To Kill a Matzo Ball (A Deadly Deli Mystery) (20 page)

I kicked the office door shut with my toe. I could feel the concern of my employees washing up against it. I didn’t know what to say to them because I didn’t know anything. That only strengthened my resolve to find out.

Though Bowe-Pitt was right about one thing. I should not leave here without a backup plan. All I had to do was figure out what one looked like . . .

I had a bad feeling that my evening plans were going to go awry when Grant Daniels showed up at six forty-five.

We had closed the door at six in order to prep for a return to table service the following morning. Dani was busy cleaning up loose putty around the window. She was listening to her iPod and singing in her sweet soprano voice, so she was pretty oblivious. Not so the rest of my staff:

Thom was watching me like a
soykher
watching his cash register. Ironically, Thom’s eyes should have been on the cash, not on me. I was going about my business, polishing the aluminum siding on the counter, feeling her gaze hot on my neck. I ignored her. My mind was elsewhere when I started shining the napkin holders that Dani had set on the table. I was standing over a table in the middle of the dining room, buffing the side of one holder with my shimmy, when I saw my warped reflection. I snapped back hard to the death of Lung Wong, and my knees wobbled.

“I knew it!” Thom said, rushing over. “I knew that was gonna happen!”

Luke and Newt ran from the kitchen. The two men hung back while Thom came to my side. She had her big, strong hand on my elbow, supporting me.

“I’m fine,” I insisted. “Really.”

“You’re
not
fine! Remember that chocolate soufflé we tried to make for Lolo Baker’s party? The one that caved in?”

“I am stronger than a cake, Thom.”

“No you are not, woman! You nearly fell down just now.”

“I wobbled like a Weeble, that’s all—”

“That’s baloney and you darn well know it! You are tired, and you are emotionally shot all to bread crumbs.”

“Which is why I’m working, Thom,” I said. “To keep my mind together.”

“Honey, that has absolutely
not
been happening, and I’ve kept my mouth shut long enough.”

I couldn’t remember Thom ever failing to say exactly what was on her mind. “Have you?” I asked.

“About this, yes,” she huffed. “You have been pouring it on for fourteen months without a break. And those haven’t just been normal work months. They’ve been months filled with murder and other trials from the Lord God. You should be in your office finding a place to take a vacation.”

“You know I don’t do ‘vacation.’”

“Well, you should. You most definitely should.”

“Repeating everything won’t make it true,” I said defensively. “I would lose my mind sitting by a pool.”

“You will lose your mind doing what you’re doing!” she snapped back with a harsh tone and a side-to-side shift of her head that told me this girl means business. “Lawsy, I’m not the only one who feels this way. We all do.”

I looked over at the cowering Luke and Newt. They looked small and frail, like acolytes in a temple when the gods went to war. Dani walked over to them from the kitchen and pulled her boyfriend away. Newt followed. Thom and I were alone in the dark diner. The sun was sinking fast, and we had not yet turned on the lights. Passing cars threw quick, sharp shadows against the floor and counter behind us.

“I know you mean well, Thom, and I appreciate it. Deeply. But that person you’re describing, the one you want to be me, doesn’t fit. And it isn’t going to. For years, my former husband made me doubt everything I thought or felt or was. It got to the point where I believed his judgment more than my own. That was not only wrong; it was stupid. When I chucked that old life and came down here, I decided that, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, I was going to trust my instincts—”

“Even if they sent you down into the pit?”

I smiled inside. I could always count on Thom to bring in a religious metaphor. “My dear friend, I was
in
the pit. Up to my chin. I woke every morning with the smell of sulfur in my nostrils, my own screams of agony in my ears. Every time I’ve thought of giving up here, and there have been a few of those days, of handing you the keys and the business, I told myself, ‘No. You’re moving in the right direction.’”

“You’re not just moving, you’re there,” she said. “That’s the truth. Just by coming here you got free. You know what I see you doing? Digging a new-old pit.”

“How?”

“By fighting everyone and everything that gets close to you,” she said.

“You’ve got it backward, Thom. I just can’t let anyone, anything, any emotion control me again.”

And there, from my own mouth, I suddenly had clarity about Grant: it wasn’t just his personality that didn’t quite mesh with mine. It was how I felt trying to make myself fit with him that grated my skin raw.

Thom took my hands in hers. “You are strong and you are your own woman—we all know that. You have supported us when we were weak or breaking or broken. You don’t need to keep proving how self-reliant you are, especially to yourself. Ezekiel saw the wheel way up in the air, and that wheel was run by faith. Why can’t you have
faith
—not in God, though that would be nice, but in yourself, Gwen?”

