To Kill a Matzo Ball (A Deadly Deli Mystery)

by Delia Rosen

  That brought tears to my eyes, and as if on cue, the front door opened. Grant walked in, both sealing and ending the moment.

  “Thanks,” I said to Thom, as we parted.

  “Everything okay?” Grant asked, seeing us together.

  “Never better,” I said.

  “I saw the new window, just thought I would check in,” he said, “make sure there wasn’t any trouble.”

  It sure didn’t sound as if Agent Bowe-Pitt had mentioned the previous night’s adventure, and Richards apparently hadn’t said a word about our little date.

  “No trouble,” I smiled.

  He didn’t know me well enough, or wasn’t attuned enough, to know that I was lying. That was okay. To be fair, I hadn’t really let him in that deep.

  “Then sorry to interrupt,” he said.

  Grant looked around at the quietly busy staff, and then his eyes settled on me. I just stood there like Lot’s wife. Another awkward moment in the multifaceted male-female saga of Gwen Katz.

  “How are you?” I asked, just to ask something benign.

  “Good.” He started toward me. “By the way, there’s nothing to report. Agent Bowe-Pitt is pursuing his own investigation while we’re still working on the ballistics, rifle registry, surveillance video. Whoever is behind this has been very careful. We checked local chloroform sales, found nothing; that could have been bought out-of-state. Tough to track. Because the Feds are looking into the SSS, Detective Bean shifted from that mission and has been working with me on the Chinese connection.”

  “A thin black line,” I murmured.

  “What?”

  “I was just thinking of the sifu’s black belt at the school. I’m guessing that even rivals close ranks against outsiders.”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe,” Grant laughed.

  “Oh, I’d believe it,” I said. “Jews are the same way.”

  “As are cops.”

  A Chrysler convertible pulled up out front. The roof was down. I saw the police sticker in the window, then I saw into the window. I swore inside my distracted head. Now that there was no longer a slab of plywood out front, Grant saw it too. He stared out at the street for a moment, then looked back at me.

  “Uh-huh. Is this personal or professional?” he asked as he recognized Richard Richards in the driver’s seat.

  “If it were the former it would be none of your business,” I said. That was a little harsh, so I added quickly, “I’m going to listen to his lecture on computer stuff.”

  Grant’s mouth twisted. “Do you really think it’s a good idea for you to go to the TSU campus?”

  The question hit me like a big dollop of horseradish. I actually tasted the surprise in my mouth. I had not, in fact, realized that was where we were going. I figured it was at some community hall or high school or youth center.

  “I’ll be with a cop,” I improvised. “No one will bother me, right?”

  “If they do, you may not live long enough to know it!”

  I pulled off my apron, grabbed my bag from the office, and headed toward the door. Grant hadn’t moved. “I’ve got to go,” I said to him, but included everyone with a final, sweeping look. “If you need me, call.”

  I stopped in the doorway. “I need to get out,” I said to Grant.

  “You’ve been out. That hasn’t worked very well.”

  “I got attacked here, too. I’ve got to keep moving.”

  He came toward me. Everyone else, including me, was frozen.

  “You’re being stubborn and foolish,” he said hotly.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  He stopped a foot away. “But it could be the last. Stay here until we bag and tag whatever is going on!” He looked over at my manager. “Tell her, Thom. Just be sensible for once.”

  We were both working on multiple levels here and Thom wisely held up both hands and walked away. Grant looked at me and lowered his voice. “Gwen, can’t you see that I’m worried about you?”

  “Yes. But muscling me isn’t the way to help.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing—”

  “It is, Grant. You mean well, but I don’t want to hide—especially since, when I hide, the bad guys know exactly where to find me. Three shots have been fired, two of them here. This is hardly a sanctuary.” I glanced over at Richards, who had stayed in the car. I held up a finger to let him know I’d be right there. “Look, Grant—I’ve got to go.”

  I started out the door, and he grabbed my arm. I tensed but resisted pulling away.

