Thursday the Rabbi Walked Out (22 page)

The rabbi shrugged.

Brooks shook his head pityingly. “David. David, you just don’t understand. In a job like yours, or like mine, you’ve got to be covered every minute. You can’t let them get a single thing on you. Remember, they are the enemy.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

“The president, the board of directors, yes, the congregation, the parents. Remember, we are public figures, which means the public is always looking for something to criticize in us, and that means we’ve got to fight back.” He got off the desk and began to stride up and down the room, and as he continued, it was in the tone of a professor lecturing to a class. “There are two reasons why it’s important. One is to set the record straight, and the other, and perhaps more important, is to let them know you can’t be kicked around. It makes them think twice before they tangle with you. Now, this Maltzman, he doesn’t like you, David.”

“How do you know he doesn’t like me?”

“I can see it. I can see it when he talks to you. Your vibes don’t harmonize.”

“Vibes?”

“Vibrations. You know, everyone gives off vibrations like a – like a tuning fork, and when two people get together and their vibes don’t match or harmonize, there’s a discord.”

“I see, and my vibrations don’t match his?”

“To tell the truth. David, yours don’t match most people’s. You’re not everybody’s cup of tea. You’re not an easy man to like, /can because of my training.”

“Really? What training is that?”

Brooks showed astonishment. “Why my training in the theater, of course, an actor takes on the personality of the character he is playing. Right? So this gives him practice in understanding people, and remember. David, to understand is to forgive, even to like.”

“I’ll try to remember.”

The sarcasm was lost on Brooks. “All right. So we can take it for granted that Maltzman would like to get rid of you, and for a man like Maltzman, to want is to act. So what else is new, you say. It comes with the territory. But this time. David, it’s different.” He stopped his pacing in front of the desk and looked down sympathetically at the rabbi. “You know what’s kept you here all these years. David? I’ll tell you. Inertia. Just plain inertia, the presidents and their good friends on the board may have wanted to get rid of you on occasion, but the congregation wouldn’t go along. Why? Inertia. It was too much trouble. It meant argument and fighting and taking sides. But the situation is different now. I’ve heard women say that the only way they’ll ever get equality in the service is to get another rabbi first. See, it’s the congregation, or at least the women in the congregation, that wants you out now. So, I ask you, what are you going to do?”

“I’m getting out of here.” said the rabbi, pushing back his chair.

“You are?” Brooks was aghast.

“That’s right. I’m taking the afternoon off. It’s too nice to be indoors.”

“Oh, for a minute there. I thought – Gosh. I’d go with you, but I’ve got to coach a couple of Bar Mitzvahs.”

It was not annoyance with Morton Brooks that led Rabbi Small to leave his study so abruptly. Secretly, he rather enjoyed his cheekiness, his theatrical pomposity. While Brooks’ little lecture on temple politics may have triggered the reaction, the reason for walking out was that he was fed up – with the temple, with Maltzman, with his own position as rabbi, he wanted to get away, if it were only for an hour or two, from the reach of the telephone, to where he would not be likely to meet a member of his congregation with a question or a complaint.

He got into his car and set out on the road to Boston with the vague idea that in the city he would achieve the anonymity that, for the moment at least, he craved. But as he drove along the main road, with its heavy traffic, it occurred to him that once he reached the city, he would have to drive around looking for a place to park, and that by the time he found one, it would be time to head for home. So instead, he turned off and took the road to Revere, the nearby resort town with its long stretch of beach faced by an equally long stretch of amusement booths, most of which would be closed at this time of year, there he could perch on the seawall, or sit in the public pavilion facing the ocean, and watch the waves roll in, there, if anyone approached him: it would be to ask for the time, or a match, or to make some observation on the weather.

There were very few people about, and as he had surmised, most of the amusements had closed down, their bravely decorated fronts made tawdry by the unpainted wooden shutters that were intended to protect them during the winter, here and there, however, one was open, the proprietor leaning over his counter, looking hopefully up and down the street on the chance of interesting one of the few passersby, calling out when one went by, “Step right up. Everyone a winner. No losers. Step right up.”

