temperature by the gun in his hand. The metal was chilled - like the handlebars of his bike after it had been left out overnight. It must be the ski mask that was making him so hot. The ski mask - and fear.
When Hersh first Set him in the alley, he nearly gagged from the stench. He was also petrified to be left alone. But he was more afraid of Hersh's temper than he was of being attacked by a stranger. As the hours wore on, his fear had blossomed into terror. Shadows were people waiting to jump him, every sound was magnified into an explosion. He felt like the rock pulled back on a slingshot, everything tight and ready to spring. Perspiration was preventing him from getting a good grip. Twice he even dropped the gun. Then he thought maybe he should just tell Hersh he lost it.
But Hersh would get mad. Maybe even kick him out. And it was just like he said. He had nowhere to go at this timeof night. Just the police. And he was terrified of that.
What if the druggist reported him as the one who stole those things'! Vey is mir, what if they arrested him, put him in jail.
No, he couldn't go to the police.
They might even be looking for him now.
He felt his hands shake uncontrollably and told himself to stop thinking about that. Just go through the night one minute at a time.
Just let the night be over with. He prayed to Hashem to give him guidance, but as always he found no answer in tephila. Just empty words. Hashem never answered him. But maybe he didn't pray right.
He was so confused.
At least Hersh hadn't made him load the gun. The clip inside was only for show.
You're gonna look like an idiot if you show someone some steel and there ain 'tno clip in it. You 're gonna look real stupid.
Hersh swore that the clip was empty. He showed Noam that it was empty. But still Noam wished that the clip wasn't there at all.
Maybe he should just pull it out.
But then Hersh would get mad at him.
Something warm and wet was leaking from his body. He must have gone to the bathroom twenty times, but there was still something in there. He felt his head swell up, throb with pain. He felt his knees knock together.
He began to hear himself drawing for breath.
Third time tonight he began to gasp for air. He knew what to do by now.
Deep breaths. Slow yourself down to deep breaths.
The tears started coming, blurring his vision. He wiped them away on his jacket.
He heard a sound and felt himself stiffen.
A second of silence.
Another hoot.
His hand gripped the gun, turning his knuckles white. Then nothing.
No one.
The alley was deserted. So were the streets. This back way was in the better part of the city, not too far away from all the courthouses. Where they were staying... that area was full of weirdos and bums, most of them black or Puerto Ricans. (Did they have Puerto Ricans in California or was it Mexicans?) There were loads of drunken old guys talking to themselves, walking with limps, pulling on their hair. They all stank from liquor.
After waiting for Hersh in this alley, he probably
stank too. Hersh promised to get him an Aerosmith T-shirt after this was over. Though Noam wanted the T-shirt, he wondered whether it was smart to spend on clothes when they needed money for food and a place to stay. ,
But Hersh became real mad when Noam told him his concerns.
Hersh was great to talk to as long as you were complaining about your parents, about the rabbis. When you complained about anything else, he pounced on you like a tiger.
Better not to speak unless spoken to.
Again the tears. How he wanted to go home, but he was so afraid. What if his parents wouldn't take him back? Course they had to by law, but... what if they wouldn't forgive him?
They'd have to forgive him if it was Yom Kippur. That's what Yom Kippur was for. If he didn't make it back by this Yom Kippur - which was in four days -he'd have to wait a whole other year.
What he really should do was drop the gun and run as fast as his legs could carry him. But where? He didn't have any money. And chas vachalelah - God forbid - he should bump into these crazy street people at this hour at night without a gun.
So confused.
Then he heard the noise - voices. People talking.
This time it was for real. The words garbled and echoing.
Getting closer and closer. Hersh's voice talking and laughing. A deep voice answering him. It also sounded happy.
Noam looked up, couldn't see a thing. Slowly he rose
and flattened himself against a brick wall. He didn't move.
The deep voice was louder - he was slurring his words.
Who was this guy?
Noam inched his way to where the alley met the surface street and peeked around the corner. The two shapes took on recognizable forms. Hersh all dressed up in his Shabbos pants and coat, shiny boots on his feet. The big figure in a suit and tie.
A big guy.
Maybe six feet.
Hersh said the mark would be little.
The big guy was staggering as he walked.
Was he drunk?
Noam had never known any real drunks. Some of the rabbis got drunk on Purim, but they weren't drunks. Noam didn't know whether the big guy's drunkenness would make him easier to rob or if it would make him mean and eager to fight.
They approached, closer and closer.
No one on the streets except Hersh and the mark.
Deserted. Alone.
