The Hunted

  "He wouldn't. Excuse me a minute, my man,"

  Davis said. He moved off in the direction of the toilet, talking to people on the way.

  Rashad fooled around Norman's for seven and a half hours drinking Scotch, trying to get close to th e Marine: getting into it again with him--trying t o get the Marine to say if he was dealing with somebody or had something going on delivering goods that made him some money--learning one thin g interesting, that the Marine was going on a tri p tomorrow--but people kept coming up to the Marine or the Marine would see somebody and say excuse me a minute and be gone for a while.

  The place was like a club, everybody friendly and knowing one another. Rashad talked to a heavy blonde girl from the British Embassy wh o undid a couple of buttons on his shirt and move d her hand over his chest while they talked. Peopl e would leave, the place would nearly clear out; the n they'd come back and it would be crowded again.

  Norman took off his hardhat and showed him the nineteen stitches in the crown of his head wher e he'd been hit by the drunken Israeli whom he'd asked to leave and who had come back in with a piece of lumber from the construction site on th e corner. Norman had the piece of lumber over th e bar. He said the Israeli had sobered up but was stil l in Assuta Hospital. They talked about how com e Irish people drank and Jews didn't--except for th e guy in Assuta. Scotches kept appearing in front o f Rashad. Chris would say it's on Norman or it's o n Dave or somebody else. Rashad promised a man h e couldn't understand he'd visit him in Wales, in a town he couldn't pronounce. Rashad wasn't eve n sure where Wales was.

  The Marine introduced him to another Marine, a skinny dark-haired sergeant from the U. S. Consulate in Jerusalem, Raymond something, a Mexican name, and he watched them standing shoulder to shoulder at the bar, their Adam's apples going u p and down as they drank their pints of dark. Davi s would switch from whiskey to beer. Listening t o him and the Marine from Jerusalem it sounded lik e they were arguing, the way they talked to eac h other. The Marine from Jerusalem handed Davis a set of car keys. He said no, he hadn't brought hi s shotgun along. Was he supposed to? How was h e supposed to know Davis wanted it? Davis said because he'd told him. How was he supposed to shoot any birds without a shotgun? The Marin e from Jerusalem said bullshit he'd told him. He hadn't told him nothing about a shotgun. Norma n came along. He said, "All you want's a shotgun?

  What else you need? Shells?" Norman had a Krieghoff over-and-under Davis could use, a threethousand-dollar German beauty you barely had to aim. Norman motioned to Chris to set up a round , took his Campari and soda, and moved off again , adjusting his hardhat.

  Rashad got next to Davis again. "You say you going on a trip tomorrow?"

  "About ten days."

  "Where you going?"

  "I don't know. South, I guess."

  "What you need the shotgun for?"

  "Birds. Do some bird shooting."

  And maybe it was for something else he called "bird shooting." Maybe he needed a shotgun alon g for protection. Rashad said, "I wouldn't mind seeing the countryside down there. Whereabouts south?"

  But the Marine was bullshitting with the Mexican Marine again. Rashad hit his arm and said, "Hey, you want to go get something to eat?" Davi s said they were going to get some Chinese later on.

  Rashad lost twenty pounds (three dollars) in the slot machine. He lost a hundred pounds throwin g darts to one of the Canadian U. N. soldiers he'd me t in the Hilton bar the night before--the asshol e slapping him on the back and grinning as if the y were a couple of old, old friends.

  Rashad sat down in a booth. Young Israeli chicks with long hair would look over at him, th e way he was lounging against the wall with one le g up on the bench. The goddamn guy from Wales h e couldn't understand, speaking English as if it wer e a foreign language, came over with two drinks an d started talking to him again while Davis and th e Marine from Jerusalem kept yelling at each othe r and laughing.

  A skinny young guy--looked like a street hustler--c ame in. Israeli, or maybe Arab. Rashad wasn't sure which, but the skinny guy looked familiar. Bi g high-heeled funny-shoes and a cheap fake-leathe r jacket. He went over to Davis--everybody wen t over to him at one time or another--and had a Coca-Cola while he told Davis something, a lon g story, Davis listening and finally nodding and saying something. One minute laughing, clowning around with the Marine from Jerusalem. The nex t minute quiet, serious, not showing any of the Ji m Beam in him while he listened to the skinny Arablooking kid. Rashad couldn't remember where he had seen him before. It didn't matter. The skinn y kid left and Davis went on drinking.

