The Case of the Russian Diplomat: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Three) (9 page)

“They treasure their agronomists. They are among their most honored citizens. So if they sent five agronomists here, headed by this Nobel Prize man, then they are very serious about oranges.”

Mrs. Masuto, who had sat quietly, replenishing teacups throughout the recitation, now smiled with pleasure and informed them that they must stay for dinner.

“I am so sorry,” Masuto said. “I am devastated. Accept my most humble apologies. But it would be impossible. We must return to Beverly Hills.”

In the car, driving south, Beckman complained about Masuto's refusal of the dinner offer. “I'm starved, Masao, and anyway I'm crazy about Japanese food.”

“It might have been roast ham, and if we had not stayed for an hour after the meal, it would have been a breach of courtesy.”

“Well, the old man certainly knows his oranges. Why were we there, Masao?”

“Just a notion.”

“Goddamn, I'd like to have an acre of that land waiting for me when I retire. It's pure gold. Well, your mother gets two acres, but you're out in the cold.”

“Oh, not at all. There are two acres for me in his will.”

“Then why didn't he mention it?”

“It would have been most discourteous and thoughtless. It would have placed me in the position of a greedy nephew who desired his death. No, he couldn't possibly mention it.”

“That's one way to look at it,” Beckman admitted.

Masuto drove on in silence for a while, and then he asked, apropos of nothing, “Are you a religious man, Sy?”

“What?”

“I mean, since you're Jewish, you might belong to a synagogue.”

“That's another matter entirely. You got kids, they got to have a bar mitzvah. It's a matter of teaching. Religious? Well, we go on the High Holy Days. I ought to go more often, but you know the way it is.”

“Then you belong to a synagogue?”

“I belong. Why?”

“I'd like to talk to a rabbi. How about the rabbi at your place? Would he talk to me?”

“He'll talk to anyone. You ever see a rabbi who didn't like to talk?”

“Where's the synagogue?”

“On La Cienega, south of Wilshire.”

“Would he be there now, or at home?”

“Let's see—today's Thursday, and if I remember that's the sisterhood night. They meet at eight, so he should be back at the synagogue by seven-thirty. It's just seven now. What do you want to talk to him about?”

“Jews.”

“Why don't you talk to me?”

“I thought I'd get an expert opinion.”

“I figured maybe you wanted to be converted. You know, its a thing in Japan now. I was reading how a whole group of Japanese went and settled in Israel. You know, they tell the story about the Jewish tourist. Wherever he went, he'd look up the local synagogue. So he comes to Tokyo and he looks up the local synagogue and goes to the Friday night service. When the service is over, he goes up to the rabbi, tells him he's a Jew from New York. The rabbi looks at him and says, ‘That's funny. You don't look Jewish.'”

He waited. “You're not laughing,” he said to Masuto.

“I appreciate it.”

“Maybe you didn't get the point. You see, the rabbi was Japanese, and when he looks at this guy—”

“I got the point.”

“But you're not laughing.”

“I told you, Sy, I appreciate it.”

“Maybe it's a question of a Jewish sense of humor—” Beckman began, and Masuto burst out laughing. “Now what's funny about that?”

It was just a few minutes after seven-thirty when they reached the synagogue. “You know, my wife's going to be here,” Beckman said, “and the kids are at home raising hell by themselves, and she hasn't seen me since three o'clock in the morning when the captain woke me up, and she's going to burn my ass, so let's get out of here before eight by a side door or something, and anyway I am half asleep, and God almighty if I get woken up tonight, I quit this lousy job.”

They were told that the rabbi was in his study. They walked through the foyer of the synagogue and down a hallway, and Beckman opened the door for Masuto. It was a pleasant room, walls lined with books, a desk, and behind the desk a round-faced man with glasses. He rose as they entered. “Seymour,” he said to Beckman, “this is a nice surprise.”

“Seymour?” Masuto whispered.

“This is Detective Sergeant Masuto,” Beckman said hastily. “Rabbi Schineberg.”

“Sit down,” the rabbi said, indicating two chairs on either side of his desk. “Masuto. Nisei, yes?”

Masuto nodded.

“Beverly Hills police. Interesting. We're becoming civilized. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“He wants an expert opinion about Jews,” Beckman said sourly.

“Then you shouldn't come to me. I'm totally biased. I like Jews. That's how I earn my living.”

“The fact is,” Masuto said, “that I want to talk to you about the Jewish Defense League.”

“I understand them but I don't approve of them,” the rabbi said unhappily. “They're the result of history, and in my opinion, they're most often misguided.”

“You can take the rabbi's word for that,” Beckman said.

“You know members of the organization personally?”

“Some of them.”

“What do they stand for, Rabbi? What is their purpose?”

“You know that they believe in militant action—for the most part in favor of easing Soviet emigration standards for the Jews who wish to leave. They hold on to the memory of the holocaust of World War Two, the slaughter of six million Jews, as their central focus, and they believe that only by their militant and sometimes, unfortunately, irresponsible protests can they be effective.”

“How militant?”

“Well, I'm sure you've read reports in the newspapers.”

“Tell me this—do you believe that members of this organization could take part in a cold-blooded, premeditated murder?”

“No! Absolutely not!”

“Why not?”

“It's unthinkable. I know so many of them. They're hotheaded, excitable, but premeditated murder—no.”

“What about you, Sy?” he asked Beckman.

“You wanted an expert opinion.”

“I got it. Give me your nonexpert opinion.”

“I agree with the rabbi.”

“Rabbi,” said Masuto, “do you have a colleague in Las Vegas who is a personal friend of yours?”

