“That’s why, because he hasn’t done anything,” Maltzman answered quickly. “I’ve proposed I don’t know how many ideas that would build up the temple, increase the membership, and instead of going along, or even remaining neutral, he’s actually bucked me, said he wouldn’t permit it, or that it was against religion or something. And practically every other president has had the same experience with him. Besides, we’re not firing him. We’re just voting not to re-hire him.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Cummon, Joe! I checked into this, you know. When he first came, he was given a one-year contract, like a trial. Then he was given a five-year contract. Then a few years back, he was offered a life contract, and he turned it down. He wanted it only for one year, to be renewed each year. Now what does that mean? It means he wants to be free to leave. So each time his contract expires, it’s like a new deal, like when a lease expires. I’m not suggesting we send him a letter saying he has to leave, or that we’re getting another rabbi. I just want for the secretary to send him a letter saying, ‘Dear Rabbi, the board voted eight to seven or ten to five or whatever it is against renewing your contract.’ Now that doesn’t mean he’s fired. It means he’s like a tenant at will. He would stay on for years maybe. It’s just that he won’t have a contract.”
“Would we pay him?”
“Oh sure. If he does the work, we’ve got to. We’d pay him the way we pay Stanley, the janitor. He doesn’t have a contract.”
Krasker nodded. “All right, so he’s a tenant at will. But like you said, he could stay on for years. How does that help you? You want him out. And I don’t mind admitting, I’d rather have somebody else. But how does it help, if he’s still here even though he doesn’t have a contract?”
“It wouldn’t—much,” Maltzman admitted. “Although I think it would help some. Stands to reason, if the guy has no contract, he can be fired anytime. Okay, so say something happens where he interferes with what we on the board want to do. We can always say, ‘If you don’t like it, Rabbi, pick up your marbles and go somewhere else.’ But it’s my hunch it won’t happen that way. I’m banking that as soon as he gets the letter from the secretary, he’ll sit down and write a letter of resignation. That’s the way I figure it.” He smiled. “And we’ll send him a letter right back, accepting his resignation.”
“Well …”
“I’m counting on you, Joe.”
“Well, what happens if we take a vote and the rabbi wins?”
Maltzman shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing. We’re back at square one. The secretary writes him a letter telling him that the board voted to renew his contract, and—”
“No,” Krasker shook his head impatiently. “It’s bound to get back to the rabbi who voted against him. And that could be embarrassing if you have to come to him about your kid’s Bar Mitzvah, or daughter’s wedding.”
“Sure, I’ve thought of that. So we’ll vote by secret ballot. The votes go to the secretary to count. If the rabbi wins, he just announces it. If the rabbi loses, if there’s a little fuss, he announces the score. He doesn’t name names because you don’t sign your ballot.”
“Well, how does it look?”
“It looks close, Joe. Damn close. I don’t mind admitting, I’m counting on you. I went over it yesterday with Bill Shaefer. You do his accounting, don’t you?”
“Oh, yeah, I’ve had his account for years.”
“Well, I went over each and every name, and with yours we have eight, which is just enough. Bill was sure you’d go along, but I said I wanted to hear it from you myself, personal. How about it, Joe? Can I count on you?”
The reference to Bill Shaefer, one of the bigger accounts, was not lost on Krasker. “Oh sure, Henry. It’s just that I wanted to know all the ins and outs. Know what I mean?”
“Oh, sure. I don’t blame you.” He reached for a file on his desk.
But Krasker was reluctant to leave. “What you said at the meeting Sunday, about this guy Jordon, was it true? About him being an anti-Semite?”
“It’s true all right.”
“Because I’ve got this account, a doctor, and we were talking about the murder, and he was saying what a nice guy Jordon was, and how he always made a big contribution to the Hospital Fund.”
“So what? He also probably liked dogs, and was kind to children. Hitler liked dogs, too, and music. But he didn’t like us. One thing has nothing to do with the other.”
“Well, I just thought you’d like to know.”
35
Anne Kaufman was a silversmith with a shop in town. It was just a hole-in-the-wall sort of place with a workroom in back, where she sat on a high stool at her bench making the rings, pendants, earrings, and cuff links that she sold in the tiny store. When the doorbell jangled, she would dismount from her stool and come out front to wait on trade.
In spite of the difference in their ages—her children were already in high school—Anne and Molly Mandell were close friends. Molly had used her good offices at the bank to help her get the loan that had enabled her to set up the shop in the first place, and she was grateful. And since they were both downtown in the business district most of the day, they saw each other frequently, which was why Molly had offered to speak to her about Maltzman’s plan.
When Anne called to ask if she had made plans for lunch, it seemed like a good opportunity.
“No, Anne. I thought I’d get a sandwich at Creighton’s. What did you have in mind?”
“I thought maybe you could get a sandwich at the deli and bring it here, and I’d make some coffee on the hot plate.”
“Sounds good to me. See you around noon.”
When she arrived a few minutes after twelve, Mrs. Kaufman locked the door and hung up the Back at One O’clock sign in the window. She offered her visitor the old wicker arm chair in which she occasionally relaxed, while she herself perched on her work stool. She poured coffee, and then as Molly unwrapped her sandwich, she said. “Did you know this Ellsworth Jordon? The paper said he was a director in the bank.”
