“Just coffee, please. Black. Oh, and Yakov, I’d be really grateful if you could bring me a pencil and some paper.”

He looked surprised at my request, shook his head skeptically, but left the room. This wasn’t a day I inspired a whole lot of confidence. I glanced around relieved to see people smoking, reached for a small tin ashtray, and lit up. I sensed that Eliezer had passed the word since no one ran over to offer me alms. Also, the decibel level was a little lower. Now the place just sounded like Fenway during a World’s Series instead of the Humphrey Dome.

I sat back in my chair smoking to the chorus of singsong voices, a constant tugging of wild beards, the de rigueur black or gray suits shiny with use, the rocking back and forth in their chairs. The men, and there were only men in the dining hall, occasionally stopped their incantations to pore through oversized, leather-bound books held on their laps. Many people were so intensely engaged by their discussions they barely touched their food. Dinner at the Baal Shem Yeshiva was not a kick-back, chill-out affair.

Actually, I appreciated the din. The noise created an illusion of privacy, allowing me an opportunity to eyeball an alien world. When I realized that it had only been a short while since I sat in a freezer interviewing neo-Nazis, the sensation deepened. I was a Stranger in a Couple of Strange Lands.

Yakov, returning, pen and notebook in hand, reminded me of a young colt, all legs and head, as he moved toward the half wall. A couple of minutes later he was toting a tray toward me that was filled with cups and a large pot of coffee.

“Sit down,” he said as I stood up to help. “This should start us off. There is more if we want it.”

Though pleased by the implied partnership I said, “Aren’t you a little young for coffee this time of night?”

My remark scored a dirty look. “I’ve been drinking coffee since my bar mitzvah. Everybody does. It keeps you awake.”

“I know what it does, but why do you want to stay awake?”

“To learn.”

“The last time we met you said something about this learning. What exactly are you studying?”

“Mostly Gemorah, Halacha.” He stopped, looked at me, then said, “Our laws.” Yakov waved his hand. “You have to think about it differently. The learning itself is everything. To spend time with our Rabbis’ teachings, to have the privilege of studying Holy Words is a lifetime’s joy. Every moment we learn brings us a great deal of pleasure.”

“So we’re talking God’s work here?”

Yakov smiled. “Those of us who can will spend our lives learning.” He added, “I’ll spend my life here, living like I do now.”

“You know that already? What if…”

“There is no what if.”

I thought about his desire to do the interviews, and wondered whether I was an unconscious “what if.”

“Will hanging around here with me get you in trouble?”

“Of course not.” He seemed offended by the question. “No one tells me what to do. That’s up to me.”

The words jumped out before I could reel them in. “What about your dad? Doesn’t he have anything to say?”

Yakov’s mouth tightened. “I don’t question my father and he doesn’t question me.”

“I’m not talking about questions or explanations. I’m talking about interest.”

Yakov didn’t answer. I drank my coffee and lit another cigarette. I was in no rush to work. It was comfortable feeling protective without my past getting in the way. “Yakov, I get the feeling that you were closer to Rabbi Dov than you are with your dad.”

The boy’s face darkened. “What difference does that make to you?”

A fair question that deserved an honest answer. “Maybe it’s poking in where I don’t belong, but I’m a little worried about you. You seem cut off from everybody else. Earlier I saw you sitting at a table. The other people were talking and eating but you weren’t doing either. I know you were close to Rabbi Dov, but who are you close with now?”

Yakov’s eyes flashed, and he shook his head defensively. “You say you’re worried, but why should I believe you? You also said you were coming back to Yeshiva but you waited until the lawyer Roth made you return. Anyhow, I can take care of myself.” There was a hurt, bitter tone to his voice.

I finally understood his anger. The boy felt trapped; caught between his hunger for, and fear of, contact. “Yakov, I’m sorry if you expected me back sooner, but Simon did not order me back to the Yeshiva.”

“Then why has it taken so long? I expected you after our shiva.”

I considered telling him about Becky but couldn’t begin. Didn’t want to begin. Instead, I let go of my breath. “I ran into a little trouble on the case.”

“Your bruises are from my father’s case?”

“Yeah. The Avengers stopped talking to me.”

“What do you mean ‘talking to you’?”

“I masqueraded as a writer to get information.”

“Isn’t that dangerous? Is that what you always do on a case?” He might spend the rest of his life hauling heavy Jewish, but right now he had the excitement of a kid curious about the world.

