Ten Years Gone полностью

Birnbaum pursed his lips and scratched his cheek. Then he blew out a breath and nodded. "Fine. It feels like a big waste of time, but I'll do it. Maybe that fist to the jaw did rattle my brain after all. Call me at my office in three days. I hope to have something by then."

I thanked him, stood up to leave, then decided to add something.

"One more thing, Shmuel. I don't want you sniffing around while I'm working this case, understand?"

"Would I ever do something like that?" he said, his face a mask of childlike innocence.

"Yes," I said flatly. "You would. I'm telling you right now, Shmuel, that I won't appreciate it. Are we clear on that?"

I had leaned forward, putting my hands on the table, so that I loomed over him. I locked my eyes on his. He gulped and gave another dismissive wave, trying unsuccessfully to mask his nervousness.

"All right. All right. You made your point. Now go on. Get out of here. Let me finish my soup in peace."

Half an hour later, I was at Greta's Café. I was setting up my chessboard for a game when Greta came to my table with a cup of coffee and some toast. She put the food on the table and took a chair. Apart from me, there was just one other customer in the place. The only noise was the rattling of the ceiling fan and the hoot of a car horn outside.

"What happened to your arm?" Greta asked.

I had noticed it this morning when I awoke. Blood had pooled under the skin of my left forearm where Max had punched me the previous night. An ugly purplish lump had formed. At its center, raised like an offering to a vengeful god, was my number tattoo.

"I ran into a little trouble last night at Rachel Weiss's place."

"What sort of trouble?"

"Let's just say that it was a lesson in the importance of not being arrogant," I told her with a wry smile.

Greta did not smile back. "Are you injured?"

"Apart from this ugly thing, no. It doesn't hurt, just looks bad."

"So it all worked out with Rachel?"

"Yes. I solved her problem."

I took a bite of toast and helped it on its way down with some coffee.

"Was that all?" Greta began saying, uncommonly tentative. "I mean, what did you think of Rachel?"

I smiled faintly. Greta was always on the lookout for a woman to dispel part of my loneliness.

"It's not in the cards, Greta. No suitability, I'm afraid."

"I see," she said softly, clearly disappointed.

I shrugged. "The important thing is I did a good job and got paid for it. I'm not looking for romance."

Greta seemed about to say something, but thought better of it. The other customer called for more beer. She went to tend to him. I returned to beating myself at chess.

An uneventful weekend passed. I finished one western and started another, tore through a stack of newspapers, and watched Burt Lancaster woo Yvonne De Carlo in Criss Cross at Allenby Cinema. In between, I used the money I had liberated from Yuri's wallet to replenish my supply of black-market sardines, eggs and sausages; sat on a bench in Dizengoff Square, watching pigeons peck nonchalantly at hunks of white bread that prisoners at Auschwitz would have killed for; smoked an inordinate number of cigarettes; and cleaned and oiled my Luger. I slept fitfully and awoke with the shadowy dream remnants of lost family, blank-eyed muselmänner, and dead-eyed guards, wafting in the stifling air of my enclosed apartment like smoke from a crematorium.

On Sunday, July 10, three days after my talk with Shmuel Birnbaum, I strode to the corner of Hamaccabi and King George and entered Levinson Drugstore. The store was run by Zelig and Rivka Levinson, who kept it as clean as an operating room. By the spotless front window, on a small waist-high table, stood a bulky telephone attached to a meter. The meter kept track of how much you owed for each call, taking into account duration and distance. Since nearly none of my neighbors, nor I, had a private telephone in our apartments—hardly anyone in Israel did—the drugstore telephone got plenty of use. I had to wait for five minutes while a neighbor of mine lectured her daughter in Haifa on the proper way of raising her grandchildren.

When she'd finished, I rang the offices of Davar and asked to speak with Shmuel Birnbaum.

"Good morning, Adam," he said when he came on the line, sounding chipper. "How was your weekend? Beat anyone up?"

The snapping of Yuri's fingers under my heel sounded in my ears, followed closely by an image of Max's bloodied face as he lay unconscious on Rachel Weiss's floor.

"Not on the weekend, no. Last time I knocked someone out was Wednesday night."

Birnbaum said nothing. I had shocked him into silence. Scratching sounds came over the line. Birnbaum rubbing his jaw? I rummaged in my pocket for a cigarette and stuck it between my lips. A woman cleared her throat. I turned and saw the stern face of Mrs. Levinson frowning at me from behind the counter. She gave a single shake of her head. I returned the cigarette to the pack.

"Got anything for me, Shmuel?"