A few of the ice cream and hot dog stands were open, and in the distance the rabbi saw a store that looked as though it might serve coffee, he hoped he could get it in a paper cup and take it to the pavilion to sip at while he did nothing, he heard his name called, and stopped and looked around, the only one in sight was a tall young man in a T-shirt and blue jeans leaning across the counter of the shooting gallery he had just passed, he retraced his steps.

“Gee. I wasn’t sure it was you. Rabbi. I mean, seeing you here.”

Then he recognized him. “Sumner, isn’t it?”

“Uh-huh. Sumner Lefhvich. I was in your postconfirmation class a couple of years back. You come down here often?”

“No, not often. You work here all the time? I thought you were at school.”

“I am. Mass State. I just work here off and on. It belongs to my girl’s father. I help him out once in a while, with business as slow as it is. I can study here just as good as at home or in the library, and I get a few bucks for it.” He looked at the rabbi shyly. “Care to test your skill. Rabbi? Ten shots for a quarter.”

“I’ve never shot a rifle.”

“Nothing to it; Rabbi. You just aim and squeeze the trigger. You don’t pull it, you kind of squeeze it.”

The rabbi looked up and down the street and decided the young man had not had many customers that day, he fished a quarter out of his pocket and watched with interest as the young man slid a tube of cartridges into the chamber of the rifle.

The rabbi put the rifle to his shoulder and peered through the sights at the row of clay pipes, the moving line of ducks, the rabbits hopping one after another, the giant pendulum swinging slowly back and forth, then he vaguely remembered that there was a recoil when a gun went off, and he removed his glasses and carefully put them in his breast pocket. This time when he sighted, he saw only white blobs and splotches. But what of it, there were plenty of things to hit.

He pulled at the trigger again and again until a click told him that he had exhausted his ammunition, he laid the gun down on the counter and put on his glasses.

“Perfect score,” said the young man, grinning broadly at him.

“Really?”

“That’s right. Ten shots and ten misses, the sights must be off, here try this one. On the house.”

“No, really –”

“Go on. Rabbi.”

The rabbi shrugged, and once again took off his glasses and put the rifle to his shoulder. When he put it down on the counter again, the young man shook his head to signify that he had done no better this time.

“I guess it’s you, Rabbi, not the rifles.”

“I’m afraid I’ll never be a marksman,” said the rabbi. “I was heading for that shop to get a cup of coffee. Can I get you one?”

“Yeah, I could go for a cup of coffee. Cream and just a little sugar. If you tell him it’s for me, he knows how I like it.”

When the rabbi returned with the coffee cups, Sumner said, “Say, Rabbi, what do you think about having a special class, or a kind of club, for the kids who are now in college?”

“We tried that one year, and so few came that we gave it up.”

“Yeah, well I had an idea –”

Finally after a decent interval, he was able to break away. He decided to go back to Barnard’s Crossing, reflecting that perhaps it was ordained he should not leave his job.

Outside of Boston, McLure, as a state detective, had always had things pretty much his own way. In the smaller cities and towns where murder was rare, the police had little experience and welcomed his expertise. When he was assigned to the Jordon case, he had expected no differently, that the Barnard’s Crossing police would cooperate – it was his word – with him rather than, as it turned out, he with them, he was annoyed that Chief Lanigan should give him assignments and evaluate his findings in much the way he did with his subordinates. Nor did McLure get much satisfaction when he hinted to the district attorney that this was not the way he was accustomed to work.

“I know. Sergeant. I know exactly how you feel.” the district attorney said soothingly. “But Barnard’s Crossing is a funny kind of town. It was established back in colonial days by a bunch who left Salem because they weren’t having the local authorities tell them what they could do and what they couldn’t, they practically had no government at all for a number of years, and because they’re kind of off the beaten path, they still don’t like outsiders coming in and interfering. You’re a foreigner there. Did you know that? If you lived there all your life but were born someplace else, you’d still be called a foreigner. Now, this is a local crime, and Hugh Lanigan, who is a Crosser for all that his folks were Irish Catholic, knows the scene better than any outsider could, he knows how to deal with these people.”

