To Kill a Matzo Ball (A Deadly Deli Mystery) (6 page)

I glanced down at the photograph, at the words, at the arrogant hate. And a third phrase came to my intellectual New York feminist Jewish brain.

Shtuppes.

Shove it.

My home was a forty-year-old colonial that my late father and his brother had shared on the brilliantly named Bonerwood Drive. I shared it with the cats, some of my New York furniture, and, I’m told, a clutch of African-American Civil War laborers who were interred somewhere beneath the cellar. I wondered what Banko Juarez would make of them. I’d already tried witches, and you may recall how that turned out.

The mutty cats were transplants from New York. They were my loyal friends and companions during the acrimonious divorce from Phil Silver, now referred to in my brain as the Bitter Phil, Tarnished Silver, PS I Hate You, and any number of clever epithets. The mind games were a way to redirect my hate for that self-obsessed, argumentative mama’s boy who adored me for about five seconds of our four years together. And those scarce little ticks of the clock were all frontloaded, so there were no oases during the eternity that followed. So why, you ask, did I stick with him? Why does anyone do that, except for all the wrong, fearful reasons? I was worried about hurting my mother, about losing our mutual friends and business associates, of feeling like a major flopola—in other words, every reason that had nothing to do with my actually being happy.

Southpaw and Mr. Wiggles were named for two of the happier times in my life: making it onto an all-boys little league team, simultaneously breaking the glass ceiling and a pitcher’s hand with an angry line drive; and getting an A+ for a sixth-grade science project in which I managed to get worms to reproduce. That was in response to a stupid boy, Marius Hampton, who was convinced that they replicated by being cut in half.

The fact that my cats greeted me at the door told me that there was no one lurking in or around the home. When danger threatened the cats took a powder. I had no problem with that. Declawed cats would be of no use to me during a home invasion.

I showered. That was the first order of business, to wash away the antiseptic smell and whatever blood had splattered on my skin and hair. I didn’t bother to dry my hair; the gentle coolness of the water against my scalp would help keep my brain from boiling. Then I got the two carrying cases, which would have sent the cats running—it usually meant a trip to the vet—if I hadn’t taken the precaution of first taking them into the bathroom. Not a lot of room to run. I showered while I was there then—leaving the door open and an ear turned to it—then threw together an overnight bag. There was an air mattress in the garage, a holdover from when my father first crashed here, and I took that, along with a quilt and pillow. I didn’t see Agent Bowe-Pitt when I went to the car, but I guess that was the point.

It was late afternoon when I got back to the deli. The tape was down, and there were no longer any crowds. I pulled up in front to offload my stuff and had to show an ID to the new officer who had just come on duty. I parked in my usual spot in the public garage. I paid for parking, but not for the choice spot near the up-ramp. It was the old barter system: in exchange for dog bones at the end of the day, the attendant, Randy, always held it for me with a pair of orange traffic cones. I rounded the corner and walked past the Arcade, which was lined with cafés, shops, and salons. I sometimes snuck off for a late dinner here: as the Bible probably says somewhere, know thy enemy. The proprietors, who had seen me earlier, had hurried over to make sure I was okay. I know they were sincere. We fight it out with discount coupons and specials, but when one of our own is ailing we help them. When Adorf’s Tacos was flooded and the electricity shorted, I let them bake shells in my oven. Seeing me now as I hurried past, “Grandma” Marie, as everyone called the owner, ran out and offered to lend me a bicycle delivery boy if I wanted to reopen. I thanked her and told her I would definitely keep that in mind for tomorrow.

“I have more boys than I need,” said the Vera Cruz–born woman, clasping a hand on my wrist. She gestured toward her restaurant. “I do not know how to do what you do, so lean. You know how to run a business.”

What I heard, of course, is
“You people know how to run a business . . .”
Sometimes we hear things that aren’t there. Sometimes people say things they don’t realize. And sometimes we hear exactly what is being left unsaid.

