Kellerman, Jonathan - The Theatre

"Yes, sir."

"Chinaman," Daniel continued, "cover the neighborhoods to the south of the crime scene-Sheikh Jarrah, the American Colony, Wadi el Joz, then Musrara and along the Green Line. I assume you'll be visiting the Watermelon Tents to do your gang check."

"Tonight, after midnight," said the Chinaman. "When the fun's in full bloom."

"If you don't get any leads there, go to the Green Line and talk to the whores. Find out if any strange customers have been hanging around. Don't hassle anyone but take note of weird ones. Warn the girls too, while you're at it-talk in general terms, no details."

"How general?" asked the Chinaman.

"Tell them they're in danger. Say nothing specific about the murder-that goes for all of us. Laufer wants this thing kept quiet-the tourist situation. So talk in terms of a missing girl, nothing more. The same thing applies to communications with other police personnel, which is why we're meeting away from Headquarters."

The Chinaman picked up an an empty skewer, used it like a classroom pointer. "I'm supposed to tell the whores they're in danger. Then I show them the picture of the missing girl. You don't have to be the Chief Rabbi to put it together."

"There's no way to keep it under wraps for any significant length of time," agreed Daniel. "What the brass is hoping is that we jam lip the grapevine for a while, get lucky, and wrap up the case quickly enough to feed the papers a three-line closed-file piece."

"Hope springs eternal," mumbled Shmeltzer.

"I'll be on beeper all through Shabbat," continued Daniel. "If any of you get anything of substance, call me immediately. Tomorrow I'll be walking down to the lower Katamonim and knocking on doors-if she's poor and Jewish it seems the best place to start. I've got Records doing research into some people at the Amelia Catherine and the Civil Guardsman who discovered the body. Where I go from there depends on what they find. Anyone beep me if you get something good. If there's something worth sharing we'll call a meeting at my place, Sunday afternoon. Now, let's pay and get going."

After the bill had been settled, he instructed Daoud to remain at the table and walked Lee and Shmeltzer out of The Star. The Chinaman got onto a Vespa scooter he'd parked in front of the restaurant, thick thighs flaring, looking like a kid on a toy bicycle. He revved up, sputtered to King George, turned left, and sped away. Next to The Star was a three-story building whose ground floor housed an El Al agency and a children's clothing store. On the upper floors were lawyers' offices, all closed for the midday lunch break; to the right of the storefronts, a dark, tiled entrance leading to the stairs.

Daniel took Shmeltzer by the elbow, propelled him through the doorway, and said, "What's going on, Nahum?"

Shmeltzer's expression was innocent.

"Going on about what?"

"Your attitude. That little speech about Hebron, the side comments."

"Don't worry," said Shmeltzer, "I'll do my job."

"That's no answer," snapped Daniel. "If something's eating at you I want to know it."

Shmeltzer smiled placidly.

"What should be eating at me? I'm just a guy who likes to tell it straight."

"An irrelevant lecture on Arabic culture is telling it straight?"

A tremor of anger floated across the older man's face. He compressed his mouth and a ring of white encircled his lips.

"Look, Dani, you want to use him, that's your prerogative. You think he's hot, fine, maybe he is. But the hell if I'm going to change his diapers." Shmeltzer's glasses had slipped down a nose slippery with sweat, and he pushed them up. "That's the thing that pisses me off the most about them. They talk around things, using pretty words, sir this, sir that, welcome to my tent. Turn your back and there's a fucking knife in it. I tell it straight, the rest of us tell it straight, arid he's going to damn well have to live with that or go back to selling rosaries."

"I have no interest in protecting him," said Daniel. "He does his job or he's out. It's your frame of mind I want to be sure of. So we can get the job done."

"Have you ever know me to fuck up?"

"No. I brought you on because I thought you were the best.".

For a moment Shmeltzer's face seemed to soften. Then his eyes grew strangely fierce before fading to neutrality.

"I'll give you no reason to change your mind."

"That's what I wanted to hear."

"You heard it," said Shmeltzer. "Now, if it's okay with you, I'd like to get to work." He put his hands in his pockets and slouched against the wall. A rubber ball bounced into the entry hall, followed by a child-a boy, six or seven-who scooped it up, stared at them, and ran back out to the mall.

