The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

  He grimaced. “Perhaps you know how difficult it is to get the three major factions of our religion to agree on anything.” Genuine remorse sliced through Sheinfeld’s polish. “Reb Dov’s ability to command this wide-ranging respect is one of the bitter ironies. Over the years the Yeshiva drew larger and larger crowds for their Simchas Torah celebration. By necessity they were forced to dance outside.” Rabbi Sheinfeld shrugged. “In truth, the Rebbe relished the large participation.”

  “One of the ironies?”

  “Well, Mr. Jacob, in a perverse way it is quite ironic that the bastards chose him to kill.”

  “Perverse?”

  “Reb Dov was a gentle man. He demanded non-violence from his followers regardless of the provocation.” A grave look clouded his face. “I’m sorry to say, his approach is not universally shared. A growing number of Jews are enraged with the rising tide of anti-Semitic incidents. The Rebbe deplored violence, but his death, especially if something…unexpected happens to Reb Yonah, will add ammunition to those calling for a preemptive defense.”

  “Preemptive defense? Sounds like something left over from Vietnam. What do you mean ‘if something unexpected should occur’ to Reb Yonah?”

  “If Reb Yonah were to be engaged in a long legal wrangle, the militants among us will have an opportunity and platform to promote their views. Especially among the Hasidim. I believe in the old admonition to ‘choose our enemies carefully for one day we will come to resemble them.’ Unfortunately, there are people already rattling sabers. Reb Dov’s death is a bitter pill and there are those who simply won’t swallow it.”

  He nodded absently, still caught in his concern. “It’s a tricky situation. Last night’s horror didn’t occur in a vacuum. The number and magnitude of incidents against the Jewish people throughout the world have steadily increased.”

  The glasses were off again and his lean tennis body edged forward. “The Hasidim have absorbed the brunt of the trouble.” He shook his head. “I suppose they most resemble an anti-Semite’s picture of a Jew.” He paused as a quick smile flew across his face. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jacob. I don’t think you asked for a sermon.”

  “Matt, Rabbi. This is helpful. It gives me a context to work from. I don’t have any experience with Hasids, and I’m somewhat apprehensive about interviewing them.”

  Rabbi Sheinfeld nodded sympathetically but when he spoke his voice had an edge. “I’m happy to make a few calls but understand, the Hasidim use me when they need to, but otherwise have nothing to do with me or my Reform Temple.”

  “Why is that?”

  “In their eyes I represent someone who separates Jews from their religion. Many Hasidim believe you are either Orthodox or you are not a Jew. There is no in-between.”

  “You don’t sound entirely comfortable with the situation.”

  “To be the object of scorn is unpleasant. It also represents an intolerance I find disturbing.”

  “But you help them when they need it?”

  “They are my brothers, Mr. Jacob…Matt. And, as I said, Reb Dov was different. A man with enough breadth and insight to respect all people.”

  “All people or all Jews?”

  Sheinfeld stood. “Do you always bring that chip with you, or is it reserved for religion?”

  “I’m leery of fanatics, that’s all.”

  Sheinfeld sat back down and pulled the telephone closer. “I don’t think you mean it when you say ‘that’s all.’”

  I thought of my discomfort with Simon’s relationship to the Temple. “There’s been an awful lot of innocent blood spilled in God’s name.” I paused then shrugged. “Besides, like I said, the thought of interviewing Hasids is intimidating. I’ve never seen one up close.”

  He appreciated my admission. “Don’t be alarmed, they don’t have horns.”

  “I hope you meant that as a joke?”

  Sheinfeld raised his eyebrow. “I didn’t, but it’s not bad.”

  I gave up trying to sleep and settled for The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, Fritos, marijuana, and diet Coke. I was just getting couch-comfortable when the telephone rang. I automatically began my neurotic do-I-or-don’t-I, but was too damn tired for the debate.

  “I just spoke to Rabbi Sheinfeld.” Simon’s sleep-thick voice barked over the wire. “He thought you were pretty interesting.”

