“Fuck you, too!” Billy screamed.
Jacopetti rolled down his window and stuck out his head. “Hey, buddy, you need some help?”
Billy was frothing at the mouth. When he saw it was Jacopetti, his eyes went wide. He ran over to him, panting and sweating. “You gotta get outta here, mister. They’re out to get you.”
“It’s okay, buddy—”
“No, it isn’t okay, mister, I’m telling you, they are really out to get you. He sent me to do it, but then the car and the gun . . . they told me not to. They both said to me, ‘Don’t do it, Billy, don’t do it.’ So when a car and a gun start talking to you, you know you better start listening.”
“Buddy, I’m going to call someone for you,” Jacopetti said. “I’ll wait until someone gets here—”
“No, you can’t wait. You’ve got to leave. Just because I didn’t do it don’t mean that it’s not going to get done. He’ll just hire someone else for the hit. I’m telling you, you’ve got to get out of here!”
“I will, just as soon as someone comes to help you!”
A horn honked. Jacopetti pulled the wagon onto the side of the road. “Just stay here. I’ll wait with you.”
“No, you’ve got to get out of here!” Billy pounded on the hood of Jacopetti’s car. “Out!” Another series of sharp pounds. “Out, out, OUT!”
And that was the way the ambulance found him—thumping on the hood of Jacopetti’s car, warning him of danger and murder and ranting on about cars and guns that could talk.
The day was beautiful—clear skies with a slight perfumed breeze. The lawn was exceptionally green and sparkling from its early watering with the hose. Almost everyone was outside today, enjoying the wonderful weather. Even Fiona’s spirits were lifted as she scraped the bottom of the bowl with a spoon, offering its contents to the man huddled in the rocking chair. As the spoon neared his mouth, his lips opened like automatic supermarket doors.
Fiona smiled as she extracted the spoon from her brother’s mouth. “Billy, you ate very well today.”
There was no response.
“Ah, Billy, it’s such a pretty day. The flowers are blooming, the birds are singing. The sky is blue . . . a perfect day for just lounging around. Maybe we should take a swing on the hammock. You used to love the hammock. Remember at Grandma’s, we used to swing on the hammock? And then Daddy would set up the tire and you’d push me high in the sky?”
Billy remained mute.
“So high,” Fiona recounted. “I used to feel like I was flying. I felt as light as a bird. You were such a good big brother.”
Nothing.
Fiona sighed. “Oh, Billy! If you could just nod or something . . . it would help. It would . . .” Tears in her eyes. “All you have to do is talk, Billy. When you start talking, the doctor says that’ll be a breakthrough. Then . . . then there’s a good chance that we can get you outta here. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To come back to my house? I got a room set up in the back with a TV and a treadmill.”
She punched her brother’s arm. “Just in case you want to keep in shape.”
Billy continued to stare out through vacant eyes.
“C’mon, Billy. Nod or grunt or fart or do something. You don’t want to stay here the rest of your life, do you?”
But Billy didn’t answer.
Fiona blew out air. “Billy, I’ll be right back. I gotta take a pee. You just . . .” She patted his knee. “You just enjoy yourself. I’ll be right back.”
The warm sun beat down on Billy’s back. In the stillness of the summer morning, if Billy strained hard enough, he could hear the sound of waves lapping on the distant shoreline.
A small smile tickled his lips.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
Why should he?
He finally got his place by the beach.
HOLY WATER
“Holy Water” brings together two of my
favorite writing elements—humor and
religion. When I first heard that the
closely guarded secret recipe for Coca-
Cola had to be divulged to rabbinic
authorities in order to get kosher
certification, I knew I had a story that
would cross the fine line between the
sinister and the absurd.
UNTIL HE FELT THE GUN IN HIS BACK, RABBI Feinermann thought it was a joke: somebody’s idea of a silly pre-Purim schtick. After all, the men who flanked him wore costume masks. The Marx fellows—Groucho and Karl. Two old Jewish troublemakers, but at least one of them had been funny. The revelers spoke in such trite dialogue it had to be a hoax.
“Don’t move, old man, and you won’t get hurt.”
