Don't Ever Get Old (6 page)

“Enlighten me,” I said. I was stuck someplace between being intrigued and being annoyed.

“Ziegler first came to the attention of Nazi hunters in 1969 when the Israeli Mossad intelligence agency got a lead that he was still alive. Another fugitive they'd caught confessed to helping Ziegler procure false papers. Following the aliases this source provided, the Israelis tracked your Nazi to the United States.”

“So he's here?” I took a bite out of an apple. My dentist asked me once how I managed to make it to eighty-seven with all my own teeth. I told him my secret was that I always moved my head out of the way when somebody tried to sock me in the mouth.

“In this country, probably,” Tequila said. “In 1982, someone within the Israeli government leaked information on Ziegler to the Wiesenthal Center, possibly the name he was using and where he was living. An investigator named Avram Silver started looking into the case. Silver tried several times to convince federal authorities to initiate proceedings to either try Ziegler in federal court for war crimes or extradite him to Israel, but prosecutors never brought charges. In 1990, Silver resigned from the Wiesenthal Center and made aliyah.”

“So, did they tell you where to find Ziegler?”

“No. That's the bad news. A lot of things seem to be missing from their files. Silver may have taken some souvenirs when he moved to Israel. But the good news is, if we find Silver, maybe he can lead us to Ziegler.”

“How do we find Silver?”

“Oh, that's no problem. We have his name, a former address, and a former employer. With that kind of information, it's pretty easy to look him up using Google.”

“Oh, damn it,” I said. “All that talk was just the setup to play the stupid Google prank on me? Well, the joke's on you, Wild Turkey, because I heard it already. It's Clint Eastwood. I get it. Ha, ha, ha.”

“Grandpa, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Somebody already showed me the Google. I don't see what's so funny about it.”

“Nothing's funny about it. It's a search engine.”

“I don't know what that means.”

“It means I already did the search. I've got Avram Silver's current home address and telephone number. I thought we'd talk to him together.”

“What? Seriously?” If he'd asked, I'd have had to tell him I was impressed. Thank God he didn't ask.

“Yeah. I bought an international calling card that I can use to dial Israel,” he said. “We can ring him now and have a conference call.”

“Oh.” None of that made much sense to me. “Well, then, that's useful, sort of, I guess.”

Jerusalem time was eight hours ahead, so it was around half-past four there, but we caught Avram Silver at home. When we told him why we were calling, he got agitated.

“That's a problem you don't want to mess with,” he said. “Don't waste your time. Nobody there cares about old Nazis.”

“We care,” Tequila told him. “We want to bring him to justice. Have you got the file?”

“Of course I've got it. Nobody cares about it but me.”

Tequila was too young to know when someone was trying to snow him. “Mr. Silver, we're calling because we care,” he said.

“You shouldn't bother to care,” Silver said. “Nobody else does.”

“Regardless, we'd appreciate it if you'd send us a copy of whatever information you have, or fax it to us.”

“The United States has some ass-backwards priorities on crime. I'll tell you that. Let me warn you, as a fellow Jew, you don't want to waste your time with this.”

Slowly, we coaxed the story out of him. According to Silver, the Wiesenthal Center had not supported his efforts to get Ziegler arrested, and the federal authorities had been reluctant to open a case. The U.S. Attorney's Office claimed that the evidence in the substantial dossier Silver had prepared was insufficient to justify further action.

“Can we please see a copy of this dossier?” Tequila asked him.

“You won't find anybody willing to look at it.”

Tequila sighed.

Silver continued his tale of woe: frustrated by the reluctance of everyone else to move against a war criminal hiding in the United States, after years of phone messages and letters, he decided to go to St. Louis himself and see if he could get his hands on some proof the feds couldn't ignore.

“St. Louis?” I interrupted him. “Ziegler was living in St. Louis?”

“Yeah,” said Silver. “Perfect place for him. I think they hate Jews there more than anywhere in America.”