  I could tell from the way Grant’s jaw grinded back and forth that he wanted to continue arguing. To his credit, he didn’t. “Watch what’s going on around you. Stay indoors as much as possible. And don’t sit near any windows.”

  “All good ideas,” I said. “Thanks.”

  I left then and hurried to the car, let myself in. Richards looked a little green. “Should we be doing this?” he asked.

  “Why? Because of Grant?”

  “Yeah, because of Detective Daniels. He’s not my boss, but he is a superior—”

  “He was afraid I was being reckless. I assured him I’m not. End of story.”

  He hesitated.

  “Drive,” I said encouragingly. “It’s really okay.” I flashed a big smile, one that was probably as inauthentic as oleo.

  “If I don’t I’ll be late,” he said. “Are you sure you want to come?”

  In response, I buckled my seat belt. He gave a little shrug of resignation and pulled away, as I glanced back at the deli in my side mirror. Grant was standing in the door, looking sort of wounded and indignant, like Elijah just finding there was no cup for him at the Pesach table. I had a strong feeling he would definitely not be following me to the campus.

  TSU. Whence I was fired at the other night. Grant, damn him, had a point: there was an element of recklessness to this if no one but Richards was there to back me up—and as far as I could tell in the glow of the instrument panel and the passing street lamps—he wasn’t packing heat.

  That was when I realized what my backup plan needed to be.

  Chapter 21

  The campus of Tennessee State University looked very different on a clear night than it did in a thick, misty rain. For one thing, there were students walking about, which put me somewhat at ease. On the other hand, there was nothing between me and the rooftops but open sky.

  Not that I expected anyone to have parked in a crow’s nest or rolled out a blood-red carpet for me. Unless Richards had given someone a heads-up, no one had known I was coming. Unless someone was following me, no one knew I was here.

  Unless and unless, I thought. Far too many of those unlikely “what ifs . . . ?” had come along to bite me in the tuchas since I’d been down here.

  Richards turned into a parking lot near the intersection of John A. Merritt Boulevard and 33rd Avenue N. The big William J. Hale Stadium loomed ahead.

  “This is an arena gig then, eh?” I said.

  “Clay Hall,” he replied.

  Those nine words doubled the number of words we had spoken during the short drive. Richards was not being rude, he was just being silent. I let him be, figuring he was reviewing the lesson plan in his head or thinking about work or wondering if Grant was going to ream him out in the morning.

  He gave me a sideward glance; he didn’t seem to get the joke.

  “I have to stop at the administration building to get a key,” he said, jerking a thumb to his left. “Would you mind waiting here?”

  “No problem,” I told him.

  He left, and I sat, and the parking lot, though not quite empty, seemed unusually desolate now. I popped the door and leaned against the side of the car, then walked to and fro, then ranged a little farther.

  Nervous much? I asked myself.

  I looked at the few figures coming and going, at the students across the main road. I had the sudden urge to run forward, like the Ancient Mariner, and warn all the women about the future. Maybe I should teach a
class: We’re a Majority Being Treated as a Minority or How to Help Them Keep You Down. It occurred to me that so much of my overreaction—if that’s what it was—to Grant and other men was cumulative. Not just what had happened to me, but what had happened to women around me. My mother, in particular. So many Jewish families were matriarchies, yet that had to do with the home. In the world, where I was, that accounted for bubkes.

  I was beginning to feel chilly as a firm, cool wind blew north, toward the main campus. I looked back at the two-story, sandstone-colored building. How the hell long did it take to get a key?

  Unless he was phoning for a sharpshooter, I thought unpleasantly.

  I got back in the car, sat, sent a text, checked my phone for e-mails. I scrolled to my directory. Looked at the names, wondered who I could call. No one. No friends down here, dammit. I got out of the car again, resolved to ditch the night’s plans and walk back to the deli—when Richards reappeared, jogging from the building. I felt relief, but it was relief that we’d be on the move, not relief that I was safe, secure.

