The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

  “Again!” he demanded cutting to the hoop. Gone was the diffident, insecure Yakov. I bounced one into his hands and he soared, finally flipping the ball off his fingertips as he approached the rim. When he grew a couple more inches he’d have a perfect finger roll. I watched the ball slip over the iron and fall softly through the ropes. It was a damn good finger roll right now.

  I stopped admiring his game and focused on my own. I planted myself halfway between the foul line and the basket at the edge of the lane, kept my back to the hoop, and raised my hand for the ball. Yakov immediately understood and for the next half hour we ran an assortment of pick and rolls, cuts and pull-ups. We were so engrossed that neither of us noticed the two figures standing at the corner of the building until we heard their applause.

  Mrs. S. and Charles had big grins on their faces when we looked up.

  “Just beautiful, Matthew. Poetry in motion.”

  “Why, thank you, Charles,” I said.

  “Not you darling,” he smirked. “Your young friend. S-o-o-o graceful.”

  “Hush, Charles,” said Mrs. S. gallantly. “Don’t believe him, Matthew, you looked very good too.”

  I smiled, bowed, pulled out my handkerchief, and wiped my face. It was odd, I hated to run but I could chase a ball all day long. “What are you guys doing out here?”

  Charles cocked his head. “I heard noise coming from the court and when I saw you playing, I simply had to tell Mrs. S. We just had to watch you close up. The young man is a terrific athlete. If only it was summer and we could see the two of you in tiny gym shorts.”

  Before I answered Mrs. S. jumped in with, “Stop that, Charles! The boy doesn’t know you’re joking!”

  “Am I?” he said coyly.

  “If you don’t stop I’ll tell Richard,” I warned.

  “My lips are sealed, Matthew, I promise. Now will you introduce us to your young friend?”

  “Sure. Yakov, this is Charles and Mrs. Sullivan. Like I told you, Charles manages the buildings and Mrs. S. manages Charles.”

  Mrs. S. smiled, “Not just Charles, Matthew.”

  I laughed. “Not just Charles.”

  My laughter stopped when I glanced at Yakov’s face. His exuberance was gone. In its place, a worried frown.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “I’ve overstayed my visit,” he said curtly.

  “Not by my account,” I replied.

  “By mine,” he said. He walked over to his jacket and shrugged it on. “Can you let me back inside? I left my book.”

  I signaled to my neighbors. They understood and started to leave. After Mrs. S. was inside, Charles turned back and called to Yakov, “Please come back. I can’t remember the last time Matthew played basketball. It’s good for you, isn’t it, darling?”

  I smiled. “Yes, Charles, it’s good for me.”

  It had been a long time since I’d used the basketball court. Even longer since I’d gotten any pleasure from my body. The remaining soreness from the Avengers’ beating and Clifford’s love taps had worked itself out during the scrimmage with Yakov. Thankfully, very little returned after my shower.

  In a moment of lightheaded spontaneity, I dialed Boots’s number only to be met with a taped message announcing the date of her return. I hadn’t known she was away. I waited for the line to die before I hung the phone back up. I don’t know why I had expected a personal postscript. Or even hoped for one.

  Still, I felt too good to let it get to me. The time till Thursday created a delicious hiatus in the midst of hectic. A chance to think things through and read the Sporting News. A chance to sleep without dreams.

  It surprised me that Simon didn’t call until early Thursday morning.

  “What the hell did you pull at the Yeshiva?” he asked exasperatedly.

  “I didn’t pull anything. I did what I said I was going to do. Interviews. And got what you wanted. Didn’t you read my report?”

  “The report was fine.” Simon hesitated then said abruptly, “The Hasidim don’t want you working on the case anymore.”

  I felt my body stiffen. “Which Hasids and why?”

  “Reb Yonah. I’m still not entirely sure why.”

  A shot of anger ripped through my morning drowsy. “Well, fuck him. It was Cheryl’s hands that were broken, my ass that was kicked. Reb Yonah wouldn’t even bother to talk to me.”

