Dancing Bear

  I couldn't get her out of my mind, and I was still convinced I would see her again - but by then she might be over the edge. Meanwhile, I needed a home base, and New York was just the place for it.

  The restaurant reopened for business that evening as if nothing had happened. Rikki, Nissim's sister, took me by surprise when she asked politely and without much interest what my plans were. I told her I was going to stay in New York.

  "Why?" she asked.

  We'd never exchanged more than a few words in passing, but I bared my heart to her, telling her everything that wasn't a state secret.

  "Wait a week," she advised.

  "Why?"

  "Because, right now, you don't know what you're talking about. In another week you'll know better and then you can make up your mind."

  Late that night, I crawled onto the mattress in the storeroom and fell asleep as soon as I landed. Lights glowed through the curtain of darkness and I saw Kate again. She was sitting in a white tunnel clutching the hand of a man seated around a bend, who seemed to comfort and protect her. With her other hand, she was trying to hide the bloodstains on her blouse. I crawled over to the man and he raised his eyes to me. I was glad to see my father after all these years. "So you're here," I said, not wanting to make him angry, but he just gave me a sad smile and lowered his eyes again. I awoke covered in sweat.

  Rikki might be right, and she might not. Whatever I decided, I had no intention of giving up on Kate. She haunted me constantly. The butterfly barrette and scent of lilies were always with me.

  The first chance I got I asked Miller about Rammy's Trucking Co. and he was happy to oblige.

  "The place to have it out with him is at the Israeli night at Hunter College on Saturday. He won't be able to refuse you there. You'll see." He winked and went back to watching the other diners.

  *

  On Saturday Miller showed up eagerly, waving tickets to the Israeli show. He looked particularly impressive in a dark three-piece suit. If he hadn't insisted on adding a Scottish tam, he might have been mistaken for a Wall Street mogul or a partner in some prestigious law firm. The people around us were excited about the event, waiting for it like preparing for a religious service.

  Linda, a waitress on occasions, had joined our little group. She was a great fan of leather. Dressed in her best leather pants, she had obviously taken a lot of trouble with her make-up. She looked fantastic, and apparently had high hopes for that night. Nissim and his sister Rikki seemed pretty much as usual - still unwilling to show any feelings or excitement - but I knew they only closed the restaurant at seven on one night a year.

  We waited twenty minutes for the cab, but it didn't show.

  "We'll take the subway," Miller pronounced. "Otherwise we'll be late."

  The show itself wouldn't start for a couple of hours yet, but we all knew Miller didn't want to miss the chance to see and be seen. Reluctantly, we descended the stairs to the subway. The 4th St. station stank like a public toilet, and to me it looked like the gate to hell. The train appeared two minutes later and we all clambered in. It was empty, except for some unidentifiable creature in a filthy sheepskin jacket, dark glasses, and shoddy boots. Every now and then he laughed out loud, stared at Linda and Rikki who were talking loudly, and then laughed again, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. It was just the girls and me there; Nissim, Avihu, and Miller had gone into the next car. The girls chattered excitedly about nothing as I felt myself becoming more and more uneasy. Suddenly, the stranger rose from his seat and pulled something from his coat.

  I reached instinctively for the gun I used to carry. Obviously it wasn't there, there was nothing there. What now? Shooting? Knifing? Grenade or a charge? Where was the nearest cover, and what should I do about the girls? Through my mind flashed photographs that were once taken by someone of the Forensic Department, with a strong stomach: the remains of a terrorist who had detonated a belt of explosives strapped to his waist. As soon as he buckled it on, there was no way in the world to get it off without it going off and blowing up everyone around.

  But the creature in the car with us didn't draw a gun or set off a bomb. He was holding an expensive, brand-new camera with an ominous looking long-range zoom lens. He started dancing around the girls, aiming the camera, giggling, and shooting them from every possible angle. They fell silent, watching him with growing discomfort, while he kept on taking pictures faster and faster, groaning, breathing heavily, and now and then exploding in giggling. Then, with the same lack of warning with which he had started, he suddenly stopped. Calmly, he replaced the camera in his pocket and returned to his seat with utter serenity.

  The train finally pulled into 68th St. and we got off, feeling humiliated and frustrated.

  "I could throw up!" Linda said. "Really throw up!"

  Rikki laid a gentle hand on Linda's shoulder. Outraged tears welled up in her eyes. I couldn't blame them.

  But as soon as we got to Hunter College, the whole incident became a thing of the past. The show was scheduled to start in twenty minutes, and meanwhile, like everyone else, we made the rounds of the lobby.

  Miller was playing the role of host. He greeted some of the people there, calling them by their first names. He seemed to know a lot of the staff of the New York consulate, as well as other groups of spectators waiting in the lobby. There was the old gang from Naomi's Falafel in Queens, mostly truck drivers and the guys who worked for furniture movers. A lot of people greeted us as the gang from Motti Pizza, famous because of the international businessmen who gathered there and the Israeli performers who hung out at the restaurant. An entire Yemenite community from Brooklyn who called themselves Brotherhood and Truth was also in the lobby, whole families, from grandparents to infants.