I smiled, this time on the outside. “Thom—if I could do that, I’d be back on Wall Street making millions.”

“You were too honest for that.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t believe that Occupy crap. There were a few bad people, but most of us did right by our clients. But you had to go after those clients, make them yours. Risk their savings on a hunch and live with the occasional failure. It wasn’t about honesty. It was about guts. I’ve been looking for mine here.”

“So you risk yourself instead of your clients? Put yourself in harm’s way?”

“I guess so,” I said. “I would have been one of those nineteenth-century scientists who tried a new formula on herself before giving it to anyone else.”

There were tears in Thom’s eyes. She looked at me a moment longer, then hugged me tight.

“I wish you would believe,” she said into my ear. “I have worked for a lot of people in my life, and I’ve never known anyone, not even your uncle, who had better instincts, who was a better employer, who gave better advice, and who related to workers and customers better than you. Lawsy, woman. Just
believe.
”

That brought tears to my eyes, and as if on cue, the front door opened. Grant walked in, both sealing and ending the moment.

“Thanks,” I said to Thom, as we parted.

“Everything okay?” Grant asked, seeing us together.

“Never better,” I said.

“I saw the new window, just thought I would check in,” he said, “make sure there wasn’t any trouble.”

It sure didn’t sound as if Agent Bowe-Pitt had mentioned the previous night’s adventure, and Richards apparently hadn’t said a word about our little date.

“No trouble,” I smiled.

He didn’t know me well enough, or wasn’t attuned enough, to know that I was lying. That was okay. To be fair, I hadn’t really let him in that deep.

“Then sorry to interrupt,” he said.

Grant looked around at the quietly busy staff, and then his eyes settled on me. I just stood there like Lot’s wife. Another awkward moment in the multifaceted male-female saga of Gwen Katz.

“How are you?” I asked, just to ask something benign.

“Good.” He started toward me. “By the way, there’s nothing to report. Agent Bowe-Pitt is pursuing his own investigation while we’re still working on the ballistics, rifle registry, surveillance video. Whoever is behind this has been very careful. We checked local chloroform sales, found nothing; that could have been bought out-of-state. Tough to track. Because the Feds are looking into the SSS, Detective Bean shifted from that mission and has been working with me on the Chinese connection.”

“A thin black line,” I murmured.

“What?”

“I was just thinking of the
sifu
’s black belt at the school. I’m guessing that even rivals close ranks against outsiders.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Grant laughed.

“Oh, I’d believe it,” I said. “Jews are the same way.”

“As are cops.”

A Chrysler convertible pulled up out front. The roof was down. I saw the police sticker in the window, then I saw into the window. I swore inside my distracted head. Now that there was no longer a slab of plywood out front, Grant saw it too. He stared out at the street for a moment, then looked back at me.

“Uh-huh. Is this personal or professional?” he asked as he recognized Richard Richards in the driver’s seat.

“If it were the former it would be none of your business,” I said. That was a little harsh, so I added quickly, “I’m going to listen to his lecture on computer stuff.”

Grant’s mouth twisted. “Do you really think it’s a good idea for you to go to the TSU campus?”

The question hit me like a big dollop of horseradish. I actually tasted the surprise in my mouth. I had not, in fact, realized that was where we were going. I figured it was at some community hall or high school or youth center.

“I’ll be with a cop,” I improvised. “No one will bother me, right?”

“If they do, you may not live long enough to know it!”

I pulled off my apron, grabbed my bag from the office, and headed toward the door. Grant hadn’t moved. “I’ve got to go,” I said to him, but included everyone with a final, sweeping look. “If you need me, call.”

I stopped in the doorway. “I need to get out,” I said to Grant.

“You’ve
been
out. That hasn’t worked very well.”

“I got attacked here, too. I’ve got to keep moving.”

He came toward me. Everyone else, including me, was frozen.

“You’re being stubborn and foolish,” he said hotly.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He stopped a foot away. “But it could be the last. Stay here until we bag and tag whatever is going on!” He looked over at my manager. “Tell her, Thom. Just be sensible for once.”

We were both working on multiple levels here and Thom wisely held up both hands and walked away. Grant looked at me and lowered his voice. “Gwen, can’t you see that I’m worried about you?”

“Yes. But muscling me isn’t the way to help.”

“That’s not what I’m doing—”

“It is, Grant. You mean well, but I don’t want to hide—especially since, when I hide, the bad guys know exactly where to find me. Three shots have been fired, two of them here. This is hardly a sanctuary.” I glanced over at Richards, who had stayed in the car. I held up a finger to let him know I’d be right there. “Look, Grant—I’ve got to go.”

