“I thought you were going back to work today.”

I tried keeping him distinct from Clifford by reminding myself that Simon never used his fists. “I’ve been working, boss. Even made some progress.”

“What do we have?”

We were going to keep it simple until I had a chance to ponder, and perhaps understand, Clifford’s visit. “About a half dozen pamphlets and tapes straight from the horse’s barn.”

“What barn? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Sean Kelly. I broke into his apartment, went through his stuff, and came away with a sampler. I left the porn there.”

“You broke into his apartment, huh?” Simon sounded impressed. “What did you find?”

“Wall-to-wall hate. Tee shirts, tapes, books, videos.”

“Anything else?”

“Poetry. A big fat history book. Underpants.” I was reluctant to mention the note. Very reluctant.

“I mean useful.”

“This is useful,” I protested. “You wanted confirmation that Kelly was a bigshot in the Avengers and that the Avengers terrorized the Jews. This stuff has them in bed with fucking neo-Nazis. You’re going to have a picnic sticking it to them.”

“It’s not enough,” Simon grumbled. “I’d like more.”

I had more to give. But my more wouldn’t give him what he wanted. My more would give him a migraine. And me another visit from Clifford. “Relax, friend. I’ll keep working.”

“It’s easy for you to say, but the Jewish community has its legs around my head. They are going to crack it like a fucking walnut if I don’t close this case soon. Right now the Never Agains are exerting enormous pressure on the traditional organizations. And believe me, I’m hearing about all of it.”

“You said the Never Agains weren’t big-time?”

“And like you said, this situation helps them recruit. Well, it does more than that. Reb Dov’s murder and the refusal to shut the book on Reb Yonah pushes everyone’s Jewish early alertsystem.”

“Almost everyone.”

“You don’t have an early warning system about anything, Matt. All of a sudden Never Agains are making angry sense to people who used to be disgusted by their rhetoric. People who know better. And the Never Agains are clever enough to make the most of it.”

For a moment I wondered whether this was the pot Clifford was stirring. It seemed unlikely; after all, he hadn’t warned me off the Hasids. “Who are they going to blow up? Kelly’s already dead.”

“I don’t know what they’re thinking of doing and neither does anyone else. That’s what has everyone worried. People who aren’t soft on the vigilantes are afraid the Never Agains will do something to really bring the heat. Do something that will boomerang back onto the Jews.”

I fingered the new bandage on my face. “Well, Simon, I’m getting what there is to get.”

“What are your plans?”

That’s what everyone wanted to know. Me too. “Well…”

“Come on, Matt-man. What are you going to do now?”

“The Yeshiva.” I paused. “Then back to the Irish.”

That placated one of us. The wrong one. Him.

“Sounds good, I suppose. I don’t have anything better to suggest.” Simon groaned and added, “I’ll try to calm things at my end, but it would be a helluva lot easier if Downtown shits or gets off the pot.”

I hesitated, then, despite Washington’s warning, strung a line. “Simon, what if Clifford really is involved?”

“Use your head for a second, will you?” He sounded disgusted. “Do you see that man concerned about a Hasid’s death? Or some shanty Irish? This isn’t his kind of work.”

“What about Never Agains? What if they are planning some sort of action?”

This time he paused. “Okay, Matt, good question.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Simon ignored me. “But it’s off-base. Believe me, I’m taking a crash course in their operation. Never Agains always work through local organizations. People aren’t worried that something will happen up here.”

“Why not?”

“Because the group doesn’t have a local chapter. No, Goomba, people are afraid the assholes will do something rash, but not around here.”

“I suppose,” I replied dubiously.

“Look, Matt, I have enough to worry about without your paranoid fantasies. If you or Phil have something more than a rumor, tell me. If not, leave it alone.”

I had something more than rumor. But I would tell him later, when I knew what it was. Maybe. “Okay, Barrister, I was just wondering.”

“And I’m wondering how you’re feeling?”

“Like a million.”

He didn’t ask what a million felt like. I was glad because my million felt sickly green.

 

The fresh joint brought a rush of serious second guesses. I had withheld fairly pertinent information. Still, Clifford seemed completely disinterested in the Rabbi or the Avengers. His focus had been on Kelly. I’d gotten there myself; but something told me Washington hadn’t arrived on the same bus.

Two hours later I felt a little better. And knew it when I’d stopped thinking of my Fritos as Clifford’s. But only a little. I could eat the chips but couldn’t come unstuck. Something important enough to involve Washington Clifford, yet tangential to the shootings was happening around me. Something larger than the Avengers and irrelevant to any legal hassle facing Reb Yonah. I chewed on my deep-fat-fried and fervently hoped Washington Clifford was breaking The National Armored Car Theft Association.

It was a bind. I didn’t intend to tell Simon about Clifford’s visit until I had followed my nose and discovered something useful and connected to the case. Problem was: I wasn’t too excited about following my nose into Clifford’s fist.