  “Look, Matt”—Simon dropped his belligerence—”he’s the client. If it’s any consolation, you’ve given me everything I need. Just let the rest go. I’m not sure how much more there is to get, anyway. You did good. I told that to Reb Yonah, but he wouldn’t listen. He called you a disruptive force to the Yeshiva students.”

  “Disruptive? People there were falling all over themselves to tell me about the goobers.” I had a hunch about what Reb Yonah really thought disruptive. And that was bullshit too. “What other crap did he sell you?”

  “He wasn’t selling, Matt. He was too angry. He said that as long as the courts left him alone, he didn’t care about the legalities. He told me he was hopeful of having the Yeshiva protected very shortly. I don’t know what he meant by that.”

  “He meant muscle.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Never Agains.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “Reb Yonah’s kid, Yakov, told me.”

  “He told you his father wanted to use muscle?”

  “Not in so many words. He was explaining the conflict in the Yeshiva about the Never Agains…”

  “Why were you talking to his kid about them? Why were you talking to the kid at all?”

  Simon’s interruption slowed me down. After a second I replied, “I ran into him the first time I went to the Yeshiva. He’s been my unofficial guide. He’s a good kid. Was the Big Guy’s handpicked student.”

  Simon heard the pride in my voice. “No wonder Reb Yonah wants you off the case. That’s why the boy called the other day looking for your number. Did he get in touch with you?”

  “He came by. We played a little basketball.”

  “Jesus, Matt. Hasidim don’t like people fucking with their children. The boy went to your house to play ball? That’s a long way to travel to tickle the twine, babe. Come on, Matt, what’s going on?”

  “He came over to apologize for his old man’s rude behavior.”

  “I know those Yeshiva kids. They don’t just drop in on somebody like you.”

  “‘Somebody like me’?”

  “Don’t be a schmuck. An atheist Jew. Christ, they won’t even drink a glass of water unless they’re absolutely certain the house is kosher.”

  “Tell me. You don’t sound so gung-ho Jewish this morning.”

  “I’ve never been big on the Middle Ages. Rabbi Sheinfeld’s temple is Reformed, for Christ sake.”

  I felt a little of my anger subside. “Reb Yonah gave you a hard time, didn’t he?”

  “I don’t take kindly to being treated like a dog. Por favor, what’s really happening between you and the kid?”

  “The boy is lonely. His mother is dead and Reb Yonah funnels all his energy into the Yeshiva. Near as I can tell, when the Big Guy died, Yakov lost the closest thing he had to a parent.”

  “How old is this kid?”

  “I’m not sure, maybe fifteen, sixteen.” His question stretched my nerves.

  “And you’re going to take Reb Dov’s place?” Simon asked softly, without sarcasm.

  A week ago his question would have hit the core of my depression. Today, I just felt angry and guarded. “No, Simon. But I like him. You’d like him.”

  Simon grunted. He had long since given up hope of children. Something I’d always associated with Fran’s lack of desire.

  “I’m sorry, Matt, I still have to pull you off.”

  “Why? Your client isn’t footing the bill.”

  “It’s not just Reb Yonah. I’m catching it from all sides. Hey, I don’t like this situation any more than you. Probably
less. It took me a couple of days to even call about it. But I’ve got to try and settle this in a way that keeps everyone calm.”

  It was senseless to continue. I had planned to tell Simon about Clifford and my uneasy feeling about Deirdre, but now I was just too angry. I was sick of people questioning or complaining about every step I took. Anyhow, Simon was under too much pressure from too many directions to concern himself with something that wasn’t in the middle of his plate. Something that might not be on the menu.

  And maybe he was right. Maybe there wasn’t anything left to do, but I wasn’t going to let Reb Yonah leash me to a tree.

  “You understand why I have to do this?” he asked.

  “I don’t like it, but I understand. I’ll send you the bill for my time.”

  “No, don’t. I’m keeping you on the meter until everything is completely squared away.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I want to. They’re going to pay for the privilege of telling me how to run my office.”

  Good old Simon. Runs with the herd until the herd steps on his foot. Sometimes it just took a while for him to notice.