“Slow down, boy. Detective work is mostly boring, plodding research. Believe me, I spend more time in libraries than on the street. The impersonation stuff is unusual.”

“But it must be dangerous,” he offered. “Look what happened to you. What if the Avengers had guns?”

“Nothing so exciting, Yakov,” I dodged. “Just a couple goons who jumped me. No big deal.” I couldn’t help myself and added, “They got the worst of it.”

Yakov nearly rose from his chair and said something in Yiddish.

“What’s gotten into you?” I asked.

“You were the person who beat up the Avengers!” he said excitedly. “We heard a rumor about that but no one knew if it was really true. Now it turns out you were the one who did it.” He wore a huge grin and looked around the room as if he wanted to shout the news.

I reached across the table and pulled on his suit cuff. “I’m telling you, Yakov, it wasn’t a big deal. And I’m not sure it’s something to be proud of. There are better ways to take care of business than fighting.”

Yakov’s head snapped back. “A moment ago you sounded pleased, now you sound like a teacher. This ‘better way’ didn’t work for my Rebbe.”

I’d struck another nerve. “No it didn’t, but that doesn’t change what I said. It reinforces it. Proud is part of the problem. All of us are brought up believing we’re strong and powerful if we can ‘beat’ the other guy. That’s tough to shake. Hey, when you told me about the basketball court I understood your frustration, but maybe your Rebbe had it right.”

“Or maybe Rebbe had it wrong,” Yakov said stridently. “At least about this,” he added quickly. “Nothing is gained by allowing yourself to be abused. Or by running.”

He drank from his cup and made a sour face when he discovered the coffee cold. I waited while he freshened both our cups, and then he continued. “Jews feel proud about the people who were killed in the Warsaw ghetto. We feel pride in those who would not die quietly. Even the atheist Zionists understand this. The rest of the world respects them because they refuse to be intimidated. We need the same attitude here so people will stop pushing us around.”

“I don’t agree with you, Yakov. Respect doesn’t mean much if it’s gotten through blood.” I paused then added, “Anyway, who are you going to stand up to? Right now the Avengers are out of circulation.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “They weren’t the first and won’t be the last. Anyhow, you say one thing but do another. You fought the Avengers. Our community must learn to protect itself. This, at least, is something my father and I agree upon.”

“Your father?”

“Yes. If the Rebbe had listened he would not have been sacrificed. My father has always wanted us to stand up for ourselves.”

“You’re talking like the Never Again people, aren’t you?”

“What do you know about them?”

“I’ve just heard stories. Yakov, they don’t sound very cool.”

“Cool? We don’t care about cool. We care about safety. The Yeshiva needs to be safe for us to have our life. We are different from everyone else and if we don’t take care of ourselves, no one will. The Never Agains provide strength and protection!”

“And you and your dad want them here?”

“Yes, but the Rebbe did not agree. Just like the basketball court.”

“What do the other Yeshiva people think about the Never Agains?”

“In the past most agreed with the Rebbe. Since his death it isn’t so clear.”

I shook my head, “I’ve heard that they do more than protect. I’ve been told they are a vigilante group.”

Yakov waved his young hand dismissively. “Are you a vigilante? What is the difference between what the Never Agains do and what you do? You work for people who need protection. If you have to fight, you fight. It’s the same, except the Never Agains is an organization for Hasidim. And you are an individual who can be bought by anyone.”

“Not anyone, Yakov,” I said mildly. “I don’t know enough about the group to argue with you, but when I first began working your father’s case, someone quoted, ‘Choose your enemies carefully for eventually you’ll resemble them.’ Well, it probably applies to friends as well.”

He started to retort but I didn’t want to continue the disagreement. “It’s time for us to work. It would be a big help if you could start with people who were right around the shootings. Maybe begin with the two or three who you think will be comfortable talking to me.”

For a second Yakov looked as if I had blown it. But his interest in the assignment grabbed hold. He nodded and left the table.

I lit another cigarette, and tried to get my head into the job. I felt good about Yakov and me, though I found his allegiance to the Never Agains disturbing. But right now I needed to put it away until some other time. I wanted to make up for having forgotten a pen and paper. I wantedthe boy to see a pro.

