Green Kills (2 page)

“I’d have been surprised if you hadn’t asked for such meetings,”
said David, and a little smile fluttered on his lips. He took a piece of paper
from his pocket and handed it to Ronnie. “This is the timetable for your
meetings today with Henry Chen, the partner with whom I built the fund, with
George Epidorus, the partner leading of the telecom investments, and with
Stephen Doshen, the partner responsible for our software investments. At the
same time, I’ll ask human resources to draft the contract, and if my partners
are to your liking, I believe we’ll be able to sign before the end of the day.”
David set down the paper, extended his hand to Ronnie, and following a brief
shake, left the room without adding a single word.

New York, February 20, 2013, 1:30 PM

A grim view of Manhattan was visible through the glass wall in
Ronnie’s 29th floor office on Sixth Avenue. The weather had persisted in its
gloominess for a week. The dark skies refused to yield rain but at the same
time were determined to prevent any sunbeams from illuminating the crowded
avenue below. His experiences since he had begun his employment with the fund
had served to awaken a slight sense of dreariness in him as well. For almost
six months he’d been suffocating in this prison house of capitalism: two
tables, two chairs, two cabinets installed under two enclosed bookstands and
two slaves, willingly locked up in a single room — slaves daily pitted against
each other by their masters.  

Ronnie turned his back on the city and shifted his gaze to Roy
Hilbert III, with whom he shared the office. Like every person who had ever
laid eyes on Roy, Ronnie determined that Hilbert’s parents must have had a
great relationship with the almighty —the man possessed perfect genes. Roy
boasted an impressive mane of blond hair, parted with mathematical accuracy right
in the middle of his forehead. Ronnie was willing to bet that fixing his hairdo
deprived his office mate of at least half an hour of sleep each morning. His
straight, noble nose was set with irksome precision between a pair of blue
eyes, and he possessed a Kirk Douglas-like furrowed chin. Roy fussed over his
attire with the same air of seriousness with which he added the title “the
third” to his name each time he introduced himself. His meticulously pressed
shirts matched in color the endless variety of chinos, which, he never failed
to mention, had been special-ordered from Italy. But,
just
like every natural element presuming perfection
, Roy had a weakness,
well known by everyone but himself: He was completely humorless.
He’s so
full of himself, there’s no room left inside for a sense of humor,
Ronnie
had recognized the problem as early as the first week of their acquaintance.

Roy, a Harvard MBA
summa cum laude
, was hired by the fund
as a senior associate a week before Ronnie. As far as he was concerned, Ronnie
was a dangerous competitor in the race for partnership. Since their first
meeting, Roy had been uncertain whether he hated Ronnie or was simply afraid of
him. He wasn’t the only one who felt that way. Two other senior associates, who
occupied the adjacent room suffering identical slavery-like conditions, shared
exactly the same feelings. All three of them were intimidated by Ronnie but
were no less afraid of each other.

“Roy,” Ronnie addressed his neighbor with concealed humor, “do
you feel like grabbing lunch together?”

“I have to finish an important research job for David,” answered
Roy with a mixture of seriousness and self-importance. “I’m really sorry. I
can’t let him down after all the trust he’s placed in me.” And without waiting
for Ronnie’s reaction, Roy plunged back into the depths of his computer.

Amazing how he’s able to come up with a new excuse every day
,
thought Ronnie.
One day he’ll run out of excuses and I’ll have to suffer his
presence during lunch as well
. He glanced at his watch for the fourth time
in the last half hour.
Why am I drowning in boredom when I have such a
challenging and fascinating job?

The past few months were different than anything he’d been
accustomed to. In all the places in which he had worked, he’d learned to value
teamwork as the most important principle, but in this office a dog-eat-dog
attitude prevailed. His dissatisfaction was further fueled by the fact that the
partners — who’d fussed over him till the moment he had signed the contract —
were now completely ignoring him. As far as they were concerned, he’d become an
email address to which assignments could be sent, assignments that were always
urgent and crucial to the existence of this or that project. He had never heard
a single compliment from them, but more than once they had delivered scathing
reprimands because his work was disappointingly overdue, while keeping their
imaginary deadlines to themselves. He knew that many of the ideas he had
presented were approved and executed, but he’d received no credit for them. In
their eyes, he was nothing but “a servant of four masters.”

He took another peek at his watch. It was one thirty-
two,
a minute had passed since the last time he’d checked.
Eight thirty PM, Israel time, he translated to himself. If he knew his
workaholic friend Gadi well enough, he would still be in the office in the
middle of an endless meeting with one of his demanding customers.
Well,
that’s his
problem
,
he thought and pressed the speed-dial button.

The reply on the other end of the line came immediately and in
Hebrew. “The putz in front of you is already driving you nuts?”  

“Gadi, your last name is Abutbul. Moroccan Jews don’t use
Yiddish swear words. Say ‘little shit’ or ‘piece of trash,’ but not ‘putz.’
Coming from you, the word sounds too dignified.” Ronnie had his first laugh of
the day.