I started out the door, and he grabbed my arm. I tensed but resisted pulling away.

I could tell from the way Grant’s jaw grinded back and forth that he wanted to continue arguing. To his credit, he didn’t. “Watch what’s going on around you. Stay indoors as much as possible. And don’t sit near any windows.”

“All good ideas,” I said. “Thanks.”

I left then and hurried to the car, let myself in. Richards looked a little green. “Should we be doing this?” he asked.

“Why? Because of Grant?”

“Yeah, because of
Detective
Daniels. He’s not my boss, but he is a superior—”

“He was afraid I was being reckless. I assured him I’m not. End of story.”

He hesitated.

“Drive,” I said encouragingly. “It’s really okay.” I flashed a big smile, one that was probably as inauthentic as oleo.

“If I don’t I’ll be late,” he said. “Are you sure you want to come?”

In response, I buckled my seat belt. He gave a little shrug of resignation and pulled away, as I glanced back at the deli in my side mirror. Grant was standing in the door, looking sort of wounded and indignant, like Elijah just finding there was no cup for him at the Pesach table. I had a strong feeling he would definitely
not
be following me to the campus.

TSU
. Whence I was fired at the other night. Grant, damn him, had a point: there
was
an element of recklessness to this if no one but Richards was there to back me up—and as far as I could tell in the glow of the instrument panel and the passing street lamps—he wasn’t packing heat.

That was when I realized what my backup plan needed to be.

The campus of Tennessee State University looked very different on a clear night than it did in a thick, misty rain. For one thing, there were students walking about, which put me somewhat at ease. On the other hand, there was nothing between me and the rooftops but open sky.

Not that I expected anyone to have parked in a crow’s nest or rolled out a blood-red carpet for me. Unless Richards had given someone a heads-up, no one had known I was coming. Unless someone was following me, no one knew I was here.

Unless and unless,
I thought. Far too many of those unlikely “what ifs . . . ?” had come along to bite me in the
tuchas
since I’d been down here.

Richards turned into a parking lot near the intersection of John A. Merritt Boulevard and 33rd Avenue N. The big William J. Hale Stadium loomed ahead.

“This is an arena gig then, eh?” I said.

“Clay Hall,” he replied.

Those nine words doubled the number of words we had spoken during the short drive. Richards was not being rude, he was just being silent. I let him be, figuring he was reviewing the lesson plan in his head or thinking about work or wondering if Grant was going to ream him out in the morning.

He gave me a sideward glance; he didn’t seem to get the joke.

“I have to stop at the administration building to get a key,” he said, jerking a thumb to his left. “Would you mind waiting here?”

“No problem,” I told him.

He left, and I sat, and the parking lot, though not quite empty, seemed unusually desolate now. I popped the door and leaned against the side of the car, then walked to and fro, then ranged a little farther.

Nervous much?
I asked myself.

I looked at the few figures coming and going, at the students across the main road. I had the sudden urge to run forward, like the Ancient Mariner, and warn all the women about the future. Maybe I should teach a class: We’re a Majority Being Treated as a Minority or How to Help Them Keep You Down. It occurred to me that so much of my overreaction—if that’s what it was—to Grant and other men was cumulative. Not just what had happened to me, but what had happened to women around me. My mother, in particular. So many Jewish families were matriarchies, yet that had to do with the home. In the world, where I was, that accounted for
bubkes.

I was beginning to feel chilly as a firm, cool wind blew north, toward the main campus. I looked back at the two-story, sandstone-colored building. How the hell long did it take to get a key?

Unless he was phoning for a sharpshooter,
I thought unpleasantly.

I got back in the car, sat, sent a text, checked my phone for e-mails. I scrolled to my directory. Looked at the names, wondered who I could call. No one. No friends down here, dammit. I got out of the car again, resolved to ditch the night’s plans and walk back to the deli—when Richards reappeared, jogging from the building. I felt relief, but it was relief that we’d be on the move, not relief that I was safe, secure.

“Let’s go,” he said, scooting around the front of the car and continuing on.

I guess we were walking to our destination. In silence.

What the hell is wrong with this boy ?
I wondered as I caught up. He was so talkative when we were hacking Banko’s computer.

We went to Clay Hall, which was in the direction opposite the stadium, on our side of the main boulevard. It was in the belly of a slew of buildings, any one of which could be a sniper’s roost.

But isn’t,
I told myself.
You’re just going to a damn lecture.