I smiled and walked on, huffing inside at our lopsided society. If I’d said to her innocently, after the lunch rush, “
You look tired, you should take a nap
,” the ACLU or some do-gooder group would come after me for hate speech. “
You were saying that this Mexican-American should take a siesta. That’s a destructive racial stereotype . . . ”
There would be pickets and my business would be over, finished.
But shoot up a Jewish business . . . ?

I told myself to slow down. We didn’t know that was what had happened. My paranoia and genetically suspicious nature, passed down from the shtetls in the Ukraine, was telling me that.

I let the cats out in my office and closed the door. I checked the cash register. I couldn’t use the alarm system because of the busted window. Thom had put the money in the safe in the back—artfully hidden behind bags of flour—and I didn’t think anyone would climb the fence to get at my collection of Ginsu knives. I felt okay leaving the back door open so the cats would get some air.

I had the address of Chan’s school from the form he’d filled out. I wasn’t sure what I’d do when I got there, but I knew I had to pay my respects—even if that meant just passing by and laying eyes on the place. The address was about a half mile away on 4th Street S; I’d been inside long enough, immersed in the scent of death, and decided to walk. I set out after pulling my New York Yankees baseball cap low. Even with that brilliant disguise, a few nearby customers recognized me. They said my name and either nodded with sad little eyes or gave me one of those tense, terse hands up/hands down waves like they were greeting the Fuhrer. A few said vaguely that they were sorry. It was as though people weren’t sure what they were feeling or how to express it. I filled in the blanks.

“Hi, Gwen. Or should I say Grim Reaper?”

“‘Nashville’ Katz? That’s where you get Russian dressing
and
Russian roulette.”

The sick thing was, the more people who dined and died on our watch, the busier we got. If I ever did decide to sell the place, I’d probably have to agree to stay for a year, just to make sure the body count increased. Call it the Angel of Death clause in my contract.

I had never been to a martial arts school. I had never even seen a Bruce Lee or Jackie Chan film. I caught
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
on an airplane and fell asleep when people started flying. This was not my world. I stopped across the street and stared. The big window had “Po Kung Fu Academy” painted in yellow block letters, in the shape of a rainbow, across the middle. Beyond it was a single, shadowy room that was considerably longer than it was wide. There were floor-to-ceiling mirrors all along the left side. Blue vinyl mats filled most of the floor. There was an office in the back on the right side and what looked like a dressing room to the left. Between them were rows of folding chairs. Ordinarily they were probably filled with parents who had brought their kids to class. Today they were empty—though the school was not. There appeared to be people in the shadows in back.

I crossed the street against the light—an old New York habit that refused to die in more cautious Nashville—and approached the single-story, red-brick building. It was a quiet, calm location. Pedestrian traffic was extremely thin here. There was a parking area to the left and the corner of Elm Street to the right. A squad car was parked on the street. One of the officers got out as I approached. An Asian-looking woman, she stood beside the car but made no move to intercept me.

As I slowly approached the window, I could see my own distorted reflection layered over the interior. My eyes were drawn to a card table set against the mirrors. A framed photograph of Ken Chan had been placed in the center. Incense sticks burned in front of it. The tiny shrine was encircled by a frayed, slightly faded black belt. His belt, no doubt. With my face nearly against the glass I could clearly see four people standing in the shadows outside the office: three men, one small older woman.

I was surprised there weren’t more people here. By now, word must have spread among the community. I remember the day our rabbi died. I was only seven years old, but the memory was vivid of throngs coming and going from the shul on 12th Street near University Place. Some people were wailing, some were sobbing, most were Jewish, many were not. The seats were never empty, and the davening, the prayers, flowed one into the other among a core of mourners as people stayed and talked and reminisced and probably plotted to make sure his replacement was more conservative or more reform or just the same.

My heart was thudding against my ribs, front and side.
Are you going in or not
?

If I did, what would I say?
“Hi, I’m Gwen. This wasn’t my fault, right?”

Someone inside saw me. A woman. She didn’t move, but it was time that I did. I went to the door, and, after hesitating, rapped gently on the glass. I didn’t know what the customs were and felt I should be invited in. Maybe this was alone time for the family.