  “Let’s go,” he said, scooting around the front of the car and continuing on.

  I guess we were walking to our destination. In silence.

  What the hell is wrong with this boy ? I wondered as I caught up. He was so talkative when we were hacking Banko’s computer.

  We went to Clay Hall, which was in the direction opposite the stadium, on our side of the main boulevard. It was in the belly of a slew of buildings, any one of which could be a sniper’s roost.

  But isn’t, I told myself. You’re just going to a damn lecture.

  We entered the building; at least Richards held the door for me and allowed me to go first. Before he could enter, a young woman—one of his students, I assumed—ran up and started talking with him. I couldn’t hear their discussion, but she was animated, his manner was brighter, and I felt worse than a third wheel: I was like traif on the menu, the uncleanest kind of shellfish. They entered the hallway slowly, chit-chattering away, and I suddenly did not want to be there anymore. I continued ahead, looking for an exit that would not force me to double back. Not that they would have noticed me.

  There was a split corridor ahead, with an exit sign pointing left. I went that way, walked into the night, and started to send a text as I walked. I stopped texting when I literally bumped into Banko Juarez. He had his laptop perched in an open palm, held before him. His other hand was cupped beside his etheric vibrator thing.

  I said, “Either this is an eerie coincidence or—”

  “It’s ‘or,’” he said urgently. “We have to get you out of here.”

  “Why? And how’d you know I’d be here?”

  “The lines,” Banko said, as he backed against a tree, pulling me with him. He tapped some keys, then watched the exit anxiously. “I was in the park again and picked up one of those lines we’d been studying, followed it here.”

  “Which one?” I asked.

  He showed me the computer. There were two lines virtually identical.

  “Whose is it?” I asked.

  “The gal from the hotel,” Banko said. “The one on the night desk.”

  “Maybe she’s a student,” I said.

  “Or maybe she’s been following you,” Banko replied.

  “Can you tell where she is?”

  “The etheric reader is not a directional device,” he said. “Maybe one day.”

  I was glad I hadn’t sent the text I was about to send. I sent a different one. “I’m going back inside.”

  “Probably a good idea,” he said.

  We hustled back toward the door, along with a handful of students who were going to night classes. Including the one who put something hard against my back. It wasn’t a frozen knish.

  “Don’t turn around and don’t try to run,” someone whispered hotly, hoarsely in my ear. “Just go where the gun points.”

  It was either a very butch woman or an effeminate man, I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t even tell if it belonged to one of the Chinese I’d met. In short, I knew nothing—other than I hoped I lived long enough to apologize to Grant for not taking his advice.

  The gun nudged me around the building across the neatly clipped lawn. There were no students here.

  “Banko, you there?” I said in a frightened voice.

  “Shut up.”

  That did not come from the guy directly behind me. So there was someone else. Banko had obviously bailed, the craven little putz. The pistol walked me along Alameda to another building, Hale Hall. It was a dormitory. I resolved I was going to say something to the man at the desk—until he locked eyes with whoever was behind me and, stone-faced, simply nodded. And I mean simply: the guy barely looked up from his tablet.

  I was led to a door. A hand reached around me and knocked: tap-tap-tap, pause, tap-tap. The door opened on a room that would have made Jefferson Davis smile.

  I’m not one of those bleeding hearts who thinks that everyone who raises a Confederate flag is a racist or wants to see the nation return to slavery. Some people are genuinely proud and nostalgic for the finer qualities of antebellum living. That said, this room did not belong to one of those individuals. Because right above the bed to my right were the Stars and Bars—while to the right was the big, ugly banner of the Third Reich. Scattered around the room were other pieces of whites-only memorabilia, including posters from various supremacist groups. Including this one: the SSS.

  There was only one person in the room. He was a short but massively muscled student with a Marine-style haircut. He shut the door behind me. The gun was lowered. I turned warily and saw another student like the first—and Banko Juarez. The lying momzer closed the computer and laid it on the bed under the swastika. There was a rifle case on the bed and, beside it, a box of ammunition.