“Oh, I knew him all right,” Molly said grimly. “He’d come in almost every day. Not because he was a director, but because he had nothing else to do. The other directors, you don’t see them from one month to the next.”
“Was he—you know—anti-Semitic?”
“He was a dirty old man. That’s what he was.” She smiled sourly. “I don’t know if he was anti-Semitic or not. All I know is that he kept making passes at me and he knew I was Jewish.”
“He did? What kind of—”
“Oh, you know, the usual accidental-on-purpose pat on the fanny.”
“And didn’t you ever tell your boss?”
“I mentioned it once, but he was so upset, I thought I’d handle it myself.”
“What did you do?”
“Oh, the next time he did it, I was prepared for him. Instead of kind of jumping the way you naturally would, I didn’t move, but I gave him a sharp jab with my elbow.”
“And what did he do?”
She laughed. “He jumped—and had a coughing fit.” She munched on her sandwich, and then asked, “Why are you so interested in Jordon?”
“Well—” Mrs. Kaufman glanced up at the angled mirror on the wall which gave her a view of the front door. “This morning I was sitting right here, working like always. The door opened and I looked up and saw it was these two old biddies who keep coming in and never buying anything. So I didn’t hurry to come out. I could hear them talking, though, and one of them said that everybody knew it was the Jews that did it because he was ‘so down on them.’ That was the expression she used. That he had tried to arrange a secret agreement not to sell them property on the Point and that’s why they did it. Then I coughed, or cleared my throat, and I suppose they realized that if they could hear me, I might be able to hear them because I saw in the mirror one of them put her finger to her lips and nod toward the shop here.”
“Hm, that’s interesting. So what did you
do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” said Mrs. Kaufman. “After a while, I came out. One of them asked if she could see a certain piece I had in the showcase, and I told her it was already sold and the customer was coming in tomorrow to pick it up. Maybe they sensed they weren’t welcome. Anyway, they didn’t ask to see anything else. They left. And then I called you.”
“You bothered?” asked Molly.
“A little,” Anne admitted.
“You can’t get upset over everything that people say,” Molly said, trying to reassure her.
“But if they’re saying it, maybe others are, too.”
“So what can we do?”
“I think we ought to do something,” Anne insisted. “Maybe the rabbi could—”
“Rabbi Small? You think you’ll get him off his duff to take action on anything?”
“Well …”
“Listen, Anne, don’t expect Rabbi Small to do a damn thing about anything. He actually said so when Henry Maltzman came to see him about equality for women in the service. According to him, one change produces other changes, and some of them could be bad, so he wasn’t going to take any chances. Now I ask you.”
“Well, that has to do with religion, but this is a matter of—of—”
“Of law? Of politics? All right. Last week, the selectmen voted to reconsider their approval of traffic lights near the temple. Come to think of it, that was some of Ellsworth Jordon’s dirty work. Well, did Rabbi Small do anything about it? Did he so much as write a letter to the press protesting the action of the selectmen?”
“You don’t know. He may have done something, or—”
Molly’s eyes danced with amusement. “Oh, you think maybe it was Rabbi Small who killed Jordon?”
“Molly! What a thing to say! I mean, he might have spoken to the selectmen, or is planning to.”
Molly shook her head. “If it’s action you’re looking for, don’t expect it from Rabbi Small. We’ve got to make up our mind to that. He’s good at telling us all the things we can’t do, and what the Talmud says about it, but when it comes to taking positive action, forget it.”
“Then what can we do?”
“Get another rabbi,” said Molly promptly.
“How? And how can you be sure the next one will be any better?”
“We won’t take one unless he has a proven track record. As to how …” Molly then proceeded to explain Maltzman’s plan.
They discussed it at length. Anne raised objections, pointed out problems and difficulties. But when Molly left and returned to her office, she was able to phone Maltzman that her friend had agreed.
36
“He’s on Children’s Island,” said Chief Lanigan. “What’s your business with him?”
“What’s he doing on the island?” asked Rabbi Small.
“Living there. Working there. The first night he came back, he slept in one of the cells right here at the stationhouse. But I couldn’t have him stay on where he hasn’t been charged. And I couldn’t have him go back to Jordon’s house, even if he had wanted to. We’ve got the house sealed up. He didn’t want to go back to working in the bank just yet. Thought he might be pestered by people asking him a lot of questions. Then I thought of the Hegertys. They live on the island until about Thanksgiving, fixing up, painting, putting up shutters on the cabins against the winter. They can use any help they can get. So I put it up to them, and the boy seemed willing, even interested, so it was arranged.”
“What’s his status? He’s not under arrest—”
“No, he hasn’t been charged. The D.A. doesn’t think we have any real evidence against him. On the other hand, we do want him around for a while. This seems an ideal arrangement.”
“Does he have a lawyer? Has his mother been notified?”
“What’s he need a lawyer for? He hasn’t been charged, I tell you. As for his mother, he doesn’t want her to know. Thinks she might come running home, if she did. Well, he’s eighteen, so he’s of age, so …”
“How can I get to see him?” asked the rabbi.