They talked loudly. Hersh was talking with a half-German, half-Yiddish accent. He seemed like he was having a good time.
Sweat pouring into Noam's ski mask, turning it damp. The smell of wet wool. It made him nauseated. He pleaded to God to get this over with!
They were coming.
Closer and closer.
His heart was beating out loud, the gun quivering in his hands.
The salty smell of his sweat.
The blood rushing through his head.
Closer and closer.
A high-pitched ringing in his ears. Then it stopped and his head was filled with a whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
His heart hammering against his chest.
Lub dud, lub dud, lub dud.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
Lub dud. Whoosh.
Faster, faster.
Now!
He leaped out and stuck the gun in the mark's back. Said his practiced lines.
But it didn't go as planned.
A large arm pivoting, turning.
A heavy thump across his head.
Losing balance.
Something warm and wet inside his mouth. Something hard floating in his saliva.
But the gun in his hand.
Move and I'll kill you! someone screamed.
Someone screaming in his voice. He spit out the hard thing as he screamed.
Blood pouring from his mouth.
An arm going around his throat, choking him.
Noam pushed the gun deep into a soft gut. Pulled the trigger.
Nothing.
Pulled harder and still nothing.
The arm choking harder, his head becoming light. Blood choking him.
Was he shot in the mouth?
God, he was going to die!
Coughing. Coughing. Coughing.
Going to die!
Say your last prayers.
Say kaddishl
Gasping for air. Coughing blood.
His body floating away.
Gasp.
Choke.
Floating away. Say kaddish quick. But the words...
And then the arm releasing him.
The body slumping down on the ground.
Hersh on top of the body, his hand plunging into the man's chest.
Something shiny in his hand.
Hersh screaming something.
But Noam could barely make out the words as he spit out blood.
Then he understood.
GO
DDAMN IT! CHECK HIS COAT POCKET!
Noam reached inside the man's suit.
Wet and warm.
The man was wet and warm.
On his chest shreds of fabric. A wet hole. A few bits of something that felt like chopped meat.
The man not moving.
HURRY GODDAMN IT!
Noam searched the inside coat pocket. Pulled out a wallet and showed it to Hersh.
Hersh grabbed the wallet, then Noam's hand, and ran. One block, two, three, four.
Noam sucking for air, spitting out blood. Deep pain in his chest.
Then Hersh yelling at him to slow down.
They stopped a block Utter.
Quickly Hersh took off his coat and used it to wipe the knife. He threw it into a Dumpster and tucked the knife into his boot, peeled off Noam's ski mask and threw that away too. •
Hersh whispered, 'Give me the wallet.'
Noam did as told.
'You still got the gun?'
Noam nodded.
'At least you had the fuckin' sense not to drop the gun.' Hersh rummaged through the wallet, fished out a thick fold of bills, fanned them out like playing cards.
'Man, we hit the mother lode.' Hersh scanned the ID. 'Fucker used a fake name with me. His driver's license says he's Thomas Stoner and he told me his name was Todd.' He laughed and threw the wallet in the garbage. He eyed Noam. 'You look like shit.'
Noam started to speak, but held back because he felt his stomach contents begin to erupt.
'Dafuck he do?' Hersh said. 'Knock out your tooth?' He spit on Noam's face and began to groom him like a monkey. 'We gotta get outta here, but we gotta clean you up first.' He spit into his hand again. 'Not too bad. Let's go. And relax. He ain't gonna be yellin' for help.'
Slowly, they walked back to their hotel room. The man at the desk barely noticed them when he handed Hersh the key.
Once inside, Hersh bolted the door. Then he plopped down on the bed. Noam sat on the edge.
Hersh said, 'You know if you woulda loaded the fuckin' gun, we coulda done it much cleaner. I mean the gun was a total waste. And you bein' there was a total waste. I spent more energy tryin' to keep you safe than I
did takin' him out. Only thing you were good for was the element of surprise.' Hersh paused a moment. 'It coulda been worse.'
Noam tried to stop shaking. 'Is he...'
Hersh threw him a disgusted look. 'Was he movin'?'
Noam shook his head.
'Then use your imagination, pal.'
'Oh, God,' Noam moaned. A deep moan from inside his soul. He ran to the bathroom. Bolted up his dinner in deep waves of grief.
Such an aveyrah, such a horrible sin. A sin against man, a sin against God. He was the lowest of the low. Please God, be merciful and let me die.
After vomiting, he washed his face. His head was hurting so bad, he thought someone must have shot it. His mouth was fuzzy, his lip split, swollen to twice its size. A piece of front tooth chipped off, scraping his tongue.
