
“That can be dealt with. Dead is no deal.”
“I don’t think that situation with the Iranian Jews is a matter of a deal, Arthur. I’m sorry. I have to be firm on this.”
There was a silence as deep as all despair from Detective Arthur Modelstein. He did not take the coffee and he did not encourage conversation. He made sure a squad car got posted in front of her building and a patrolman rotated for round-the-clock duty stood at her door, and only then he left and drove alone, murderously angry, to the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn. There, violating the laws of America, the State of New York and the City of New York, he forced his way into the very home of the Reb Schnauer, and in the living room thereof, before many of the rabbi’s followers, who were horrified, did Arthur lay before the rabbi the iniquity of his son.
Neither followers’ cries nor raised hands ceased the fire of damnation that poured from the mouth of this detective. He bore witness that the son quite obviously saw great profit and little chance of blame and had crossed that line separating honest men from dishonest, the good from the bad, the acceptable from the outcast.
And more, the son took the life of an animal from an innocent girl who only sought to testify honestly before the law, trying to force false witness in a court. This did Arthur Modelstein proclaim before the great rabbi himself, as many around them declared how the detective should be punished. And Arthur yelled back to the most delicate and learned ears of the renowned rabbi of the Linzer Hasidim, the seventh rabbi of the line.
“Murderers!”
Many tried to push him from the presence of Reb Schnauer and were succeeding. But the aged hands of the rabbi did not cover his ears this time—they covered his eyes in shame. And he ordered his followers to leave the good man alone, repeating the threats of damnation for him who interfered with the work of good men, of which this detective was one.
Seven generations spoke through the mouth of Reb Schnauer when he said with great pain: “Bring me my son. And do not let him gather his toadying followers, or his smart lawyers. But let him come himself, as my son and a man, alone.”
And to the intruder whom everyone knew, he said: “Since when do you enter a house like this without a covering for your head, Artie?” For everyone on the street knew Detective Modelstein.
“Sorry, Rabbi,” said Artie. Reb Schnauer raised a hand to indicate this should not be apologized for.
When the son came, he was given a choice as harsh as the stone deserts of Sinai. Either he renounced his ways and confessed his sins to the law and to the rabbinical council, or he would no longer be the rabbi’s son.
When Artie saw the boy fall to his knees, weeping and begging forgiveness, all the anger went and he felt ashamed to witness another man’s disgrace. He asked to leave and was told he should not.
The old man embraced the boy, kissing his cheeks.
“Come,” said the seventh rabbi of the family from Linz, “we will share our shame together. We have done an injustice to this girl, and we must make it right.”
And he quoted the Talmud that there is no shame in the shame that comes from correcting an injustice, for real judgment is not in the eyes of men or nations but in Him alone, the only eyes that mattered. “Artie, take us to her,” said Reb Schnauer. “We may frighten her so many of us all at once.”
“How many of you are coming?” asked Artie.
“As many as must hear my son apologize and make amends to the woman.”
Only when Claire Andrews heard Artie’s voice on the house intercom did she press the enter button. She was not prepared for the crowd that filled her apartment. Men in black, wearing their hats indoors, all with beards, pushed and angled and squeezed their way into her one-bedroom, living room, tiny kitchen apartment. Those who could not get in stood at the door.
She thought for a moment that if they kept the door open, Nuisance would get out. Then she realized this was not a danger anymore, and that hurt.
“This is Reb Schnauer,” said Artie. “He is the leader of the Linzer Hasidim. Rabbi, this is Claire Andrews.”
An old man with eyes as dark as caverns of wisdom and beard immaculate white lowered his head and raised it in a nod.
“This is my son Baruch, who before his brethren wishes to tell you something.”
A young very pale man whom Claire thought might have been handsome if he were not so obsessed with looking like everyone else in wide-brimmed black hat and black coat and hair wildly all over his face and head stepped forward.