  Rashad closed his eyes. He'd rest a few minutes.

  When he opened them Norman was saying to him, "You gonna spend the night here, are you?"

  "Where's that Marine?"

  "Dave? I don't know. He left."

  The place was empty except for Chris and Lillian, and the Welshman hanging on the bar.

  Leaving the place, Rashad tried to think of what had been going on just before he'd fallen asleep.

  The Marine talking to the skinny kid. Yeah. It was cool outside, the street deserted. No taxis, shit, no t even any cars. About six blocks to the hotel. He could see the skinny kid--bony face, long haird rinking his Coca-Cola in the bar. He could see hi m inside another place then. Yeah, waiting for luggage. The skinny kid and the Israeli girl with th e nice ass, meeting the man at the airport. The sam e girl talking to the Marine in the lobby.

  The Marine was gone, but he was still mixed up in it, wasn't he?

  ROSEN DECIDED there was one employee at the King David who did nothing but watch for him. The gu y would say, "Quick, here he comes," and they'd ge t the basket of fruit up to 732 with the note from Mr.

  Fink, the manager. "With compliments and sincere good wishes for an enjoyable visit." Rosen ha d been living in the King David for three years. He'd go to Tel Aviv or Haifa for a couple of days, com e back, and find Mr. Fink's note in the fruit.

  Usually Rosen ate the banana, apples, and oranges within a couple of days. This time the fruit remained beneath its cellophane wrapper whil e Rosen paced the floor of his suite and stared out th e window. It was a nice view: the lawn and gardens , the cyprus trees around the swimming pool, and , beyond the hotel property, the walls of the Old Cit y at the Jaffa Gate. Directly beneath his window , seven stories down, was the terrace where Pau l Newman and Eva Marie Saint had sipped martini s in Exodus.

  He felt protected within the familiar rooms of his hotel suite. The King David was home; they'd guard his privacy at the desk and the switchboard.

  But outside, on the road from Netanya to Jerusalem, setting a new personal elapsed-tim e record of fifty-five minutes, he'd felt vulnerable.

  The country was too small to hide in for any length of time. He'd have to leave soon, fly to Athens o r Paris. But to leave he needed his passport, and t o get it he had to find Edie Broder. He pictured her lying in bed looking at him. Yes, at least ten years younger in the dim light. Mature, a grown-up lady , but no excess flesh or fat. Nice tits. He pictured he r back home in Columbus, his passport in the pocke t of his safari jacket hanging in her closet.

  Come on, he had to think.

  All right, first try to locate Edie. Check.

  Then fly out. Leave the car at Ben Gurion . . .

  No, they'd be watching the airport. The colored guy in the kaffiyeh would have help by now. Or h e might have been replaced. Rosen couldn't get ove r it: their sending a colored guy to do the job, as i f they'd thought it was going to be easy--with onl y about a hundred and ten colored guys in the whol e country--not somebody who'd blend in with th e crowd. Christ, they could've gotten a real Arab fo r twenty bucks.

  Instead of Ben Gurion, drive down to Eilat and get an SAS flight to Copenhagen.

  No, first call Tali and get the money. Tomorrow was the twenty-sixth. Convert it to pounds on th e black market at ten and a half or eleven to one. . . .

  Then what? Put it in the bank? What if he didn't come back to Israel? But
how was he going t o take it with him? Get a hundred thousand U. S. dollars through the security checks--plus the fiftysomething grand he had in a Bank Leumi safe-deposit box? There was too much to thin k about. Too many loose ends. All right, but arrang e to get the money tomorrow or the next day. Cal l Tali and work something out. Thinking of Tali, h e thought of Mel Bandy.

  Mel was supposed to be here, when? Today.

  Something else to think about. He was coming--t hey'd said on the phone--to review the busines s and discuss future plans, which had sounded a littl e funny to Rosen. They didn't need his approval o n anything. Why, after three years out of the business , would they give a shit what he thought about future plans? His business partners seldom contacted him. They sent the money and a Christmas card.

  Why, all of a sudden, were they sending a lawyer? It hadn't bothered him before, but now it did.