"Go," said Daniel. "Shabbat shalom."

Shmeltzer straightened his windbreaker, adjusted his holster, and walked out of the entry. Daniel followed him and watched his thin form recede in the distance. Within moments he'd disappeared into the throng that streamed down Ben Yehuda.

When he got back to the banquet room, Emil the Waiter was clearing the table, working around Daoud, who sat staring at the picture of the girl, a demitasse of Turkish coffee in one hand. Daniel pulled out the chair next to him, sat, and waited until they were alone.

"I have one goal," he said. "Find the monster who killed her, prevent him from doing it again. I have no time for internal politics or bickering."

"I understand, Pakad."

"You took some garbage today. You'll probably take more in the future. You're a professional and I assume it won't disturb your sleep."

Daoud smiled faintly. "I'm a heavy sleeper."

"Good. If something gets in the way of your doing your job, tell me. Anything else, I don't want to hear about."

"Yes, sir."

They left the restaurant. Daoud walked to a tiny old gray Citroen that appeared to be held together with rope and baling wire. A blue Occupied Territories plate dangled crookedly from the battered front fender, embossed with the letter bet for Bethlehem, and an iron crucifix hung from the rearview mirror. Despite the police ID on top of the dash it looked like a perfect bomb crib, and Daniel wasn't surprised to see Wiesel, the undercover man, observing the car from a table at an adjacent cafe. When he saw Daniel he called for his check.

Friday, four P.M., Daniel exited the central bus station having learned nothing. No one had seen the girl. No one had looked at her photograph with even a hint of recognition.

A blind beggar was huddled on the sidewalk just outside the entrance to the depot, begrimed and toothless, his dry, sunken eyeholes raised to the sun. When Daniel passed, he held out a quaking clawlike hand and started to chant, a rhythmic keen not unlike prayer. Kind sir, kind sir, the good deed of charity takes on special value as the Sabbath approaches, a good deed, kind sir, kind sir, amen, amen

Daniel reached into his pocket, drew out a handful of coins, and dropped them into the filthy palm without counting. The beggar began blessing him in a high-pitched wail. The bony hand continued to shake, sifting the money as if it were grain, probing, hefting, decoding its value. A mental total was reached; the beggar's mouth twisted into a gaping, black-gummed smile. The blessings increased in volume and vigor: Daniel and his offspring for ten generations would be graced with good health and riches for time immemorial

Suddenly a group of six other paupers appeared from nowhere. Hunched, lame, snaggletoothed, and twisted, they shuffled and limped toward the detective, proclaiming individual litanies of despair that merged to a toneless, mournful dirge. Before he could get to the Escort, they'd reached him. Forming a circle around him, they began chanting louder, beseeching the kind sir. Emptying his pockets, he gave something to each of them, compressing his nostrils to avoid their stench.

Finally he got away and into the Escort. The Middle Ages, he thought, driving off to the accompaniment of their phlegmy benedictions. For years the government had offered the beggars jobs, welfare, anything to rid the station of their presence. But they were the descendants of generations of beggars who regarded themselves as trained specialists, plying an honorable family trade. Many of them, it was said, made an excellent living-more than that of a policeman-so perhaps he was a fool to have donated. Still, one needed any blessings one could get.

A stop back at Headquarters produced meager rewards: the information on Schlesinger hadn't come in. The troubled watchman, Hajab, had no criminal record, nor had he been treated at any mental institution. Of the other Amelia Catherine people, only Dr. Al Biyadi was known to Records. That knowledge was summed up in four typewritten pages marked official access only and placed on his desk in a sealed envelope. The data within were uninspiring.

It had been, as he'd suspected, a case of immigration complications. After seven years in Detroit, Al Biyadi had applied for and been granted American citizenship. After becoming an American, he'd attended two pro-PLO demonstrations at Wayne State and gotten his name in the FBI computer. The FBI had informed Mossad, and when Al Biyadi had applied for permission to reenter Israel and for a work permit to practice medicine, the computer had spat his name back out. Both requests had been refused pending a background investigation.