“I am Baruch Schnauer. I tried to deal in your stones, although I did not know they were yours. But I should have been suspicious. I employed people to get you to withdraw your claims and the charges. I am sorry. I apologize and wish to make amends.”
“You can’t bring back my cat, Nuisance,” said Claire.
“What?” said Baruch Schnauer, looking to Detective Modelstein.
“Your guys strangled her pet as a warning,” said Artie.
“I never ordered that. I never threatened her life. Never, Father,” said Baruch to the old man.
“Can you account for the actions of those you hired?”
“No, Father.”
“Then you killed her cat. And if we had not stopped this now, you would have killed her. The guilt of the hired man and of the master are one.”
“Can I pay you? Can I make recompense?” said the son.
“I don’t want your money,” said Claire.
“What can we give?” asked the father.
“Actually,” said Claire, “I do need help. I am looking for something, and I need help. My father owned a saltcellar of great value. A saltcellar is a valuable …”
“We know what a saltcellar is, my child,” said Reb Schnauer. “Was it Italian, French, German, English?”
“English, I believe. It was a trunk of a thing.”
“That would be English,” said the rabbi. There was a murmuring in a guttural language behind the rabbi, and Artie explained that everyone was being informed as to the discussion, some even what a saltcellar was. The language was Yiddish, some of which Artie understood.
Artie also asked Claire if she really wanted to go into this thing now with these people.
“Of course I do.”
“They’re kind of very practical on things. If you have a favor coming from the Reb Schnauer it’s a valuable thing. I mean it’s like a few thousand people out there all owe you something. What I’m saying is maybe you’ll want to think a bit about it.”
“I know what I want, Arthur. I would think you should know this by now, more than anyone.”
“They’re very practical people in some ways. They might not understand this … project you’re on.”
Even though Artie was talking in a hushed and private voice the Reb Schnauer heard him.
“For someone who has spent so little time in studying Talmud, if any time at all, you seem to understand us very well, Artie. Of diamonds, you know a bit.” The meaning was clear. Artie did not know what he was talking about.
Artie shrugged and opened his hands, indicating he wa
s bowing out from the business of the Reb Schnauer and the lady from Ohio. He opened his hands for the lady from Carney, Ohio, and the Reb Schnauer, seventh on the line of the rabbis of the Linzer Hasidim, to enjoy themselves. He wasn’t leaving. He wanted to watch this. The pretty little blond lady with her Ohio State rah rah would be like a kazoo in a funeral parlor. Even as he watched the Linzer Hasidim crowd in on her to better hear the story, he had to hold back a chuckle. The very intensity of their faces made the whole thing more laughable as she started to explain about Carney, Ohio, a place undoubtedly as strange to them as Mars or Tibet. Where was this Carney, Ohio, and what was it like? were the questions asked by these men who knew a few square blocks in Brooklyn and one street in midtown Manhattan. A few of them knew a building in Antwerp or London in which diamonds were exchanged. Outside of that their faces were continuously buried in holy writ.
After a few answers, everyone seemed to comprehend Carney, Ohio, a small American town in which everyone knew everyone else, and the father starting as a poor man, becoming rich, and marrying a rich woman. There were those in the town who resented his success, and when he died it came to light that he was selling something very valuable that some said was stolen. Many people believed this slander because of the nature of the object, the cellar, and how he was selling it. Claire wanted to prove his legal ownership of the cellar, and to do this, among other things, she was looking at its history.
This cellar had many jewels, of which the six good diamonds were a part.
There was a murmuring and several discussions. Baruch Schnauer talked rapidly in Yiddish to his father. Artie could only make out a couple of words.
“They were polished, my son says. This is an old style for a diamond.”
“And there were six of them. I believe that there had to be mention of them in history. But I don’t know where to look. I don’t know where to begin. Gems meant different things in different times and there isn’t a jeweler I know who seems to understand this,” said Claire.
“They were matched, did you know that?” asked Baruch Schnauer.
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