"I'm sure," I said truthfully. My head was clear and my feet no longer felt like jelly. I was still aching, but pain was something I was familiar with. "Sorry you had to see that, Greta."
"Don't be. He had it coming, the beast. And don't you worry about me, either. I'm not the sort of woman who goes weak in the knees at the sight of blood." She paused in her mopping and looked at me. "Are you really not going to report him to the police?"
I nodded.
"It's your call, but I wish you would."
"You think she's right?" I asked Michael.
He had lit up another cigarette and took it out of his mouth to speak. "Nothing good ever came out of getting cops involved. That's been my experience, anyway."
Greta threw up the hand not holding the mop. "Have it your way. But what if he's your killer?"
"If he is, then there isn't any way to prove it," I said. "Not yet anyway. For all I know, his friend will stick by him and his alibi for the night of the murders will hold. Or this woman, Shulamit Hendleman, will corroborate the version he gave us tonight. I could get him charged for assaulting me, but he'll get off relatively easy. And the police might not look kindly on me for having broken his teeth long after he was subdued."
Not to mention the fact that if I turned him in, it would make it harder for Mira to exact her revenge. If I became convinced Davidson was the killer, of course.
"What if he comes after you again?" she said. "A man like that, he doesn't forget easily."
"He's not going to blindside me twice, I promise you that. If he tries, I'll be ready for him." But to be on the safe side, I decided that I would be armed until this case was done.
She gestured at the knife on the table. "What do you want to do with this?"
"Throw it out with the trash."
"With pleasure. Can you get home all right?"
I assured her that I could. She did not seem convinced. To Michael she said, "Can you walk him?"
He asked me where I lived and glanced at his watch when I told him. "I'm already late for my shift, but I can walk you to the corner of Allenby and Tchernichovsky."
"That's close enough," I said.
I squeezed Greta's hand and told her again that I was sorry for bloodying her floor. She told me to hush about that and to come by tomorrow so she could see I was all right. To Michael she said, "Thank you for stepping in when you did. Most men wouldn't have."
He seemed embarrassed by her gratitude, assured her it was nothing, and nodded with a smile at her offer of a free meal whenever he wanted.
Outside, he tossed the remnants of his cigarette into the road. I got the crumpled pack out of my pocket, got two cigarettes out, and offered him one. At the corner of Allenby and Brenner I said, "I owe you one, Michael."
He blew out some smoke. "Forget about it, okay?"
"Okay. I will. In about five minutes. But while I still remember it, know that I owe you one."
After a few more steps I said, "What'd you think about Davidson?"
Michael snorted. "Sleazy. Full of himself. Not as tough as he looks, and not half as tough as he thinks he is. But don't make the mistake of assuming he's too banged up to cause you trouble. He likely has friends who are just as vicious."
"Don't worry. I won't be taken by surprise again. But what I meant was, do you think he might be my man?"
He considered it and shrugged. "I'm not a detective."
"A part of me hopes it's him."
"Why?"
We passed the turn to King George Street, the road angling northwest.
I said, "You miss your wife, Michael?"
He jerked his head to look at me, surprised.
"Sorry," I said, "I didn't mean—"
"It's all right," he said.
"It's just that I'm also a widower. Five years now. I miss her like mad."
He drew in some smoke, held it in for a beat, and let it out. When he spoke, his voice was thick with smoke and sorrow. "I know what you mean."
There was that sense of affinity again, the feeling that this man and I were very similar. I suddenly realized how long it had been since I had a friend I could talk to openly, without reservation, without fearing that I would be misunderstood or judged. Not even Greta or Reuben knew all my secrets. But maybe Michael could.
"She died in Europe," I said. "In Auschwitz. I feel guilty, that I should have protected her more."
"From the Germans?"
"Yes."
"Was there something you could have done? Could you have resisted?"
I didn't want to answer because the truth was unbearable and shameful. "No. Nothing. But I still can't shake the guilt over what happened to her, over what happened to my children."