Although he was fasting, Feinermann was always one to join in the festivities, though this prank was on the early side. So he played along, adjusting his hat, then holding up his hands.
“Don’t shoot,” Feinermann said. “I’ll give you my hamantash. I’ll even give you a shot of schnapps. But first, my two Marxes, we must wait until we’ve heard the reading of the Megilla—the scroll of Esther. Then we may break our fasts.”
Then, as he tried to turn around, Groucho held him tightly, kept him facing forward, pressing his arm uncomfortably into his back. At that moment Feinermann felt the gun. Had he seen it when the two masked men made their initial approach? Maybe. But to Feinermann’s naive eyes, the pistol seemed like a toy.
“We’re not fooling around here, Rabbi,” Karl said.
Feinermann looked around the synagogue’s parking lot. It was located in the back alley on a little-used dead-end side street. He was alone with these hoodlums, but he had grown up in New York. Hoodlums were nothing new. Although the masks were a little different. In his day, a stocking over the face was sufficient—a ski mask if you wanted to get fancy.
But times change.
The old man had grown up in neighborhoods where ethnic groups competed for turf—the Irish, the Italians, then, later on, the Puerto Ricans. Each nationality fighting to prove which was the mightiest. Of course, they all tormented the Jews. Pious old men and women had been no match for angry energy and youthful indignation.
No, hoodlums were nothing new. But the gun in the back was a sad concession to modern times. Had mankind really progressed? the rabbi mused.
“Come on, Rabbi,” Karl said. “Don’t make this difficult on us or on yourself. I want you to walk slowly to the gray car straight ahead.”
“Which car do you mean, Mr. Marx?” Feinermann asked. “The eighty-four Electra?”
“The ninety Seville,” Groucho answered.
“Oooo, a Cadillac,” Feinermann said. “A good car for abduction. May I ask what this is all about?”
“Just shut up and get going,” Karl said.
“No need for a sharp tongue, Mr. Marx,” the rabbi answered.
Karl said, “Why do you keep calling me Marx?” He pointed to Groucho. “He’s the Marx guy.”
“Your mask is Karl Marx,” Feinermann said.
“No, it’s not,” Karl protested. “I’m Albert Einstein.”
“I hate to say this, young man, but you’re no Einstein.”
“Will both of you just shut up?” Groucho snarled.
“Then who am I?” Karl plowed on.
“Karl Marx,” Feinermann declared. “The founder of communism . . . which isn’t doing too well these days.”
“You mean I’m a pinko instead of a genius?” Karl was aghast.
“Just shut up!” Groucho yelled. To Feinermann, he said, “You can scream, Rabbi, but no one will hear you. We’re all alone.”
“Besides,” Karl added, “you do want to see your wife again, don’t you?”
Feinermann paused. “I’m not so sure. Nevertheless, I will cooperate. You haven’t shot me yet. You haven’t robbed me. I assume what you want from me is more complex than a wallet or a watch.”
Groucho pushed the gun deeper into Feinermann’s spine. “Get a move on, Rabbi.”
Feinermann said, �
��Watch my backbone, Mr. Jeffrey T. Spaulding. I had disk surgery not more than a year ago. Why cause an old man needless pain?”
Instantly, the rabbi felt relief as the pressure eased off his back. “So you’re not without compassion.”
“Just keep walking, Rabbi,” Groucho said.
“Who’s Jeffrey T. Spaulding?” Karl asked.
“Shut up!” Groucho said. “Just cooperate, Rabbi, and no one will get hurt.”
“Mr. Hugo Z. Hackenbush, I have no doubt that you will not get hurt,” Feinermann said. “It’s me I’m concerned about.”
“Hugo Hack . . .” Karl scratched his face under his mask. “Who are all these dorks?”
“C’mon!” Groucho pushed the rabbi forward. “Step on it.”
As the Marxes sequestered him in the backseat of the Seville, Feinermann tried to figure out why he was being kidnapped. He wasn’t a wealthy man, not in possession of any items of great value. His estate—a small two-bedroom house in the Fairfax district of Los Angeles—would be left to Sarah upon his demise. He and his wife had had their differences, but he couldn’t imagine her hiring people to kill him for his paltry insurance policy. Sarah was a kvetch and a yente, but basically, a good, pious woman. And a practical woman as well. The cost of the hit would greatly exceed any monetary gain she’d receive from the policy.