  “Sounds like an early Christmas. Let me know how everything works out, okay?”

  “Sure.” He paused. “Matt, you aren’t thinking of flying solo on any of this, are you?”

  “What’s left?”

  “I’m talking about you and the kid.” He took a deep breath. “I’m thinking that your rapport with Yonah’s son has something to do with Becky.”

  “Maybe it does, Simon, but not to worry. I won’t get between Reb Yonah and Yakov.”

  “Good,” he said with an air of finality.

  Why not? As far as he was concerned, it was finished.

  “Keep in touch,” I said.

  “Sure,” he said, his mind already on his next task.

  I hung up the phone more determined than ever to discover what had Washington Clifford by the nose. Yonah’s attitude about me, about the Never Agains, had piggybacked onto my suspicions of Deirdre. I had trouble when something supposedly finished left me with more questions than when I began.

  Hell, if I was careful enough, I’d even get paid.

  Only, how careful was careful? I wanted more information about Kelly and his organization. Unless I found Blue—and by now I had a hunch he was nowhere to be found—there weren’t too many places to look for answers.

  Except, perhaps at the Yeshiva. Or, if Father Collins meant what he said, back in the neighborhood.

  Terrific. Now I had both Clifford and Simon to dodge. I sat in the office reviewing my notes, trying to spur my thinking. All it spurred was a couple of joints. As much as I tried to spin open ended scenarios, I couldn’t see a connection between the Deirdre-Kelly relationship and Reb Dov’s shooting. I had nothing to grasp but uneasy feelings and doobies. Not exactly foundation stones on which to build an investigation.

  I retired to the couch, frustrated and fatigued by my useless endeavor. I kept smoking, added a little bourbon to the mix, and tried to relieve the anger I’d felt since I was fired. Unfortunately, I fell asleep before I discovered whether it worked.

  My eyes shot open to the forlorn music of a “M.A.S.H.” rerun on the television. It took a hard try to remember why I felt rushed. Rolling onto my feet cursing, I grabbed the couch’s arm for support. This bum wasn’t getting to the church on time.

  And I didn’t. By the time I slipped inside the church’s meeting room, a sandy-haired college kid was re-living the middle of his summer vacation. A projected picture of green fields covered the top half of the front wall. Father Collins sat at a table off to the side in front of the room. Collins had an intense expression on his face and his eyes kept flicking toward the first row of spectators. All I could see was the back of a gray head between a couple of caps.

  The priest caught me peeking and abruptly interrupted the presentation. “Welcome to our program, Mr. Jacob. I’m glad you could join us.” He aimed his next words to the crowd. “Before I knew about our guests I invited Mr. Jacob to attend tonight’s talk. He is gathering information about that horrible double shooting. I know he has already been around to see some of you. Iwant him to learn that our neighborhood has no tolerance for violence, that we are willing to help in any way we can.

  He turned toward the speaker. “Brian, I’m sorry for the interruption. Please continue with your presentation.”

  The padre’s buckshot greeting slammed me against the door. As soon as the slides recaptured the room’s attention I quietly retreated into the hall. I looked hard for an ashtray, found none, and kept going until I landed outside.

  I almost went home, then reminded myself why I had come. It didn’t obliterate my claustrophobia, but it calmed me enough to light my smoke. I was exhaling into the cold night air when the church door swung open and Deirdre joined me on the steps.

  “You ran out of there pretty quickly,” she said.

  “I hadn’t expected a twenty-one-gun salute.”

  “I thought you might have been embarrassed by Brady’s introduction. I’m sure if you had been here on time he would have been less obvious and word would have spread.”

  I was calming down. I flicked the cigarette onto the street. “Yeah, well I’ll remember that the next time I plan a meet with the padre.” I flashed on Collins sitting in the front of the room. “Who was he staring at?”

  Deirdre looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

  “Father Collins. Right before he nailed me he kept looking at the front row. Visitors from Rome?”