We entered the building; at least Richards held the door for me and allowed me to go first. Before he could enter, a young woman—one of his students, I assumed—ran up and started talking with him. I couldn’t hear their discussion, but she was animated, his manner was brighter, and I felt worse than a third wheel: I was like
traif
on the menu, the uncleanest kind of shellfish. They entered the hallway slowly, chit-chattering away, and I suddenly did not want to be there anymore. I continued ahead, looking for an exit that would not force me to double back. Not that they would have noticed me.

There was a split corridor ahead, with an exit sign pointing left. I went that way, walked into the night, and started to send a text as I walked. I stopped texting when I literally bumped into Banko Juarez. He had his laptop perched in an open palm, held before him. His other hand was cupped beside his etheric vibrator thing.

I said, “Either this is an eerie coincidence or—”

“It’s ‘or,’” he said urgently. “We have to get you out of here.”

“Why? And how’d you know I’d be here?”

“The lines,” Banko said, as he backed against a tree, pulling me with him. He tapped some keys, then watched the exit anxiously. “I was in the park again and picked up one of those lines we’d been studying, followed it here.”

“Which one?” I asked.

He showed me the computer. There were two lines virtually identical.

“Whose is it?” I asked.

“The gal from the hotel,” Banko said. “The one on the night desk.”

“Maybe she’s a student,” I said.

“Or maybe she’s been following you,” Banko replied.

“Can you tell where she is?”

“The etheric reader is not a directional device,” he said. “Maybe one day.”

I was glad I hadn’t sent the text I was about to send. I sent a different one. “I’m going back inside.”

“Probably a good idea,” he said.

We hustled back toward the door, along with a handful of students who were going to night classes. Including the one who put something hard against my back. It wasn’t a frozen knish.

“Don’t turn around and don’t try to run,” someone whispered hotly, hoarsely in my ear. “Just go where the gun points.”

It was either a very butch woman or an effeminate man, I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t even tell if it belonged to one of the Chinese I’d met. In short, I knew nothing—other than I hoped I lived long enough to apologize to Grant for not taking his advice.

The gun nudged me around the building across the neatly clipped lawn. There were no students here.

“Banko, you there?” I said in a frightened voice.

“Shut up.”

That did not come from the guy directly behind me. So there was someone else. Banko had obviously bailed, the craven little
putz.
The pistol walked me along Alameda to another building, Hale Hall. It was a dormitory. I resolved I was going to say something to the man at the desk—until he locked eyes with whoever was behind me and, stone-faced, simply nodded. And I mean simply: the guy barely looked up from his tablet.

I was led to a door. A hand reached around me and knocked: tap-tap-tap, pause, tap-tap. The door opened on a room that would have made Jefferson Davis smile.

I’m not one of those bleeding hearts who thinks that everyone who raises a Confederate flag is a racist or wants to see the nation return to slavery. Some people are genuinely proud and nostalgic for the finer qualities of antebellum living. That said, this room did not belong to one of those individuals. Because right above the bed to my right were the Stars and Bars—while to the right was the big, ugly banner of the Third Reich. Scattered around the room were other pieces of whites-only memorabilia, including posters from various supremacist groups. Including this one: the SSS.

There was only one person in the room. He was a short but massively muscled student with a Marine-style haircut. He shut the door behind me. The gun was lowered. I turned warily and saw another student like the first—and Banko Juarez. The lying
momzer
closed the computer and laid it on the bed under the swastika. There was a rifle case on the bed and, beside it, a box of ammunition.

“So you’re a pimp
and
a murdering scumbag,” I said.

“I’m just the procurer, as you suggest. These gentlemen are the killers. And you,” he chuckled, “are a blind, dopey bitch. You bought my act! You kept coming at me and coming at me, and each time I denied it you believed me!”

“Yeah. I still occasionally make a mistake and trust men.”

“You were so easy,” he said, still chuckling. “Oh, and that wasn’t Bananas’ line on the computer. It was
your
line. How do you think I tracked you here?”

“Ah, good,” I said. “So the technology works. I’m actually a little glad not to have been duped by every damn thing.”

“It works,” Banko said. “And the more I refine it, the more I’ll be able to find Jews and Muslims. The blacks—they’re easy enough to find.”

“So what do you do?” I ask. “Go from city to city targeting defenseless people?”

“Truthfully, I’m just getting started,” he said. “The etheric readings are a good cover, and they provide useful field work. I am curious, though. How did you figure out I was working with the girls at the hotel?”

“You don’t expect me to tell you that, do you?”

“Sure do,” he said flippantly.