  "The older ones came to Israel in the '50s," Miller explained, having volunteered to serve as my guide. "Years later, they followed their children here to New York." They looked totally lost in Manhattan, although I heard they had built themselves a " Yemen town " in Brooklyn. Tonight, like everyone else, they had come to Hunter College for their annual dose of nostalgia.

  A large group from Brighton Beach pushed their way in. "The Russians don't usually show up for Israeli events," Miller explained, "but this year the Israeli Consulate made a special effort to invite them. They're still trying to persuade them to go back to Israel." Part of the program arranged by the consulate included the "Russian Nightingale," a tiny woman in her fifties who had once been a famous protest singer in Russia. It was a brilliant move. A few hundred Russian immigrants had shown up at Hunter to hear their nightingale. The men looked awkward and stiff, the women stout and heavily made-up. They gave off a strong scent of perfume as they chatted softly in Russian and peered around them curiously. It was rare that I saw them smile. They seldom left their enclaves on Brighton St. and didn't usually get to meet Israelis like the ones guarding the hall. Miller was happy to see everyone. He seemed to know most of the truck drivers from Naomi's Falafel, some of the older and more distinguished members of the Yemenite Brotherhood and Truth group, and even a few of the Russians. After making the rounds and greeting them all, he started a whispered conversation with the consulate staff. Cornering three passing gentlemen, he gestured for me to join them. I walked over, embarrassed.

  "I'd like you to meet Rammy Rachamim from Rammy's Trucking Co. Rammy, this is David, a good friend of mine. David’s in security and the restaurant business." He waved to another group of people and bent to kiss a short plump woman walking by.

  "Shalom," I said, holding out my hand. Rammy was a solid, burly character. His thick eyebrows, which almost met in the middle, shaded small, suspicious eyes. With him were a brawny assistant and a heavily made-up girl in a tight dress that looked about to burst at the seams who was noisily and enthusiastically chewing gum. The three of them stared at me curiously. Rammy shook my hand doubtfully. I told him I worked with Nissim at Motti Pizza and that seemed to mollify him. A small smile broke through his wall of suspi
cion.

  "How's Rikki?" he asked. "I heard you had some trouble last week."

  "Nissim's here. You can ask him," I said. "There's something you may be able to help me with." He became alert. We made our way to a corner of the lobby. His assistant and the girl followed us, stopping a few feet away.

  "I heard you did a cleanup job at the Windsor ten days ago."

  "I do four hundred jobs a month. I don't know which one you're talking about."

  "I'm talking about a clean-up job, you know, a special order, not approved, at the Windsor on 69th and Second."

  His eyes gleamed in rage. "Get away from me," he said, turning his back. "I don't know who you are or what you want. Don't know you from Adam." He joined his companions and started moving toward the bar.

  I was about to explode, but that moment a hand fell on my shoulder, holding me in check. I was surprised to see Nadav there. "Need some help?" he asked.

  "I've got to find out something from him," I snarled through my teeth. He walked me over to Rammy again.

  "Rachamim!"Nadav called. Rammy turned around, saw us together, and started turning his broad back to us again.

  "Rachamim!"Nadav repeated. "I wouldn't if I were you." He was more than a head shorter than Rammy, but he radiated enviable authority and confidence. Rammy seemed very much in awe of him.

  "I don't know who he is and I don't owe him anything. What's he to you?"

  The crowds around us were still chatting gaily. Nobody seemed to notice the little incident. "I do five, six hundred jobs a week," he went on. "And I don't want to hear about an uninvited cleanup job, and I certainly wouldn't talk about it. Never in my life - in my life - would I give out the name of a client. I got my principles."

  "Where did you take the stuff to?" I said. "That's all I need to know."

  "Tell him," Nadav instructed with a chillingly calm.

  Rammy kept his silence.

  "Tell him." This time it was clearly an order.

  "Try Pier 64, Enterprise Bonding," Rammy spat out angrily as he took his leave. The girl at his side turned her girdled butt to me. As they moved away, she turned around, winked, and threw me a kiss.

  *

  The show started only a half hour later, with oriental songs sung by a popular middle-aged crooner. A large section of the audience sang along with him, clapping and wiping tears from their eyes. I knew most of the songs from my army days. The soldiers liked to sing them in the long hours of the night. The Consul General said a few words, speaking of home, brotherhood, and "next year in Jerusalem." The applause was deafening. Then a famous Israeli comic appeared. A large white-haired man, he was dressed in jeans and an Indian shirt, barefoot, and very confident. He started with a few warm-up jokes about his visits to the live sex shows on 42nd St. The audience chuckled politely. Then he went on to anecdotes about the taxi drivers in Jerusalem twenty years ago, earning the jeers of the Naomi's Falafel crowd. Obviously starting to feel somewhat uneasy, he brought out his best routine.

  "Okay, guys," he said to the audience, "don't feel guilty about leaving Israel."

  The two-thousand seat hall sank into the heavy silence of a mortuary.