“That's an odd question. It happens that I do. Rabbi Bealson at the Conservative Temple in Las Vegas is an old friend.”

“Well, I have a request as odd as the question, and I would not make it except that I am very tired and trying to prevent something from happening that could be very terrible, and without knowing what I am trying to prevent or what will happen.”

The rabbi thought about it for a long moment, and then asked, “How do you know it will be very terrible?”

“Because I have been a policeman for many years, and because I learned to sense things. That's not a very good answer, is it?”

“Tell me something, Sergeant Masuto, are you a Christian or a Buddhist, or perhaps simply a person without any particular faith, as so many are these days?”

“I am a Zen Buddhist.”

“Interesting. What is your request?”

“I would like you to call your friend in Las Vegas and ask him whether he knows a man, a booking agent, named Jack Stillman.”

“Why should he know him?”

“Stillman lives in Las Vegas. I think he's Jewish.”

“Still, Las Vegas is a large place. It seems a most peculiar request.”

“If you feel it's out of line—” Masuto spread his hands.

Both Beckman and the rabbi stared at Masuto for a few moments. Then the rabbi consulted his desk directory, found the number he wanted, and dialed it.

“Rabbi Bealson, please,” he said. And a moment later, “Larry, this is Hy Schineberg in Los Angeles.” Pause. “Yes, too long. But you'll have to make it here. My congregation watches me too carefully for me to get away to Vegas.” Pause. “No, I'm calling at the request of an interesting policeman. Do you happen to know a Jack Stillman? He lives in Vegas and he's a booking agent.” Now the rabbi listened. “Now that is odd, very odd indeed. Thank you, Larry.” Pause. “Soon, I trust.”

He put down the telephone and stared at Masuto, smiling slightly. “Well, Sergeant Masuto, the world is full of interesting coincidences.”

“I don't think that what you are going to tell me is a coincidence.”

“Do you know what I am going to tell you?”

“I can guess. I would probably be wrong.”

“All right, let's see. First of all, Jack Stillman is Jewish. He is not a member of Rabbi Bealson's congregation, although he was, very briefly, when he married his first wife, whom he recently divorced. Shall I continue, or would you like to guess?”

“Would one of you please tell me what this is all about?” Beckman demanded.

Masuto liked the rabbi. A part of Masuto's life was a game, and he had the feeling that the rabbi understood this particular game.

“Let me guess. Stillman was connected with the Jewish Defense League.”

“A theatrical booking agent? Wouldn't that be a strange connection?”

“Perhaps.”

“You're an interesting man, yes indeed. The fact is that about a year ago, some J.D.L. youngsters came to Stillman, and he gave them five hundred dollars. It was not a secret. I mean, it was nothing that Stillman attempted to hide, so I violate no confidence. Rabbi Bealson happened to hear about it. He also told me that recently Stillman married an exotic dancer—I think that's the term—whose name is Binnie Vance. She was one of his clients, and she was apparently well known in certain circles.”

Beckman was staring at Masuto, his mouth open.

“Is something wrong, Seymour?” the rabbi asked.

“I'll be damned,” Beckman said slowly.

“Did he say anything in particular about this Binnie Vance?” Masuto asked.

“No, except that she is an exotic dancer. He did say that Stillman was the last man you would expect to support the J.D.L., but you can never tell about Jews. Could I ask you why you are so interested in Jack Stillman, Sergeant, or is it none of my business?”

Beckman looked at Masuto, who nodded slightly. “He was shot to death this morning,” Beckman said. “In his room at the Beverly Glen Hotel.”

“Oh, I didn't know. I'm so sorry. What an awful thing—and how terrible for his new wife.”

“I should have told you before,” Masuto said. “I didn't mean to make light of it.”

6

THE
EXOTIC
WOMAN

It was a quarter after eight when they reached the station house in Beverly Hills. Beckman checked in and then went home to sleep. Wainwright had left for the night. Masuto telephoned his wife.

“How's Ana?” he asked.

“She's fine. Her throat seems to be better. Should I send her to school tomorrow, Masao?”

“I don't see why not.”

“I'm glad you said that. There's only a few days of school left before the summer vacation, and she loves to go to school. Will you be coming home now?”

“Not now, I'm afraid. Later.”

“How much later? Masao, you hardly slept. Have you had dinner?”

“Yes,” he lied.

“I watched the television news about that awful thing that happened at the Beverly Glen Hotel. Please be careful.”

“I'm always careful. You know that, Kati.”

Frank Cooper was in charge of the plainclothes night shift, and Masuto asked him whether Wainwright had found Binnie Vance.

“She's staying at the Ventura. She opens there tomorrow.”

“I know that. Did he reach her?”

“She's opening the Arabian Room, first show on the opening night, and this got to happen. You know what I hear, I hear there's big Arab money in the Ventura, but that could be a crock. You don't hear of nothing these days except that there's big Arab money in it. I don't care how much loot these Saudis got, they can't own everything.”

“What I want to know,” Masuto said patiently, “is whether she was informed of her husband's death.”

“Yeah, according to the captain.”

“What was her reaction?”

“Damned if I know. I didn't talk to her.”

“What about the Stillman case? Anything new?”

“Nope. But that F.B.I. guy, Clinton, he was here about an hour ago and sore as hell because he couldn't reach you. According to him, you should have been sitting here waiting for him. They're cute, those cookies. He wants you at the Feds' office downtown at eleven tomorrow. He was pissed off because you never mentioned Stillman to him. He wanted to know what kind of idiots we were not to think of a connection between the drowned man and Stillman, especially when the call came from Stillman's room in the hotel.”

“What did you tell him?”