One of the muscular students had come up behind me and grabbed my wrists. I struggled for about a second. His fingers were like big, strong tree roots. His companion, the one with the gun, stuffed a ball-gag in my mouth. I realized then that instead of sassing Banko I should have been screaming, in the off chance someone in the dorm might have come to my rescue. Who knew this was going to happen?

The guy who plugged my mouth put his fingers on my scalp and rested a thumb in my left eye. This was not good.

“I want to know who else knows about my business and how they found out,” Banko said. “I’m going to name some names, and you are going to stamp your right foot like a horse. One stamp for yes, two for no. If you are slow in responding, my colleague will start to press your eye inward. Eyeballs don’t hold up well under pressure, so I suggest you tap dance quickly. Any questions? Please stomp your answer.” He smiled smugly at that.

In all the years with my husband, on Wall Street, being duped down here by people who knew the turf better than I did—with all that, I had never known humiliation as intense as I did when I raised and lowered my foot once like a Lipizzaner. Once, as he had instructed. I knew, of course, that this interview would be quicker and easier if he just took the gag out and asked me for a name. I don’t know if I would have given it, but I gathered that this was part of his Aryan fun: humiliating the Jew. The woman. He obviously didn’t have any regard for members of my gender except as profit centers.

I wished that Richard Richards had missed me right away and gone looking for me. He probably hadn’t even noticed I was gone, or if he did, he figured I went to the lavatory. At least I was right not to worry about being with him.

Some consolation,
I thought as Banko moved in closer.

“Detective Daniels,” he said.

His little game had started. I tapped my hoof twice.

“Detective Bean.”

Another two taps.

“Agent Bowe-Pitt.”

Ditto, ditto.

A question occurred to me, then. I was wondering : if I ratted on who knew, did I get to live? That seemed pretty important. But I couldn’t exactly raise my hand to ask it. It was sad that in some ways my life hadn’t really advanced much beyond first grade.

“Who’s left?” Banko wondered aloud. “Yes. The other policeman. What was his name? Richards?”

I hesitated. The thumb pressed down.

Growing up, hearing the stories about concentration camps, I always wondered how I would stand up in a situation where I was starving or freezing or being walked to my death or being tortured. I had no illusions about my capacity to endure pain, from earaches as a kid to toothaches now. It was low. I always imagined I would probably go psychologically numb. But that wasn’t what happened.

I stomped my foot. Twice, for no. As scared as I was, I was also angry. The pressure remained on my eye. I started to see swirling, oily black and orange shapes. I was breathing hard through my nose. But above all, I was filled with a kind of rage—and outrage—I had never known before. It didn’t make me brave, it made me crazy.

Banko moved closer. “Why did you hesitate about Richards? Because you’re lying?”

I tapped twice, quickly. I felt my
tuchas
vibrate—and not from the tapping.

“Richards had access to my computer,” Banko said. “Are you sure it wasn’t him?”

I tapped twice, trying to make my toe sound bored with the question.

“Let’s assume that’s true,” Banko said. “I’ll find out soon enough. Are you trying to buy time? If so, that is a waste of
my
time, and it will cost more than the sight in one eye. Mr. Richards is giving his lecture—one of our people is in there now, learning. You see, we are a well-educated group. Not like the stereotype.” He nodded at the man behind me, who released my eye but did not remove his thumb. “So, again. Are you trying to buy time?”

I tapped once.

Banko brightened at the admission. Then he frowned. He glanced back at his computer and lifted the lid. “If you’re waiting for your police or FBI friends, they are not in range—and are not likely to be,” he said. “They were not near you outside, and they wouldn’t know where to find you inside.”

I tapped twice, unsolicited.

“You are agreeing with me?” Banko said, surprised.

I tapped twice.

“Then you are waiting for someone else?” Banko suggested.

I tapped twice.

He smiled. “Gwen Katz, I
like
this game!” he enthused. The other two
schlubs
were unmoved.

Banko backed away. He glanced from me to the computer, then back at me. “There are no familiar lines. Who do you think is coming? One of your waitstaff ?” He shook his head slowly. “I have their lines. They’re not here. The big woman who manages the cash register? I have her line too. Who, then?”

As if on a magical, wonderful cue, I heard something go
whump
in the hall. It wasn’t a familiar noise, like someone dropping a book or slamming a door. It had a fatty quality to it. Just like a body hitting the ground.

Banko and the others heard it too. The etherical cleanser nodded at the guy who had his thumb in my eye, the brute with the gun, to see what was up. The big guy strode to the door, cracked it, looked out.