  “‘We are all interesting in the eyes of the Lord.’ Or is that ‘sinners’?”

  “I was certain you’d have the phone off the hook. Instead, you’re up and running your mouth. I’m not sure which is worse.”

  “Me asleep? When there are Rabbis to question? God to investigate?”

  Simon grew suspicious. “Have you been burying your nose in the rest of that sugar? Shit, Matt, I can’t have you on a binge and crash routine. This case is important to me.”

  “What the hell are you complaining about? You gave me the coke.”

  “I gave you a toot, Matt. You walked off with the bottle.”

  “Always a lawyer, aren’t you?”

  “Not always. Now. Do I have to get Lou to baby-sit?”

  Lou was my dead wife’s father who had recently moved into the building from Chicago after his wife, Martha, died. Though both our names were on the six-flats’ title, Lou was the real owner. After the accident he bought the original building and hired me to manage it. He wanted to give me something to do while I theoretically pulled my life back together. Since that time, Lou had bought the building next door and I’d stopped superintending. These days he talked about adding to the empire. As far as me getting it together, well, theories are, sometimes, just theories. And reality had me forgetting about Simon’s little glass bottle. Now that was a surprise.

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Boss,” I growled. “Lou knows better than to take that gig. Anyway, I’m not fucked up; some of us don’t sleep real good during the day.”

  “Some of us don’t speak English real good either.”

  “But I understand it well enough to know I don’t belong pulling on earlocks. What are you dragging me into? I was there when Sheinfeld made the calls. Hasids prefer to speak Yiddish!”

  “Look, I’m not really concerned about the drugs, you have a fucking hollow head,” Simon said, oblivious to my remark. “It’s your attitude that has me worried.”

  “Say what?”

  “Your attitude,” he repeated. “I know it pisses you off that I’m involved with a Temple. But I want you to keep that separate. This case is important for a lot of reasons. If you keep your nose to the highway and away from the coke, I’ll be better off.”

  I lifted my Diet Coke can, sniffed loudly, and released a deep sigh.

  “I heard that, smartass. Try to pay attention, will you? I know you have to speak with the Hasidim to get started—but that’s it. Your job is Sean Kelly and the White Avengers. You work the Hasidim once then be done with them, capiche?”

  “Capiche my hindquarter. I don’t need you to tell me how to work. And I don’t need you looking up my nose; I told you this morning I’d get the job done.”

  “A minute ago…” he started.

  “A minute ago I was complaining about doing business with Hasids who don’t want to speak English. Next I’ll complain about white supremacists who can’t speak it. I’m an equal opportunity complainer. Now put it down, will you?” I couldn’t clamp my irritation over his patronizing attitude; although he acted like this whenever we worked a case that stressed him, this was worse than usual.

  Simon stayed quiet on the other end of the line until he had coughed up more of the wake-up from his throat. “Well, I don’t think the crap about religion is part of your general whining, but I didn’t call to argue.” He paused. “Look, Matt, I’m uptight about what you think.”

  “About the case?”

  “About the Jewish thing.”

  “My Jewish thing?”

  “Mine.”

  Whatever taste I had for a fight evaporated. “Come on, Simon, I understand you want somethi
ng to believe in. Hell,” I lied, “I don’t have any problem with that. For you. I just don’t want anything with a capital letter for me.” I neglected to add that when I had things to believe in, they usually broke my heart.

  “But that’s my trip,” I finished. “What you do for a spiritual life is your business.”

  He grunted his agreement. “So what did you think of Sheinfeld?” he asked.

  “He made time to see me and let the Hasids know I was going to interview them. What was I supposed to think?”

  “Lighten up, Matt. I just want to know whether you liked him. Since you know about my…”

  “It’s one thing to know, Simon,” I interrupted, “another to hear about it every time we talk. Let’s leave the music to the angels.” I sounded harsher than I felt. Maybe.

  “What happened to Mr. Tolerance?”

  Before I had a retort, his tone changed. “Enough about this shit, let’s talk case,” he said, his voice all business.

  “What’s to say? I’ll visit the Hasids and take it from there.”