The usual paper storm had followed-an exchange of stiffly worded consular letters, U.N. protests, letters of support from Al Biyadi's congressman, and endorsements from medical school professors with Jewish surnames, all assuring the government that Dr. Hassan Al Biyadi was a man of sterling character. Some local newspaper coverage, as well, Daniel noted-personality pieces portraying the young physician as an idealist and a victim of discrimination.

In the end, the summary concluded, Al Biyadi had been determined to be "relatively apolitical," his involvement in PLO affairs confined to attendance at rallies, his primary life interests listed as "expensive sports cars and haberdashery; expensive stereo equipment and electronic gadgetry; amorous relationships with a series of young American women, all of them nurses." Hardly a firebrand. Four months after applying, he'd been granted his papers.

Not bad, thought Daniel. Getting a phone installed in Jerusalem could take twice as long.

He put the envelope in the file he'd begun on the murder, left the office, and tried to put himself in a Sabbath frame of mind.

Five minutes after five and the shops were closing.

It was his custom every Friday to buy the wine, bread, and sweetmeats for Shabbat, and he hadn't called Laura to tell her this Friday would be any different. He sped down Rehov Sokolov toward Lieberman's grocery, got caught in traffic, and sat frustrated, hoping the store would still be open. The other drivers shared his frustration and reacted predictably: The air filled with a storm of curses and klaxon bursts before the jam cleared.

When he pulled to the curb, Lieberman was locking up, a shopping bag at his feet. The grocer saw him, pointed at his watch reproachfully, then smiled, brought the bag to the passenger side, and handed it to Daniel before the detective could get out of the car.

Daniel thanked him and put the groceries on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Lieberman rubbed his paunch and stuck his face into the car.

"I just called your wife and told her you hadn't come by. One of your kids is on the way over here to get it."

"Which one?"

"She didn't say." Laughing: "I could call and ask her."

"Not necessary, Mr. Lieberman. Thank you for saving it for us."

The grocer winked conspiratorially. "Caught up with work?"

"Yes."

"Hot case, eh?"

"The hottest." A longstanding routine. Daniel started the engine, looked down the street for sign of one of his children.

"Anything you want me to look out for, you tell me. Shady characters, saboteurs, anything."

"Thanks for the offer, Mr. Lieberman. If something comes up, I'll let you know."

"Always happy to help," said Lieberman, saluting. "I see a lot sitting behind the counter. The human parade, if you know what I mean."

"I do, Mr. Lieberman. Shabbat shalom."

"Shabbat shalom."

Daniel guided the Escort back onto Sokolov and cruised slowly. A block later he spotted Shoshana, wearing a peach-colored Shabbat dress, half walking, half skipping. Singing to herself, as always.

He knew, without having to listen, what tunes danced across her lips: an odd mixture of pop songs and rope-jumping children's rhymes. An indication, according to Laura, of what it was like to be a twelve-year-old girl-the jumble of needs, the changing body. She'd been there herself, so he supposed she knew. His own memories of twelve were of simple times: lessons at the yeshiva. Playing ball in the alley behind the study hall. Hiding the soccer scores between pages of Talmud. Perhaps for boys it was different

He watched her for a few moments, smiling. Lost in her fantasies. Gazing dreamily at the sky, unaware of her surroundings. He coasted to a stop, gave a gentle honk that lowered her eyes. Initially confused, she looked around, saw him, and her face came alive with glee.

So beautiful, he thought, for the thousandth time. The oval face and brassy golden waves endowed by Laura. The dark skin, his. So, he'd been told, were her facia) features, though it was hard for him to reconcile that kind of delicacy with anything that could have emanated from him. Her eyes were wide with delight-gray-green, enormous, filled with a light of their own. Totally original. In the delivery room, Laura had laughed over her tears: We've created a mongrel, Daniel. A beautiful little mongrel. Daniel had surprised himself by bursting into tears also.

"Abba! Abba!" She ran toward the car on stick-legs, opened the door, and flew in. Throwing her arms around him, she rubbed his chin and laughed. "You need a shave, Abba."

"How's my sweetie?" He nuzzled her, kissed her cheek.