The woman came over with ethereally light steps. She was just a little over five feet, maybe an inch or two, round of face and figure, and dressed in black slacks and a long-sleeved black top with white knot buttons: on one side was a knot, on the other a fabric loop. She turned a key on the inside of the door and pushed it open slightly. She looked up at me with tight lips, waited for me to speak.

I started, stopped. I looked into a face that resembled Chan’s—a relative, I was sure—and felt the tears push at my eyes.

“I am Gwen,” I said.

“You were with my nephew,” she said. “The police—said the woman’s name was Gwen.”

I nodded. I had intended to say “yes,” but the word snagged in my throat.

The woman continued to study me. “Sifu’s wife is at home with their child. His mother is with them. My sons and I are making funeral arrangements and telephone calls. We will be receiving mourners at eight
PM
and again tomorrow evening.”

Heads turned toward me and then away. I had not expected a welcome, but I don’t think I was prepared for the hostility I saw in those faces.

“I wanted to say I was sorry—to someone,” I told her.

“For what?”

“For being alive,” I said.

She looked up at me with sadness that was fringed with compassion and maybe a few threads of caution that most cultures had for the intrusion of an outsider. I grabbed onto the compassion.

She was silent for a moment. “Please come back tonight.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to intrude, but I had to see where he taught . . .”

“That was very thoughtful.”

She waited expectantly. Either she was very perceptive, or I was disgustingly obvious. Possibly both.

“There is one thing, though,” I said. “Did the sifu have enemies, an individual or a group who would do this to him? That’s a terrible question to ask now, but he told me there were gang members in New York—I need to know which of us was the target.”

The woman’s expression changed, subtly. That little halo of compassion was swallowed entirely by sadness. “I don’t have an answer to that. My sons spoke with the police, told them what they know. Come tonight. You may ask them.”

“Tonight,” I said. “I’m not sure.”

Reluctant as I was to come back, I did need to know more. I looked in again. Presumably the time to ask was not now. The young men were all looking over, presumably to see if their mother was all right.

“I’ll be here,” I assured her. “Though I’m not sure it’s a great idea.”

Her face was like a strangely changing mask. There was a hint of a smile now. “You will not be unwelcome. That is not the way of kung fu.”

Okay, I
did
see
Kung Fu Panda
, in which—spoiler alert—the secret ingredient to something or other was “nothing,” and I did feel, just then, that I’d slipped into that cartoon. I remembered someone once saying that being with my family was like being in
Fiddler on the Roof.
Maybe we should all come tattooed with movie references, like bar codes, so people would know what to expect. Maybe the NPD could keep an eye out for the
Birth of a Nation
crowd.

The woman started to turn away.

“Is there something I should bring?” I blurted. “I mean, what is traditional?”

The smile broadened very slightly. “Bring what you carry.”

That didn’t help, but I smiled politely in response—directly at her, not at the turning heads in back. It wasn’t my intention to snub them but rather not to be discouraged by them. The looks had not made me feel welcome.

As I crossed the street I noticed that the officer had come to the corner to watch what was going on. She was busy texting. She didn’t seem too concerned . . . unless she was texting something about me.

I checked my cell phone messages as I walked back. There were calls from every member of the staff, all saying the same thing: we hope you’ve gone home by now. I texted them all that I was fine and I was walking around. I told them I was going to take it easy that night and that I would see them in the morning to hand out menus and deal with our takeout business. Thom still seemed to feel a little ghoulish about that. I cared, but not for my sake. I needed to work.

There was also a message from Grant, checking in and letting me know that the security cameras on my street had done nothing for them.

“The gunshots did not come from a passing vehicle or pedestrian,” he said. “I’m disappointed we didn’t get a lead, but not surprised. The angle was a little steep for that. We’re looking at one of the rooftops across the street.”

Terrific,
I thought. Someone was waiting for the morning crowd to thin so they could get a clear shot at Chan or me. Inside, where we couldn’t run.