  “When are you going to see Reb Yonah?”

  “I don’t know. I hadn’t mapped it out.”

  “The sooner you start the better, but get ready. The good Rabbi is not an easy man.”

  He kept finding ways to tick me off. “I already have started, Simon. One of us still hasn’t slept. Sheinfeld was work, not a personal consultation.”

  He chuckled. “I know Rabbi Sheinfeld was work. But Rabbi Sheinfeld was easy work.”

  “What are you warning me about?” I asked.

  Simon’s chuckle turned sarcastic. “I’m not going to tell you how to do your job, Matt.”

  I returned to the movie but, instead of enjoying the way Richard Burton used stillness to suggest intensity, the black-and-white quiet popped a door to my uneasy anxiety. I thought about sleep, about smoking more dope, about using the little snort machine. I thought about visiting with Mrs. Sullivan, the elderly tenant I’d looked after when I’d been the super. I even thought about calling my sometime woman friend, Boots. Unfortunately, this wasn’t one of those times.

  Everything registered empty until I scarfed a sliced American cheese-food sandwich, smoked a cigarette, and decided to get out of the house. I needed something other than my tail to chase. And I’d start with Simon’s client, Reb Yonah.

  The Rabbi’s house was a skinny, nondescript brownstone on a neat, quiet block squeezed tight against its neighbor. On the walk from my parking space I noticed a child’s orange chalk-drawn hopscotch board on the sidewalk three houses away from Reb Yonah’s. But I didn’t see any kids, odd for a mild late afternoon. As I continued toward his house I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle. Sometimes that meant I was being watched. Other times it meant I was stoned when I shouldn’t be.

  The Rabbi’s home was dark and appeared empty, but I climbed a short flight of steps and rang the bell anyway. To my surprise a deep voice resonated from inside the dark. I didn’t understand the language but the tone suggested enter. I grabbed the knob and found myself in a gloomy, unadorned hallway, the only light shredding from off the side.

  “Nu? Nu? Ve Gaast.”

  By the time he finished speaking, his impatient tone contained a worried edge. I walked toward his voice, pushed at a half-closed door, and found myself standing in the entrance of a large living/dining room. A heavy brown, nicked, wooden table rested upon a rug-less, scratched oak floor. A tall, austere older man with a receding hairline and a wild, gray beard stood stiffly behind the table in a circle of dull overhead light. A stack of open books rested on the table. The sleeves of his frayed white shirt were rolled, and he tugged at the right one, yanking it down to his wrist. Not quick enough to hide the flash of blue on his dark-haired forearm.

  “Who are you?” he demanded in accented English.

  “I’m Matthew Jacob. I work for your lawyer, Simon Roth. I’m sorry if I frightened you. I thought you invited me in.”

  “No,” he shook his head, “I did not invite you in. I asked who you were.” He paused then asked, “Jacob is a Jewish name but you don’t understand Yiddish?”

  “No I don’t. I’m sorry to make it difficult for you.”

  Reb Yonah’s lips tightened. His eyes were wary as he remained silent, standing, and waiting. He didn’t offer me a chair.

  “Do you mind if we sit?” I requested.

  “Is this really necessary? I’ve told everything I know to the police. And to this lawyer Roth. Why don’t you speak with them?”

  “I’ve spoken with Simon, Rabbi, and if I have to I’ll talk to the police. But since I’m on your defense team it makes sense for us to go over the situation.”

  “Defense team,” he scoffed with a swift, emphatic shake of his head. “If they want to punish me they will—with or without a defense team.”

  Simon was right; Reb Yonah was not an easy do. “Why would they want to punish you, Rabbi? From what I understand, you were simply trying to protect the rest of the congregation.”

  He stared dourly, his arms hanging at his sides. One sleeve up, another down. Braided strings from inside his pants dangled down into his pockets. A large black velvet yarmulke covered the back of his head. My earlier discomfort with Judaism hit me again and my head suddenly felt naked.