Karl kept him company in the backseat as Groucho gunned the motor. Then they were off. The men were good-size, capable of doing major physical damage. And they seemed very nervous.
Perhaps this was their first kidnapping, Feinermann thought. It was always difficult to do something for the first time. It was then and there that Feinermann decided to make his abductors feel welcome.
“A nice shirt you have on, Karl Marx,” he said. “Is it silk?”
Karl looked at his buttercup chemise. “Yeah. You really like it?”
The old man fingered the fabric. “Very good quality. I grew up in New York, had many a friend in the shmatah business. This is an impressive shirt.”
“Quiet back there,” Groucho said.
The old man pressed his lips together. At least his discussion with Karl had produced the desired effect. Feinermann could see the man in the buttercup shirt visibly relax, his shoulders unbunching, his feet burying deep into the Caddy’s plush carpeting. The Seville, with its cushy gray leather upholstery and its black-tinted windows, had lots of leg room. It was good that Karl felt at home. He shouldn’t be nervous holding a gun.
Groucho, on the other hand, was a different story. His body language was hidden from Feinermann’s view. The only thing the rabbi could make out was a pair of dark eyes peeking through the mask with the bushy eyebrows—a reflection in the rearview mirror. The eyes gave Feinermann no hint as to who was the man behind them.
Feinermann sat stiffly and hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees. Karl reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief.
“Sorry to have to do this to you, old man.”
“Do what?” Feinermann felt his heart skip a beat. “You are going to tie me up?”
“Nah, you’re not much of a threat,” Karl said. “I’m gonna have to blindfold you. Don’t want you to see where we’re taking you. Be a good man and hold still.”
“I always cooperate with people carrying revolvers.”
“Good thinking.”
Feinermann closed his eyes as they were covered with a soft cloth, the ends of the kerchief secured tightly around his head. Quality silk—very soft and smooth. His abductors had spared him no expense. It made the old man feel important.
“May I now ask what this is all about?”
“Soon enough,” Karl answered. “Don’t worry. No one wants to hurt you. They just want a little information from you.”
“Information?”
Groucho barked, “Keep your trap shut, for Chrissakes!”
“Are you talking to me, Mr. Rufus T. Firefly?” Feinermann asked.
“No, not you, Rabbi. I would never talk to a man of the cloth like that.” Groucho paused. “Well, maybe I did tell you to shut up. Sorry about that. I was nervous.”
“First time as a kidnapper?”
“You can tell, huh?”
“You don’t seem like the hardened criminal type.”
“I owed someone a favor.”
“It must have been a pretty big favor.”
“Ain’t they all. Just relax, old man. We’re gonna be in the car for a while.”
“Then maybe I’ll take a little rest.” Feinermann took off his hat, exposing the black skullcap underneath, and unbuttoned his jacket. “Is this your first kidnapping as well, Karl?”
“Yep.” Karl lowered his voice. “I owed him a favor.”
Feinermann took the “him” to be Groucho and pondered, “Groucho owed someone a favor, you owed Groucho a favor.”
“Yeah,” Karl said. “It’s kinda like a bad chain letter.”
A Hebrew proverb came to Feinermann’s mind: From righteous deeds come righteous deeds. From sin comes sin.
The car ride lasted over an hour. Afterward, the Marx boys brought Feinermann indoors, eased him into a baby-smooth leather chair, and propped his feet up on an ottoman. Such service, the rabbi thought. After the boys had made him comfortable, they removed the blindfold, then left.
The old man found himself in a magnificent library. The room was about the size of the shul’s dining hall but much fancier. The paneling and bookcases were fashioned from rich, deep mahogany, so smooth and shiny the wood seemed to be plastic. The brass pulls on the cases gleamed—not a scratch dared mar the mirror polish. The furniture consisted of burnt-almond leather sofas and chairs, with a couple of tapestry wingbacks thrown in for color. The parquet floor was covered in several places by what looked to be genuine Persian rugs.