Lanigan smiled. He tilted back in his chair and interlaced his fingers over his belly. “Well, if you had a boat, I suppose you could row out there. Or you could hire somebody to take you out there in a launch. Or I could have the police harbor boat take you out there. But I doubt if I would since I don’t rightly see that you have any concern in the matter.”
Rabbi Small related the gist of his conversation with Ben Segal. “So, since his mother is Jewish, the boy is Jewish, and as the only rabbi in town—”
“Doesn’t it depend on the father?”
“With us, it’s the mother,” said the rabbi.
“Do you know the father?”
The rabbi shook his head.
Lanigan smiled. “Suppose I told you it was Ellsworth Jordon?”
If he expected to shock the rabbi with the revelation, he was disappointed. “It explains how he happened to be living there, doesn’t it? It doesn’t surprise me too much.”
“It might explain Jordon’s anti-Semitism,” mused Lanigan. “I mean, if he were very much in love with this Hester Grimes, or Esther Green, and she turned him down.”
“On the other hand,” the rabbi suggested, “she might have turned him down because he was anti-Semitic.”
“Also possible,” Lanigan admitted. “You might be interested to know that Jordon was planning on making Billy his heir.”
“The young man told you this?”
“No, I got that from Jordon’s lawyer. According to Billy, Jordon was just an old friend of the family. Either he doesn’t know Jordon was his father or he isn’t saying.” He eyed the rabbi speculatively. “If you see him, will you tell him?”
The rabbi’s face was bland as he asked, “Are you hinting that you’d like me to?”
Lanigan showed vast unconcern. “It might be interesting.”
The rabbi smiled and shook his head. “That’s for his mother to do if she wants to. If she’s kept his paternity secret all these years, she presumably had reason, and it’s not for me to come blundering in. No, I just want to talk to him.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my job,” the rabbi answered promptly. “He’s alone, without family or friends, and he’s in trouble. I—”
“What makes you think he’s in trouble? He hasn’t been charged.”
“Because you said there wasn’t any real evidence against him. But that suggests that he is a suspect. And while you don’t have evidence now, you are probably looking for it, and—”
“We’re looking for all kinds of evidence,” objected Lanigan. “No matter which way it points.”
“Sure, and if you find any that points his way, the district attorney will charge him, and since it’s a murder, he’ll go to jail while his court-appointed lawyer, an overworked public defender, gets a series of postponements in an effort to find time to prepare his defense. And in the meantime, the boy will be in jail. All I’m asking for is the chance to see him and talk to him and get to know him. Even more, to get him to know me, so that if anything untoward happens, he can call on me and, through me, on the Jewish community here. Anything wrong with that? Now, how do I go about hiring a launch?”
“Oh hell, I’ll have the police launch take you out.”
37
“I don’t think I’ve ever met a Rabbi before,” said Billy. Then with some concern, “Did you come out so that you could pray for me?”
They were sitting on the porch of one of the camp cabins. He sat on the top step, his back against the newel-post, dressed in stained coveralls several sizes too big for him, while the rabbi sat on the railing, the collar of his topcoat turned up against the breeze coming from the water.
“I hadn’t planned to,” said Rabbi Small, looking off toward the tiny dock against which the police harbor boat that had brought him bumped gently with every wave. The policeman who operated the craft, in a heavy turtleneck sweater, instead of his uniform blouse, lay on his
back on the dock, his cap over his face, basking in the rays of the afternoon sun. He rolled over and waved to the rabbi, who waved back. He turned to face the young man again. “Of course, if you’d like me to—”
“Oh no. I mean, I don’t care if you do or not.” Then lest he appear ungracious, he said, “I mean that if you came out here to pray for me, it would mean that I was in trouble, wouldn’t it? Am I?”
“I don’t know,” said the rabbi. “I came because I heard you were a Jew, and I’m the rabbi here.”
“Oh, but I’m not that kind of Jew.”
“No? What kind are you?”
“Well, I’m one because my mother is. You know, it’s what you’re born. My mother’s agent, Sol Katz, he’s always talking about ‘We Jews,’ so I asked my mother and she explained that there were two kinds—like Sol, who believed in the Jewish religion, and like us who didn’t believe in it but were Jews because we happened to be born Jews. But we were really just Americans. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“It’s one way of looking at it,” the rabbi admitted. “Is that what Mr. Jordon thought, too?”
“Oh, we never talked about anything like that.”
“No? What did you talk about?”
The young man laughed. “Money, mostly. He was always talking about stocks and bonds and how you figure out if they’re good stocks to buy, you know, by the financial statement. And land, and houses, and how you go about buying what’s going to increase in value. His idea was that money was important because if you had enough of it, you could be independent. And if you were independent, you could say anything that came into your mind. And if you could say anything, you could think anything—”
“Surely, it was the other way around, wasn’t it?”
“No,” Billy insisted. “That’s the way he put it. If you felt you could say anything, then you could think any way you wanted to. But if you didn’t feel you could say whatever came into your head, then you tended not to think of things.”
“I see. And did you like him?”
Thursday the Rabbi Walked Out Page 16