  He caught me staring at his strings, pulled his suitcoat off the chair behind him, and put it on. “It doesn’t matter what the truth is,” he said. “If officials wish to punish, they punish.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not that easy. This isn’t…”

  “Germany? That was another civilized country.” His voice went flat, expressionless. “You know what happened there, don’t you?”

  I raised my hands. “Slow down, Rabbi. I’m not someone who often defends the government, but we’re not talking Nazis here.”

  My unfortunate choice of words fueled his frayed temper. “What would you call a government that permits continuous attacks and abuse upon the Jewish people? A government that allows the assassination of our Rebbe?”

  There was no need to fan the flame. “Rabbi, I’m not here to defend any government. I’m on your side. I was hired to help in the unlikely event the State does press charges.”

  He waved his hand in an abrupt, scornful gesture. As if to slap my face. “I’m not afraid of your State.” Reb Yonah’s voice started evenly but picked up a note of shrillness as he continued. “Anti-Semitism is not new. But Jews never learn. First, a frantic attempt to assimilate. Then, a denial of the obvious. No matter how hard Jewish anti-Semites work to forget, they remain Jews. But they always keep quiet when their governments allow inquisitions, pogroms”—he jerked his right arm straight, the motion dragging both the suit and unbuttoned shirtsleeve up his forearm. “They were among those who kept silent about this,” he snarled, exposing his blue, branded concentration camp numbers.

  I stepped back, took a breath, and looked around the double room. Aside from the books on the table, everything was as cold and severe as its master. I glanced at the clear plastic that rode the living room furniture. Even in the dim light I could see its yellowed age.

  “Our conversation disturbs you, doesn’t it?” Yonah’s hard, relentless voice interrupted.

  People react in different ways after they kill someone, and Reb Yonah was still in the throes of aftershock. Perhaps he was more frightened of the legal system than he could admit. Or maybe this was who he was. No matter, today wasn’t a good day for me to eat much shit. I’d already had my fill about the world’s anti-Semitism.

  I met his eyes and spoke firmly. “Rabbi, I can imagine how difficult all this must be for you, but attacking me won’t help anything. I hate what happened to you during the war, hate what happened the other night. Simon Roth hired me to investigate and unfortunately that means I have to ask questions. My job is to gather information that will help make sense of the conflicts between your community and the White Avengers, as well as the specifics of the other night. I thought Rabbi Sheinfeld to
ld you I planned to visit. If this is a bad time I’ll gladly return.”

  Reb Yonah’s icy stare never faltered and the mention of Sheinfeld only added fresh harshness to his voice. “Sheinfeld. Sheinfeld’s worse than the goyim. He pretends to represent our Laws when all he does is give Jews permission to assimilate.”

  His body was tense and rigid, filled with wall-to-wall hate. I held little hope of getting any useful information, but his nasty prejudices bothered me. “I thought you asked Rabbi Sheinfeld for help.”

  “Yes.” An almost cunning look darted across his stern face. “Yes. Dealing with the goyische world is what he does best.”

  “Assimilation has its function,” I agreed.

  Reb Yonah ran a hand across his eyes then stared past my shoulder. I watched as he let some of his anger dissipate. He looked at me thoughtfully, nodding as if a bond had somehow been formed between us. I didn’t know what that bond was and his gesture only made me more uncomfortable.

  “Perhaps I am being unfair toward Rabbi Sheinfeld,” he finally admitted. “You must forgive me. The divisions among Jews are as ancient as they are unfortunate. It is the rest of the world who is united in their hatred of us. The grief of my Rebbe’s murder has obviously been upsetting. I am very sorry if I have offended you.”

  His apologetic words just didn’t jibe with my whiff of his personality. “I’m sure that’s true,” I said. “Would you care to talk about the other night?” I smiled inwardly, knowing what was certain to come. Something that never happened for me at the ponies.

  “Could we meet at another time?” he asked. “Although Rabbi Sheinfeld told me you were coming, I didn’t expect you today. Here.” Reb Yonah leaned over the table, tore a piece of paper from an unlined pad and scribbled. “This is my telephone number.”