  Now that he had their full attention, he went on confidently. "I hope you don't take that business of `next year in Jerusalem' seriously. I need you here. That crazy place, Israel, isn't very safe, you know. We need a foothold in the US.I want to make sure I'll have someplace to come when Israel is finished." He smiled sweetly.

  Shouts came from the audience. From his seat on the stage, the consul stared straight ahead, his face frozen.

  "Maniac!" someone screamed.

  "Shut your mouth!"

  Two men leapt onto the stage, grabbed the comic, and dragged him offstage. A riot nearly broke out. Suddenly, I felt Avihu next to me.

  "Let's get out of here!" he said, speaking to all of us. "I can't stomach this heartrending outburst of patriotism."

  Within seconds we were standing outside.

  We hailed a cab, and the six of us crammed into it.

  "Where to?"

  There was a long pause during which no one answered. Amazingly, it was Rikki who broke the silence."The Tunnel."

  The Tunnel, a huge club on W. 42nd St., was too dark and noisy and crowded. Eventually, this new, anonymous company had a calming effect on us all. Linda felt she had missed the chance of a lifetime to meet her Israeli millionaire. She was the first to disappear into the crowd. Miller and Avihu followed. I was glad to find an empty seat in a dark corner. After a few beers, the already dim lights seemed to fade and the music to become more muted. I declined a few kind offers of a companion for what was left of the night. I think it was Nissim who carted me back to Motti Pizza just before dawn.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The next day, I asked Nissim for the night off.

  Nadav, concluding an enormous dinner with a cup of coffee, heard us talking and invited me to walk out with him. He stretched out in the long white limousine he had rented for some mysterious appointment and asked, "Where are you going?"

  "The port."

  "Hop in!"

  Who could know who he was working for this time, but the idea of a subway ride at this hour wasn't very appealing. I decided to let him impress me. I climbed in. Nadav didn't wait for my polite chitchat. He was on his way, so he told me, to a fund-raiser for Magen David Adom, the Israeli Red Cross, in a Riverdale mansion north of Manhattan.

  "At this sort of function you have to wow them with tales of heroism," he explained. "Then you gently pound into them. They want to be proud of you. Then come some suitably larger-than-life sob stories, and finally, you make it up to them, make them feel good about themselves, but not too much. That's the tried and tested recipe for opening wallets and checkbooks. Try it. It almost always works."

  "How much do you get for it?"

  "I get a little something from Magen, David - twenty-five percent. But you gotta understand, it's really important for the country, so I'm willing to volunteer my services."

  "That's quite a tidy sum..."

  "What do you expect? Getting Americans, especially the wealthy ones, to open their checkbooks is not an easy matter. Once they sent me to put the touch on the biggest button manufacturer on the east coast, a guy with a nine figure bank account - nine figures! The schmuck invited me to lunch, bought me a slice of pizza, and wanted me to give him seventy-five cents to get a can of coke out of a machine! Would you believe it? But when I was through, he wrote a check for fifty thousand dollars to the Friends Association of the University. If he knew I was getting forty percent, his eyeballs would’ve popped."

  The limousine pulled up behind the Port Authority bus terminal and the driver let me out. Nadav settled comfortably in the back seat and poured himself a glass of something.

  It was nearly dark, and the loony drifters, the homeless, and the other unfortunates of New York were starting to settle themselves in for the approaching night. The closer I got to the river, the emptier the streets became. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets and went on walking rapidly, skipping over the holes in the broken sidewalks. Traffic was heavy on the Westside Highway. The office workers, finally through for the day, were rushing to get out of Manhattan, heading north to the Bronx and New Jersey, while the trucks trundled southward. Traffic moved slowly in both directions, accompanied by the blaring of horns and the clanking noise made by the steel plates covering the road works every time a car rolled over them.

  I hurried under the overpass, keeping my eyes peeled in every direction. The homeless on the corners clustered in their improvised shelters. I crossed an endless lot, climbing over the ruins of a building that had been torn down to make way for a new skyscraper. The warehouses of Enterprise Bonding stood just beyond the lot.

  It was by the time I reached the guard's enclosure. The gates were locked and there was no one on duty.

  "Hey," I called, "anyone here?" My voice sounded odd and out of place against the background of the night noises.


  A large, potbellied man appeared from behind the enclosure and walked toward me.

  I didn't like the fact that he was taller than me and had broader shoulders, nor did I find the baseball bat in his hand particularly inviting.

  "Sure is," he said. "What do you want?"

  "I just want to see something."

  "Ah..." I couldn't tell if it was a sign of amusement or threat. "And who says I'm gonna let you see something'?"

  I was ready for that. "George," I said, taking a ten dollar bill from my pocket. "George Hamilton said it was a pretty good bet and another Hamilton after I get to see what I want."

  He seemed to hesitate. I knew that on a security guard's salary at a place like this, even two ten dollar bills were worthy of careful consideration.

  "Hamilton," he repeated. "What is it you wanna see?"

  "The contents of the apartment of someone named Kate Beaver," I answered.