  “So you’re a pimp and a murdering scumbag,” I said.

  “I’m just the procurer, as you suggest. These gentlemen are the killers. And you,” he chuckled, “are a blind, dopey bitch. You bought my act! You kept coming at me and coming at me, and each time I denied it you believed me!”

  “Yeah. I still occasionally make a mistake and trust men.”

  “You were so easy,” he said, still chuckling. “Oh, and that wasn’t Bananas’ line on the computer. It was your line. How do you think I tracked you here?”

  “Ah, good,” I said. “So the technology works. I’m actually a little glad not to have been duped by every damn thing.”

  “It works,” Banko said. “And the more I refine it, the more I’ll be able to find Jews and Muslims. The blacks—they’re easy enough to find.”

  “So what do you do?” I ask. “Go from city to city targeting defenseless people?”

  “Truthfully, I’m just getting started,” he said. “The etheric readings are a good cover, and they provide useful field work. I am curious, though. How did you figure out I was working with the girls at the hotel?”

  “You don’t expect me to tell you that, do you?”

  “Sure do,” he said flippantly.

  One of the muscular students had come up behind me and grabbed my wrists. I struggled for about a second. His fingers were like big, strong tree roots. His companion, the one with the gun, stuffed a ball-gag in my mouth. I realized then that instead of sassing Banko I should have been screaming, in the off chance someone in the dorm might have come to my rescue. Who knew this was going to happen?

  The guy who plugged my mouth put his fingers on my scalp and rested a thumb in my left eye. This was not good.

  “I want to know who else knows about my business and how they found out,” Banko said. “I’m going to name some names, and you are going to stamp your right foot like a horse. One stamp for yes, two for no. If you are slow in responding, my colleague will start to press your eye inward. Eyeballs don’t hold up well under pressure, so I suggest you tap dance quickly. Any questions? Please stomp your answer.” He smiled smugly at that.

  In all the years with my husband, on Wall Stree
t, being duped down here by people who knew the turf better than I did—with all that, I had never known humiliation as intense as I did when I raised and lowered my foot once like a Lipizzaner. Once, as he had instructed. I knew, of course, that this interview would be quicker and easier if he just took the gag out and asked me for a name. I don’t know if I would have given it, but I gathered that this was part of his Aryan fun: humiliating the Jew. The woman. He obviously didn’t have any regard for members of my gender except as profit centers.

  I wished that Richard Richards had missed me right away and gone looking for me. He probably hadn’t even noticed I was gone, or if he did, he figured I went to the lavatory. At least I was right not to worry about being with him.

  Some consolation, I thought as Banko moved in closer.

  “Detective Daniels,” he said.

  His little game had started. I tapped my hoof twice.

  “Detective Bean.”

  Another two taps.

  “Agent Bowe-Pitt.”

  Ditto, ditto.

  A question occurred to me, then. I was wondering : if I ratted on who knew, did I get to live? That seemed pretty important. But I couldn’t exactly raise my hand to ask it. It was sad that in some ways my life hadn’t really advanced much beyond first grade.

  “Who’s left?” Banko wondered aloud. “Yes. The other policeman. What was his name? Richards?”

  I hesitated. The thumb pressed down.

  Growing up, hearing the stories about concentration camps, I always wondered how I would stand up in a situation where I was starving or freezing or being walked to my death or being tortured. I had no illusions about my capacity to endure pain, from earaches as a kid to toothaches now. It was low. I always imagined I would probably go psychologically numb. But that wasn’t what happened.

  I stomped my foot. Twice, for no. As scared as I was, I was also angry. The pressure remained on my eye. I started to see swirling, oily black and orange shapes. I was breathing hard through my nose. But above all, I was filled with a kind of rage—and outrage—I had never known before. It didn’t make me brave, it made me crazy.

  Banko moved closer. “Why did you hesitate about Richards? Because you’re lying?”