That man. Warm and wet.
The hole in his chest, oozing with warm blood.
Oh God, let me die!
'Whatcha doin' in there?' Hersh shouted. 'Get in here, we gotta talk.'
'A minute,' Noam managed to say. Again he washed his face. In a moment of self-loathing, a moment of fury, he balled up his hand and punched the mirror. The glass shattered, cutting his hand and wrist. Noam didn't care.
A pounding at the door. Hersh saying, 'Dafuck you doin', Nick-O?'
'I'll be out in a minute,' Noam heard himself say. Still shaking, he washed his hand and wrists. Then he saw it, a glittering piece of glass. Sharp... so sharp. He picked it up. Made a practice cut across his wrist. The line instantly bled.
But suicide was another aveyreh, another sin.
Two sins. Sin leads to sin. Aveyrah gemat aveyrah.
Easier to get killed than to kill yourself.
Hersh would make him do it again. He knew it.
Let the aveyrah be on someone else. He bandaged his hand with the towel.
That was the only way.
He felt calmer, hitting upon a solution that would be good for everyone.
Him dead - no longer a burden to anyone.
But first he must make confession - vidduy - especially before Yom Kippur. To whom? To anyone who'd listen. Had to be tonight. Tomorrow might be too late.
Had to be tonight.
When he came out, Hersh was examining his knife.
'Musta broke the tip off inside the fucker. God, that makes me pissed.' He stuck the knife inside a leather sheath and looked up at Noam.
'What happened to your hand?'
'I smashed the mirror in the medicine cabinet.' Noam waited for Hersh to get mad. He didn't care anymore.
'Why'dyadothat?'
' 'Cause I felt like it,' Noam said.
Hersh smiled. That horrible lopsided smile.
'Pretty tough, kid. The hand, the face... looks like you just went ten rounds with someone heavy. The shit puts a little man into you.'
'You killed him,' Noam whispered.
Hersh said, 'You think I'm a monster for doin' that?' He stood up and poked a finger in Noam's chest. 'Let me tell you something, Nick-O. I heard you clickin' the Beretta. When you pulled the trigger, were you thinkin' if the gun was loaded or not?'
He poked him again.
'Huh? Were you?'
Noam shook his head no. No, he wasn't thinking about that. More aveyrahs. To get himself killed was the only solution. 'No,' he said. 'You're right. 1 wasn't" thinking about it.'
'Hey, you think it's bad you pulled the trigger, I think it's good. That's why I helped you. I could see that you're a mover and shaker. I mean, you fucked up this time. But that was your first time at bat and hell, 1 can give you a little grace period. Next time we go with a loaded gun.'
Next time, Noam thought. Confession tonight. Because next time would be the last time.
Hersh was staring at him. Trying to read him.
'I mean if there ever is a next time,' Hersh said. 'We got a pretty good haul. And like I said, the dickhead's money should be comin' my way soon.'
But all Noam heard was next time. Next time, the last time.
'You'd better start packing,' Hersh said. 'We gotta split.'
'Where are we going?'
Hersh gave him a pat on the back. 'Not to worry, Nick-O.' He winked. 'I got it all worked out.'
-qq
The jarring ring of the telephone jolted Decker awake. Hand flailing out to pick up the receiver, he answered the call 'Decker' from force of habit.
'Akiva?'
Akiva? Decker thought. Static on the line. The voice feminine and nervous. Someone from New York. The boys? Dear God, don't do this to me.
'Yes, this is he. Who am I talking to?"
'Who is it?' Rina asked.
Rina. He'd forgotten about her. Reminded himself to speak more softly.
The voice said, 'This is Miriam Berkowitz. Noam's aunt?'
'Is everything OK?'
'No, it isn't.'
'What is it, Peter?' Rina asked.
He waved her quiet. 'Are you calling about Noam?'
'Yes, I—'
'Wait,' Decker interrupted. 'Then my boys are OK?'
Rina gasped. 'What?'
'Your boys?' A momentary pause. 'Oh, you mean Rina's... They're fine. Oh, my goodness, I must have frightened you. I'm so sorry.'
'No problem,' Decker said. 'Give me a second to talk
to Rina.' He covered the mouthpiece. 'It's Miriam Berkowitz, Noam's aunt. It's about Noam. The boys are fine.'
'Boruch Hashem,' Rina whispered. She covered her mouth and exhaled, tried to slow her breathing. 'Don't worry about me. I'll just collapse.'
Faye Kellerman - Decker 04 - Day of Atonement Page 25