  “From Ireland.” Deirdre spoke quickly, pulling at a button on her heavy sweater. “For the past three or four years the parish has been raising money and donating goods to the Color It Green program. The program collects food, medical supplies, and donations for people in Northern Ireland. Basic aid for the victims caught in the middle of the conflict. There are a few representatives visiting. Maybe you noticed Brady looking at them.” She shrugged. “I think they were in the front row.”

  Her mention of Northern Ireland disturbed me, but you can’t play a card you couldn’t see. “You’re freezing out here, aren’t you?” I asked.

  “To the bone. The formal program is probably finished. Would you like to join me inside? I’m sure Father Collins will be helpful to you. And quieter,” she smiled.

  I followed her into the building and back to the meeting room. Collins’s table was now covered with homemade food and the crowd was milling around. Some sat at small tables that had been placed around the room. But the real action centered on three men.

  Each stood inside a circle of excited parishioners. My earlier sighting had been correct: two wore caps, and the one facing in my direction was gray-haired. Ramrod straight, he was a pale, thin man with a stern, pinched face and closely cropped hair. Although he spoke to the folks in his circle, his eyes were jumping warily about the room.

  I couldn’t hear what Mr. Relief was saying so I started moving closer. Deirdre nonchalantly stepped in front of me. “I’m sure Brady will join us as soon as he gets a chance.”

  I waited while the gray-haired man backed away from his well wishers and nodded to the caps. I watched the different groups reluctantly part, to give the three men a path to the front of the room. Father Collins joined them at the door and each took turns shaking the priest’s hand. The two caps looked less like relief than the original. Burly guys, the type Lenny Bruce said wore wool suits with no underwear. Their coarseness didn’t seem to bother anyone else in the room as the parishioners gave the men a raucous round of applause. All three nodded toward Brady and acknowledged the acclaim with modest waves of their hands. When they were gone their wake contained a palpable buzz of disappointment. For one uncomfortable moment I thought IRA—then jammed the thought away. I had enough worries.

  Father Collins looked around the room, urged people to treat themselves to the refreshments, and reminded everyone that Brian could only stay another hour. When he noticed
Deirdre and me in the corner he grinned, bobbed his head, and briskly walked over. “I hope it didn’t bother you when I stopped our meeting,” he said to me without any preamble. “This is a close-knit community and I was afraid that…”

  “I’d make everyone uptight.” I finished. “I should apologize for coming late.”

  “No need, no need. Sometimes things happen unexpectedly,” he said half to himself.

  Deirdre spoke up quickly. “I’ve explained our visitors to Mr. Jacob, Brady. Father Collins is especially proud of the Color It Green program.” Resolutely she brought the priest back to my purpose. “Brady, who did you have in mind for Mr. Jacob to speak to?”

  The priest appeared relieved by Deirdre’s question. “Why don’t you come with me?” he asked, though he left little room for an answer as he pulled on my arm. “I’ll be back as soon as possible,” he called over his shoulder.

  I recognized the man Father Collins picked out as the owner of a local variety store. It had a reputation as a gossip barn, but I hadn’t gotten more than a few monosyllabic grunts when I’d visited during my rounds.

  “Mr. Pearse, this is the gentleman I spoke to you about.” Father Collins turned toward me. “Mr. Pearse owns a local store and knows everything that happens in the neighborhood. If you don’t mind I’ll leave the two of you to get acquainted while I mix.”

  Pearse nodded me to a chair at his small table and stared. For a second I thought we were going to have a repeat of our last meeting but Pearse leaned his ruddy face across the table. “You didn’t look like a teetotaler when you came into the store, and you don’t look like one now.”

  “I don’t believe in tea.”

  “Gratifying to hear. Then you wouldn’t mind if I added a bit of sacrilege to our conversation, now would you?”

  I watched him reach under the table and surreptitiously lift a small brown bag.

  “I didn’t know you weren’t allowed to drink in a church,” I said.

  “The good Father disapproves so I’m careful about it.” Pearse reached into the pocket of his spacious winter coat, withdrew a shot glass, poured, and gulped. “He’s tried to get me to swear off the stuff, but I can’t. You won’t run and tell him, will you?”