Silver's clever plan to find evidence: he broke into Ziegler's house, tripped an alarm, and got himself arrested. The same people who had ignored all the evidence that Ziegler was a bloodthirsty war criminal were eager to book Silver for burglary.

“Anti-Semites.” This was punctuated with a loud thump, maybe Silver slamming his fist up against something. “Fifteen years working to end bigotry, and those Jew haters tried to lock me up.”

Of course, our boy was too clever for that. He posted bail and promptly fled, exercising his right to return to his people's eternal homeland.

“Thank God there's one place left in the world where Jews can find sanctuary from persecution.”

What an asshole. “That's clearly His intended use for it,” I said.

“Now I have a good job with the Israeli government. In a Jewish country, where there's no bigotry, my kind of talent gets a proper measure of appreciation.”

“What kind of talent?” I asked. “What do you do for the Israeli government?”

Silence on the line. I lit one of my Lucky Strikes.

“We'd really like to see your file on Ziegler,” said Tequila.

“It's a waste of time.”

And we were back to that again. I'd heard about enough of it.

“Oh, stow it, the both of you,” I growled into the phone.

They stopped talking. I took a bite out of my apple and kept the receiver in front of my mouth so they could hear me chewing.

“Riesling, if you're ever going to be much of a lawyer, you're going to have to learn how to talk to someone who doesn't want to give you information.”

“My name is Tequila,” said Tequila. “And why wouldn't he want to give us information? Don't we all want the same thing here?”

“Of course we want the same thing,” I said. “And this goof figures if we get it, then he can't steal it.”

“You're talking about Ziegler's supposed stolen Nazi treasure,” said Silver.

I made a phlegmy, vaguely sarcastic sound. “Well, I'm glad somebody finally mentioned it, not that I don't enjoy sitting around yanking on my
putz
as much as the next guy.”

“I didn't want to say anything about that, because I thought we were playing it close to the vest. I wasn't sure if he knew about it,” said Tequila. It was downright unseemly for a grown man to go around whimpering like a kicked dog. The sound of his voice was like a razor blade scraping against the grain of my skin, and I hated him a little bit right then.

“Don't be a damn fool,” I said. “Money is never a secret. Everybody always knows about it. This jackass has known about that gold at least as long as he's known about Heinrich Ziegler.”

“What do you mean?” Tequila asked.

“He never pushed for action on Ziegler when he was at the Wiesenthal Center. In fact, I'd bet he stole the file from their offices when he left, to make sure nobody there ever did anything with that information he doesn't want to give us. Most likely, he spiked the investigation so he could chase after the gold. Why do you think he really broke into that house?”

“I was seeking evidence,” Silver said, proud and defiant and so full of shit that his eyes were probably brown.

“You thought you could bust in there and steal all that loot, and Ziegler wouldn't be able to call the authorities for help, because he was a fugitive.” I paused to take a drag on my cigarette. “But you got pinched anyway, because despite all your supposed talent, you're just about the worst thief I've ever heard of.”

“Now, I resent that. I won't have you make me a villain in this. I went after a perpetrator of atrocities, and as thanks for the trouble, I was treated like a criminal myself. I am, if anything, a victim. A victim of hate crimes.”

I cut him off. “Didn't I already tell you to shut up? I don't like repeating myself over and over again. And if I have to hear you whine about anti-Semitism one more time, I am hopping on the next plane to Jerusalem, and do you know what I am going to do when I get there?”

He didn't say anything, so I went ahead and told him:

“I am going to stick a prayer in the Wailing Wall asking God for peace and good health, and then I will go to your house and punch your teeth down your throat. Let me tell you, you're the reason there's anti-Semitism.”

“Mr. Schatz, I don't think I have to listen to this anymore,” said Avram Silver.

“Then don't. I had my morning coffee about an hour ago, and I'm looking forward to a nice bowel movement pretty soon. I don't want you spoiling it.”

“To hell with you, Mr. Schatz.”

“I'd take even money that you get there first,” I told him.