Maybe I was showing off, or maybe I was still smarting from being ID’d as homeless, but I interviewed the hell out of the Hasids. People, describing the night of the shootings said basically the same thing: Kelly caught their attention while he was screaming anti-Semitic slogans and curses; the crowd was too surprised and confused to react; given the chaos of the celebration, and the darkness of the night, no one had seen Kelly’s gun.

No one realized there was danger, or even that the Rebbe had been shot until Reb Yonah ran toward Kelly with his own gun. By then it was too late.

Eventually I changed horses and focused on the Avengers’ history of attacks on the Hasids. I had no trouble getting more specifics to bring to Simon. At one point I glanced up from my pen and notebook, surprised to see my table surrounded by a dozen Hasids, each intent on recounting still one more harassment. I struggled to keep up with my notes.

After the last person had finally finished his story, the crowd dispersed and I wearily dropped the pen on the table and closed the notebook. “The Avengers really worked you guys over, didn’t they?” I said to Yakov.

“Why do you think they have finished? These stories are the reasons we need to involve the Never Agains.”

“I’m too talked out to argue, Yakov.”

A sudden smile broke across his serious face. “You do this work well.”

I felt a flash of rare pleasure. “It wasn’t real difficult, kid. Everybody wanted to speak.”

“They wanted to speak because you wanted to listen.”

“That’s my job.”

“Will this help my father?”

“Simon says it will and he is a terrific lawyer.”

Yakov stood up and looked away, as if embarrassed about his concern.

“Look, kid, it makes sense that you’re worried.”

A small sour look darted across his adolescent face. “My worries leave sense far away.”

I waited but nothing more came. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing, Mr. Jacob.”

“Now that we’ve worked together, do you think you can call me Matt?”

“Sure, Mis…Matt.” The boy looked around the now deserted dining hall. “Is there more you need to do?”

“Not tonight. Sometime I’d like to talk to your dad, and I may want to find someone who actually saw Kelly’s gun go off, but ‘that’s all for now, folks.’”

“So you will or won’t be coming back?”

He wasn’t asking about interviews. “I’ll be back, Yakov. You can count on it.”

“I have to leave now.” But he hesitated. “The lawyer Roth. Everyone says he is very good at what he does?”

“Simon leaves good in the dust.”

“Do you want me to show you out?”

“I know the way. Anyhow, I want to have another smoke.”

“Okay,” he said reluctantly. He started to walk away then turned back. “You know, cigarettes aren’t good for you.”

I smiled. “I know. Thanks for the concern.”

He blushed and mumbled, “Thank you for yours.”

I watched as he left the room, poured myself the dregs of cold coffee, and had just returned the pot to the tray when I heard someone enter the room from a door in back of me. I turned, somehow expecting to see the kid, but was met by his father.

His angry father. “Are you finished with your intrusion?” Yonah stood glaring, fists on hips.

“Pretty much. I’d like to talk to you, though.”

He mumbled something in Jewish.

“What did you say?”

“I said I haven’t the time right now.”

“That’s what you said in your house.”

He ignored me. “Why are you sitting here if you are finished with your questions?”

I piled the debris onto the tray and stood.

“Leave all that there,” Reb Yonah commanded.

I nodded, slipped into my jacket, and stuffed the notebook into my pocket. I held the pen toward Yonah. “Would you give this back to Yakov? It’s his.”

Reb Yonah gestured as if to slap the pen from my hand but held himself in check.

“What’s the rub, Rabbi? How did I manage to get onto your bad side?”

“This is our Yeshiva, Mr. Jacob. Everyone here has work to do. Now that the Rebbe is no longer living the work is more important than ever. You waste our time.”

I started to move slowly toward the door. “It’s hard to understand why you think helping you is a waste of time. That’s what the people here were doing tonight. It wasn’t a party.”

“I don’t need any help!” He kept pace with me, making certain I was really leaving.

“You sound like your son.”

When we got to the dining room door Yonah suddenly reached out and grabbed my arm. “I don’t need you to tell me how my son sounds. I don’t need you filling his head with goyische ideas. I want you to leave him alone!”

I pulled my arm from his grasp. “I wasn’t filling his head with any ideas, Reb Yonah. I like him, that’s all. And my guess is he likes me. Is that what has you so upset?”

Yonah stared at me with venomous eyes. “You make me upset, not my son. You barged into my house without an invitation, you barge in here.” He glared. “I don’t need this help of yours!” Yonah pointed toward the steps. “The door to your world is that way. Leave ours alone!”