“Tell me, why don’t you leave that fund of yours already?” Gadi
became serious. “You’re bored to death there. Every day you’re calling me ten
minutes earlier than the day before. With my ‘easy going and understanding’
customers, a month from now I’ll be forced to start looking for a new job.”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question every single day. I
love what I’m doing, which is apparently enough to overcome the exasperation of
working with all these lifeless people in the fund. But considering the way the
senior partners are treating me, there’s a good chance they’ll be the ones
making the decision for me.”

“So go and work for another fund. You may earn less, but between
you and me, you don’t need the money.”

“Gadi, thanks for your concern.
Really.
But that’s the way it is with all funds. Unfortunately, where big money is
involved, there’s a lot of competition. And when there’s competition, Americans
will stop at nothing in order to win.”

“So just come back to Israel,” Gadi gave him the usual reply.

“What’s happening with you?” Ronnie changed the subject,
ignoring Roy’s furious glances about being distracted from his sacred work.

“All’s usual, you know. Providing services for insurance companies
investigating theft and robbery, helping the police find their way in the
depths of the master criminals’ world, and investigating the miserable affairs
of the wives of the rich and the famous. I closed two such cases yesterday. My
mother would have had to work half a lifetime to earn the amounts they added to
my bank account. Those rich people paid without blinking.” The ghosts of
childhood pains turned Gadi’s voice hoarse.

Ronnie felt a pang of yearning. He missed the honesty,
directness, candor and mutual trust he and Gadi shared.

“So, when are you coming for a visit in Israel?” Gadi didn’t let
go. “You know, your parents really miss you. Good thing your sister stayed
here…me too,” Gadi addressed a sore spot.

“I don’t see myself coming back anytime soon, and please don’t
bring this up every conversation we have. I feel shitty enough about it as it
is,” Ronnie mumbled in a melancholy voice.

“Ashkenazi Jews should say ‘like dreck,’ not ‘shitty.’ How’d you
put it? Coming from you, the word sounds too…dignified.”

“Gadi, I love you,” Ronnie said and laughed, “but I gotta go
before the putz has a stroke.”

“Let him have one.
Yalla, bye.
Hang in
there. And remember, when you’re promoted to partner, the putz will work for
you, then you’ll be able to abuse him as much as you like.” Gadi hung up
without waiting for a reply.

Ronnie picked up his coat from the coatrack and left without
saying a word. He was aware that it would have been much more decent to have
the conversation with Gadi outside the room so as not to interrupt Roy’s work,
but there was no way in the world he would’ve given up one of his only
pleasures in the office.

Three months earlier, he had discovered a small Middle Eastern restaurant
that sold falafel and shawarma. It reminded him of the wonderful falafel he
used to eat in the small stand that had opened a short time before his last
visit to the kibbutz where he was raised. When he entered the dim, crowded
restaurant, he was happy to see that his favorite corner table, right next to
the phone booth, was available. He mouthed the words “the usual” as he motioned
to the Lebanese counterman and pointed his finger toward his customary table.
The man smiled and nodded his approval. Ronnie sat down and, as usual, turned
his back to the other diners, detaching
himself
from
the commotion. He turned on his iPad and became engrossed in reading the latest
news from Israel.

“Our Hezbollah is giving you problems?” asked the Lebanese, while
placing a plate of shawarma, finely diced Arab salad, humus and a bottle of
Coke Zero on the table.  

“Not that I’m aware of. Perhaps they’re resting. But if I were a
gambling man, I would say they won’t stay quiet for long,” answered Ronnie and
gave the Lebanese man a friendly clap on the shoulder.

“Unfortunately, brother, you’re right. With them, it’s always a
matter of time before they go off their rockers and start looking for someone
to kill.” The counterman smiled bitterly and went back to serving a new wave of
hungry customers.

Life is always surprising
, thought Ronnie.
I have a
better relationship with a Lebanese stranger than with any of my coworkers.
Behind his back, the phone booth door opened then immediately closed.
I
didn’t know people even used them anymore!
Ronnie thought nothing more of
it and became caught up in the sports section.

“Put ten thousand on Lucky Runner in the fourth, ten thousand on
Black Beauty in the eighth and twenty thousand on Royal Lightning in the last
race,” an instruction was heard from within the booth. The speaker lowered his
voice, but each whisper could be heard through the wooden walls. After a brief
respite the man added in an entreating tone, “You’ll get everything you’re owed
by the end of the week. You know I’m never late with my payments.”