I heard a click as he hung up.

“Why did you do that, Grandpa?” Tequila shouted at me. “Now he'll never give us that dossier.”

“We don't need him.”

“Of course we do. He's got the name Ziegler's using, and he was the only lead we had on that. How are we going to find your Nazi now?”

“We don't need that silly crook. We don't need his information. We don't need his damn dossier.”

Tequila was quiet for a moment. “Why not?”

I took a bite out of my apple.

“Silver told us he got arrested for breaking into Ziegler's house in St. Louis. So we pull the police report, we get the address, the victim's name.”

“We get Ziegler,” Tequila said. “We don't need his damn dossier.” He didn't say anything for a moment. And then: “I can come home to visit for a few days. I've got a frequent-flier ticket to use. If you're going to St. Louis, I can drive you there.”

“My heart leaps with joy,” I said. “I'm going to have myself a crap.”

“You have a good time, Grandpa.”

“I intend to. Best part of my morning.”

 

8

Since the funeral, Emily Feely had been calling the house, talking about wanting to have dinner with us, and Rose decided to accept the invitation.

While they were talking on the phone, I was complaining that it was too far for us to drive, apparently loud enough for Emily to hear on the other end of the line. She offered to bring everything to our house. Rose said that sounded lovely. More or less, I was cornered like an animal. Norris had trapped me somehow.

“I don't like those people,” I protested as I sprinkled Sweet'N Low over a bowl of raisin bran. “Did you see how Norris talked to us?”

“You fight with everybody, Buck. That's why we don't have any friends left.”

“That suits me fine.”

“Well, it doesn't suit me. I'm bored and lonely. And Emily seems like such a nice person, and she wants to be close with people who were close to her father.”

“Her father was a schmuck,” I said.

“We're the only people who showed up at the funeral.”

I pounded my fist on the breakfast table. “But I didn't want to go,” I told her. “And I can't stand that bloated louse of a husband she has.”

“I'm sure that you and Norris can patch things up and get along.”

“You said yourself, he's a dangerous character.”

She crossed her arms. “And you laughed and said you could handle him.”

“False bravado. I'm terrified of that guy.”

“Then it's a good idea to make nice with him,” Rose said.

“I'm putting my foot down on this.”

She smiled, and her eyes were filled with genuine pity. She knew I would never win. “You can spend all day putting your foot down if you'd like,” she said. “But they'll be here at six sharp, and you need to wear something nice.”

I growled at her through a mouthful of cereal.

“Oh, by the way, Emily is going to invite that preacher from their church. You two seemed to get on well, so I thought you would enjoy seeing him again.”

“Oh, goddamn it,” I said.

Tequila landed at Memphis International Airport later that afternoon and came over to the house in his mother's little Japanese car, just ahead of the other guests.

“Hey, Grandma. Hey, Pop,” he said as he tromped into the house, letting the screen door slam behind him.

Billy was a little on the short side, with thick, sandy hair he wore in that messy style the young people like. Not a bad-looking kid, but it wouldn't hurt for him to lose ten or twenty pounds and stand up straight once in a while. He resembled his father, and he maybe looked a little like I used to look once upon a time, except I was in better shape at his age. He usually dressed sloppy, in blue jeans and T-shirts and zip-up hooded sweatshirts. Despite his deficiencies, I was glad he was there. Maybe because he was family, I disliked him less than most other people.

Norris and Emily showed up a bit later with a bunch of food in Tupperware containers and covered casserole trays. I would never eat anything they gave me under any circumstances.

“Buck, it's so good to see you,” said Emily. And she hugged me. She didn't have any visible mucus on her, but I tried not to breathe until she'd backed away to a safe distance. “I can't thank you enough for being such a comfort to me and Dad.”

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “This is my grandson, William.”

Tequila stuck out his hand, and Feely shook it. “Call me Tequila. Everyone does.”

“Oy,” I muttered.

Lawrence Kind arrived late. Tequila and I met him at the door.