Typical was his assignment to question Henry Maltzman. “How about if I bring him down here and we really put the boots to him?” he suggested to Lanigan. “After all, he’s the guy who said he’d put a bullet through his head.”

“Oh no, you can’t handle Henry that way,” said Lanigan. “He’s a funny guy. You’ve got to handle him with kid gloves. Besides, we know he was at the temple when the murder took place, the rabbi’s wife said so, and that’s good enough for me. I don’t expect we’ll get much from Henry; but since he did make the threat, we’ve got to check it out as part of the routine.”

Because it was routine. McLure did not give it high priority, and it was the Thursday after the murder before he finally called on Maltzman at his place of business, he identified himself and Maltzman led him into his private office.

Once he was seated. McLure took out pencil and notebook and asked abruptly; “Now, what time was it you went to see Jordon that Friday?”

Maltzman grinned. “Where did you get the idea I ever went to see him?”

“You phoned him, didn’t you?”

Maltzman shrugged. “I make a lot of calls, that’s what the real estate business is all about. Sometimes I’m on the phone for a couple of hours and I think the receiver is growing out of my ear.”

“We know that you called him.” said McLure. “So maybe I called him.” said Maltzman with a shrug. “And you said you’d put a bullet through his head.” Maltzman’s grin broadened. “Who says so?”

“We have information to that effect.” McLure said doggedly.

Maltzman cocked a speculative eye at the ceiling. “You know. I don’t see how you can,” he said. “It doesn’t add up.

You say I called him on the phone and threatened to put a bullet through his head. Now, unless he has a phone with an extension and had someone listening in, you just can’t have that information.”

“We have it from Jordon himself.” said McLure angrily. “He told people who came to see him that you had just called –”

“He’s a liar. Or he was. You’re telling me that Jordon told someone that I called him, and they told you, that’s hearsay, and from someone who is not here to verify it, and how would he have known it was me who called? Cummon. Sergeant.”

“All right. Mr. Maltzman, let’s try it a different way. Suppose you tell me where you were last Friday night.”

“I didn’t go to Jordon’s house, that’s for sure.”

“Not good enough, Mr. Maltzman. Where did you go?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“This is a murder case. Mr. Maltzman, we can make you tell.”

“Can you? Maybe in a court of law after I’ve been sworn. But certainly not here in my office just by flashing a badge at me.”

“Suppose I take you down to the stationhouse.”

“You got a warrant. Sergeant?”

It dawned on McLure that Lanigan had been right, and that maybe Maltzman had to be handled with kid gloves, abruptly, he changed his tactics. “Look. Mr. Maltzman, a murder has been committed, and it is your duty as a citizen to help the police any way you can to expose the perpetrator.”

“Now, I go along with you there. Sergeant. I’m a strict law and order man myself You ask me anything that has any bearing on this, and I’ll answer to the best of my ability.”

“Fine. Mr. Maltzman. I’m glad you see it in the proper light now. What we’d like to know is where you were that Friday evening.”

Maltzman slowly shook his head. “What’s the matter? Don’t you remember?”

“I’m just not going to answer that question.”

“Why not? You said you’d answer any question I asked you.”

“Only if it has bearing on this case.”

“You let us be the judge of that, Mr. Maltzman.” said McLure confidently.

“Come on. Sergeant, let’s not play games. Suppose I told you I was at a basketball game. How would that help you solve your problem?”

“Were you?”

“No, I wasn’t.” Maltzman rose to indicate that he had nothing more to say.

McLure protested. “Now look here. Mr. Maltzman –”

“If the only help you expect to get out of me is to find out where I was that night, there’s no point in our continuing.”

“Why, what else can you tell me? You got any other information?”

“I certainly have. Sergeant. I can tell you the kind of man Ellsworth Jordon was, he was a nasty: mean, cantankerous, penny-pinching, anti-Semitic sonofabitch, and if you’re planning on questioning all who might have wanted him dead at one time or another, or might have said they’d put a bullet through him, you’ve got your work cut out for you, because you’d have to question about half the town and just about everybody who ever had dealings with him, and now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve got work to do.”