The unintended invasion of another person’s privacy embarrassed
Ronnie, but what had made the situation even more embarrassing was the feeling
he recognized the man’s voice. The phone booth door opened and the man stepped
outside. Ronnie instinctively turned his head back and found himself staring at
Henry, who froze as they made eye contact. Ronnie was the first to regain his
composure and sent Henry a reassuring smile, doing his best not to betray, even
with a hint, that he had heard the conversation. Henry came to his senses,
flashed a theatrical smile back at Ronnie, and left the restaurant without
saying a word.
Perhaps this fund is not so boring after all
, thought
Ronnie, troubled.
If the second most powerful man in the fund is a gambler
who can hardly pay his debts, what did it say about the way in which the
partners were managing their investors’ money?
  

New York, August 4, 2013, 7:45 AM

Liah roamed about JFK’s arrival terminal and waited for the
Swissair passengers to emerge from behind the opaque sliding doors. Even though
she was only five foot four, fifteen years of ballet lessons had imbued her
with an upright, gliding gait, as if her feet were hardly touching the floor.
It gave her an air of dignified mystery, further augmented by her high
cheekbones and dark eyes. A slight, almost imperceptible, squint in one of
those eyes gave them a dreamy, perhaps even seductive, look.

Liah met Ronnie when he was a guest lecturer at Columbia
University’s medical school, where she was a student. Six months later, she
moved into his Manhattan apartment, where they’d been for the past two and a
half years. Ronnie had been attracted by her unique appearance but was quickly
enraptured by the charms of her quick wits. He often told her he’d never met
such an intelligent, yet unassuming person. Even when he discussed subjects
related to his own profession, she surprised him with her exceptional insights
and her ability to simplify complex situations and define them in a single
clear sentence.

The door opened with a whistle of compressed air. Two
businessmen emerged, mummified in suits and ties. Ronnie was right behind them,
dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, his eyes scouting the terminal,
seeking her.

Liah ran forward, jumped on him, and covered his face with
kisses. Ronnie kept on advancing toward the exit, while she was still hanging
from his neck. When they were outside, he whispered to her, “Cut it out, the
whole world’s watching us.”

“I don’t care! I’m so happy you’re back from reserve duty.”

Ronnie’s body stiffened. His stay in Israel had made him forget
what had happened the day he’d left New York. Humidity hung in the air, he
recalled, and left its mark on the multitudes that crowded the street. The day
had not yet begun, and everyone already appeared to be on edge as he headed
toward Seventh Avenue. After five minutes of walking, he stopped next to a
coffee cart with a long and sweaty line in front of it. He waited for his turn.
A bagel was the last thing he wanted. He was interested in seeing if the
fiftyish-looking man who was reading a newspaper on the other end of the
sidewalk was actually following him.

The man folded his newspaper and continued on his way up the
street. Ronnie’s eyes followed him through his sunglasses. The man stopped in
front of a display window in which the coffee cart line was reflected. A moment
later, he took out a cell phone, made a brief call, and walked on without
looking back.

Ronnie collected the bagel he had ordered and turned on his
heel. He almost didn’t notice the girl pacing in front of him. It was only the
slight expression of interest that crossed her face as he passed by that
betrayed her and let him know she was continuing the surveillance of the tail
he’d spotted.

The ones who followed him didn’t seem professional enough to
belong to a three-letter law enforcement agency. Still, Ronnie wondered if the
United States government was aware of the affairs he was involved with. A
feeling of guilt momentarily washed over him. Was it something about his
behavior that had brought this about? He took a bite of the tasteless bagel,
and then tossed it into the nearest trash can. He strode toward the nearest
Starbucks, on 27th Street, while turning off his cell phone. He walked inside,
glanced back and discovered his follower remained at the other end of the
street, watching the entrance door. Ronnie walked slowly into the heart of the
coffee shop, and once he was certain he was concealed by the people around him,
quickly went out a side door. He found himself on Sixth Avenue and immediately
jumped into a taxi idling at the traffic light. When it drove past 27th Street,
he saw his tail still standing and looking at the door he’d entered.

“Are you even listening to me?” he heard Liah’s voice scolding
him.

“Yes.” All at once, he was back at the JFK arrival terminal,
back to Liah who, for the past few minutes, just wouldn’t stop talking. “You
said you weren’t really worried about me.” That was all he could remember. “That’s
not showing a great deal of love,” he added.

“It shows something else: that I knew exactly where you were.”

He became tense. “How?” he asked, attempting to maintain a level
tone.

“Remember my friend Ruthie? The one I’ve been chatting with on
Facebook every day?”

“What does she have to do with this?”

“Yesterday, she looked at some of the photos I posted from our
weekend in Maine. Her mother happened to see them and said she knows you from
her restaurant. Ruthie said it couldn’t be, and that anyway, you live in the
US. But her mother insisted you’d been eating at her restaurant for a week. She
added that she may be old, but she still has an eye for good-looking guys.”

“Well, so what does it all mean?” asked Ronnie impatiently.

“The Ness Ziona Institute for Biological Research personnel
regularly
take
their meals at her place. That’s what
it means.” She laughed and continued, “And if that’s where you’re doing your
reserve duty, then I’m not worried.”

It’s
always the little details that bring you down
,
thought Ronnie as they entered the car.