As my frustration mounted so did the need to do something. Only there weren’t all that many somethings staring me in the face. It took a little bourbon, darkness, and my unwillingness to remain in the house before I capitulated to the inevitable. It was time to re-visit the Yeshiva.

Walking through the door into their rundown hall was, once again, a walk back in time. Unfortunately, the retreat didn’t ease the soreness in my body or cause my bruises to disappear. It only made me feel older. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, my nose to the building’s musty smell, I felt a nerve-tightening anxiety. I leaned against one of the chipped walls, closed my eyes, and forced myself to relax. The anxiety was not the fearful dread of the past week’s, nor the expectation of another painful blow. My tension, I reluctantly admitted, was fathered by an undercurrent of anticipation. I wanted to see the kid.

This visit I searched for the voices. And found them in a large dining hall downstairs. I stood unseen in the shadows just outside the door. Like airport radar, my eyes scanned the room until I found him sitting at a corner table with a couple of older men. The men were engaged in an animated discussion but Yakov seemed content to toy with his food. The entire room boomed with boisterous conversations, creating an incomprehensible din. It didn’t help that none of the words were in English.

Now that I’d managed to force myself to return, I wondered about my next move. So I just kept standing there. Aside from the population, the room was colorless, painted a plain ancient gray. Along one side was a half wall that set apart a large working kitchen. The kitchen workers, all white-aproned, yarmulked, and bearded, were now at rest. Once in a while someone brought their plate to the counter and one of the bearded aprons would interrupt his own meal to pile the plate high with chicken, potatoes, and gravy. Frequently, people carried mugs to a large metal vat where they ladled out steaming coffee. I didn’t see anybody add milk, but more than a few dumped serious sugar. Even so, as soon as I noticed the jo, I could almost smell it.

When the pale white hand touched my shoulder I realized I was smelling it. Not from the urn across the room, but from the cup I bumped when I whirled around. “I’m sorry,” I said reaching for my handkerchief. I quickly stuck it back in my pocket when I saw the blood from Clifford’s visit. “You gave me a scare,” I explained.

“Then I should apologize, not you.” The man reached into his suit pocket for his own handkerchief. “Did any of my coffee spill on you?” he asked.

“If it had I would have licked it off.”

He stuck the handkerchief back into his pocket, stroked his stringy black beard, and looked at me quizzically. He suddenly smiled. “I get it. Most people won’t come into the building.” He looked at me with regret. “We don’t have room for people to stay here, you know.”

I hoped it was my bruised face that spurred his compassion. If it wasn’t I’d have to change tailors.

“Thank you, but I don’t need a place to stay. Or food. I just had a sudden hankering for coffee.”

“Please don’t be shy. I can tell by your face things aren’t easy for you. We are always happy to share our good fortune. It’s called a mitzvah.”

The GAP could rest easy about my trade. “Well, things aren’t easy, but it doesn’t have anything to do with eating.” I smiled. “Do I look undernourished?”

He glanced past me and I turned just in time to see Yakov arrive waving his hand and speaking in rapid-fire Yiddish. The man listened intently then looked at me. He responded to Yakov who shrugged and nodded. The man shook his head, drew back a step and said, embarrassed, “I made a horrible mistake. Yakov tells me that you work for Mister Roth. I thought…”

I rushed to reassure him. “That’s okay, lots of people make the same mistake.”

He nodded without meeting my eyes and rushed past me into the dining room. I turned back to a glaring Yakov. “You didn’t have to make a fool of Eliezer.”

“I wasn’t trying to embarrass him, Yakov.”

“I saw the two of you speaking. You had plenty of time to tell him who you were.”

“I was starting to when you interrupted. What’s going on? The last time I left we were friends.”

“Friends?” He shook his head. “We were never friends.”

“Okay, Yakov, friends might be a stretch, but now you want to tear my head off.”

I reminded myself of the pressure he was under. “Look, maybe I dredge up your father’s legal hassle, but I’m here to help, that’s all.”

The mention of Yonah cut through his anger and a pained look crossed his face. It was gone by the time he said softly, “Thank you for your reassurance, but I’m not worried about my father’s legal problems.”

“Then what’s got your back up?”

He abruptly changed the subject. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I told you I was going to return. I need to interview some of the people who were at the shootings.”

He nodded. “Yes, so you said.” He started to add something but changed his mind, standing silent until he waved his arm. “Do you intend to interview everyone?”

“Everyone was there?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I probably only need to talk with a few.”

He smiled without a trace of his mad. “I can help.”

It wasn’t professional, but then, neither was I. If this was his way of working things through, I wasn’t going to squelch it. “Thanks, I could use the help.”

“Do you need a quiet room?”

“It might be easier to set up camp at a corner table here. Unless you think it will disrupt people’s dinners. This way I won’t feel like a high school principal calling folks into the office.”

“Wait here,” he commanded. He ran into another room and returned with a yarmulke. “Put this on,” he said, shoving it into my hand.

I tried screwing it onto the top of my hair, but I still had to hold it while I followed him through the cafeteria. He led me to a table in the rear. “Would you like something to eat before we begin?”