Directly in front of Feinermann was a U-shaped desk made out of rosewood with ebony trim. The man behind the desk appeared to be around thirty-five, of slight frame and bald except for a well-trimmed cocoa-colored fringe outlining his nude crown. Over his eyes sat an updated version of old-fashioned wire-rimmed round spectacles. Except these weren’t the heavy kind that left a red mark on the bridge of the nose. Mr. Baldy was attired in a black suit, his pocket handkerchief matching the mandarin ascot draped around his neck. He held a crystal highball glass filled with ice, a carbonated beverage, and two swizzle sticks.
“May I offer you something to drink, Rabbi?” The bald man stirred his drink. His voice was surprisingly deep. “I’m drinking KingCola—the only beverage considered worthy of Benton’s finest imported Bavarian crystal. But we have a full bar—Chivas aged some twenty-five years—if you’re so inclined.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Feinermann, “but I shall be obliged to pass. Today is a fast day in my religion—the fast of Esther. Eating and drinking are prohibited until tonight’s holiday.”
The bald man stirred his KingCola. “Interesting. And what holiday is tonight, if I may ask?”
“You may ask, and I’ll tell you. Tonight is Purim—the Festival of Lots—when one righteous woman foiled the plans to annihilate the Jews of Persia.”
“And you fast on such a day?”
“First comes the fasting and praying, then comes the celebration. Makes more sense to feast when you’re really hungry. Not to mention it’s good for weight control.” Feinermann adjusted his hat. “Are you this Benton of the famous Benton’s crystal?”
The bald man looked up and chuckled. “No, Rabbi, I am not Mr. Benton.”
The old man stroked his beard. “I am trying to figure out why his name rings a bell.”
The bald man said, “Perhaps you’d recognize the name in a different form. Benton Hall at the university. Or perhaps you’ve been to the Benton Civic Light Opera Company. Or read about the new Benton Library downtown.”
“Ah . . .”
“Mr. Patrick W. Benton is quite the philanthropist.”
“So why does a rich philanthropist need a rabbi with a herniated disk?�
��
“You are not just a rabbi, you are the rabbi.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I realize that. But before we begin, I want you to know that bringing you here was my idea, not Mr. Benton’s. I work for Mr. Benton, formulating his . . . covert operations.”
“Sounds mysterious. Perhaps you’re a student of the Zohar—our book of mystics?”
“What?”
“Not important. Nu, so do you have a name, Mr. Sharp Dresser?”
“Sharp dress . . . you’ve noticed my couture?”
“I like the touch of orange with the black suit.” Actually, Feinermann thought the man looked like a jack-o’-lantern. But hurling insults was not the old man’s style. And now was not the time for insults anyway.
The bald man nodded in approval. “Well, I thought it made rather a bold statement.”
The rabbi said nothing. To him, a bold statement was splitting the Red Sea. “So, Mr. . . .”
“You may call me Philip.”
“Philip it is. Exactly what does your Mr. Benton want from me?”
“It is I who want something from you, Rabbi Feinermann. I want something not for myself but for Mr. Benton—for his good deeds. And you, Rabbi Feinermann, are the only one who can help Mr. Benton continue his course of philanthropy. Let me explain.”
The old man stroked his beard again. “I knew this wasn’t going to be simple. Kidnappings are never simple affairs.”
Again Philip let go with his pesky chuckle. “Come, come, Rabbi. Surely you don’t think we intend any harm to befall you.”
“To tell you the truth, with a gun in my back, I wasn’t so sure, Philip. But proceed. Explain away.”
“Rabbi Feinermann, you may wonder why a man like me would go to such extreme . . . measures to help out Mr. Benton. It’s because I truly believe in his work.”
“And what does he do besides erect buildings with his name on them?”
“He cares, Rabbi. He has built his empire on caring. His multibillion-dollar corporation was one of the first to include the human side of business. One of the first to offer complete major medical and dental care. And if that was not enough, he included in his medical package—free of charge—optometry, orthodontia, and podiatry services. Do you know how many of his employees have availed themselves of braces, eyeglasses, and bunion removal at Mr. Benton’s expense?”
The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights Page 22