  The lawyer arrives the same time a payment is due.

  The lawyer arrives the same time somebody is trying to kill me.

  Was there a connection?

  He was getting off on something else now. He didn't need to imagine problems, he had enoug h real ones. First, find Edie Broder.

  He phoned the Four Seasons in Netanya. There were no messages. He called the Goldar Hotel. Th e Columbus, Ohio, group had checked out, gon e home. The ones at the Pal in Tel Aviv had als o checked out. How about Mr. Fine, the tour leade r with lawsuits in his eyes? Mr. Fine was at th e Samuel. No, he wasn't, the Hotel Samuel said, Mr.

  Fine had checked out. Voices at the U. S. Embass y knew nothing about a Mr. Fine or the Columbu s group.

  What Rosen finally did--which would have saved him hours hunched over the phone staring a t the wall if he'd thought of it earlier--he calle d Columbus, Ohio, directory assistance. They didn't have an Edie or an Edith Broder. The closest the y could come was E. Broder. Rosen got a teen-age d Broder girl out of bed at four in the morning, eleve n o'clock Jerusalem time, and asked for her mother.

  The sleepy, irritated voice said her mother was in Israel. "Ahhhh," Rosen said. "Where in Israel?"

  On a tour. "Where on a tour?" With some group.

  "But the group went home." No, her mother had called; she was with another group. "What othe r group?" The girl couldn't remember. "Think!"

  Well, it sounded like egghead. "Egged Tours,"

  Rosen said. "Where? Where did she call you from and when?" Tuesday night, from Tel Aviv. "You'r e a sweet girl," Rosen told her. "I'm going to sen d you a present." Big deal, the sweet girl said.

  Rosen called Egged Tours in Tel Aviv. Yes, a Ms.

  Edie Broder had joined one of their tours, "Hadassah Holiday," and was staying at the Dan Hotel.

  Closing in, Rosen called the Dan. The Hadassah group, just a minute . . . had gone to Hadera, to th e kibbutz Shemu'el, for the day; returning this evening. Eight hours later: the Hadassah group was back, but Ms. Broder was not in her room. Wa s there a message? Rosen hesitated, then said yes, as k her to please call Mr. Rosen at the King David , Jerusalem.

  He felt better. He felt good enough, in fact, to shower and dress and leave the room for the firs t time in two days.

  Silva, the barman, placed a cocktail napkin in front of him and said, "Mr. Rosen, sir. We haven't been seeing you lately." He poured Scotch over ice , adding a splash of water and a twist. Then put ou t dishes of nuts and ripe olives.

  "Netanya doesn't have it," Rosen said. "There's only one city in Israel."

  "Of course, sir." Silva was Portuguese, born in Hong Kong, and spoke with a British-Israeli accent. To Rosen, Silva was the King David. Silva, th e oriental carpets, the bellboy who actually rang a bell as he paged and carried the guest's name on a square of blackboard.

  Rosen eyed a tourist lady having her lonely cocktail and was tempted. Not bad, though a little too elaborate, with a fixed blonde hairdo you could no t muss up, though you might chip it with a hammer.

  More the Hilton type, lost here in the quiet of the King David's lounge. No, he had enough going o n and phone calls to make. Three sundowners an d quiet conversation with Silva would do this evening. He dined alone, three tables from the blonde tourist lady, went up to his suite, left it semi-dark , and phoned Tali's apartment.

  There was no answer.

  He'd been afraid of that. Assuming she had picked Mel up at the airport--this had bee n arranged more than a week before--she might stil l be with him, knowing Mel. He'd either be dictatin g letters, eating, or trying to get into her pants. Rose n wasn't worried about Tali. She was a stand-up littl e girl. If Mel got obnoxious she'd belt him or else politely walk out. What did worry Rosen was the unknown, what might be going on out there in the near world. Tali was alert, she sensed things, and h e wanted to talk to her before he talked to Mel.

  Well, he would or he wouldn't. Rosen called the Pal Hotel, asked for Mr. Bandy, and Tali's voic e said, "Ken?"

  "Be cool," Rosen said. "Don't say my name yet.

  I'm your boyfriend calling or your mother, okay?"

  "Where are you?" Her voice low.

  "Home. Are you with Mel? Mr. Bandy?"

  "He's in the bathroom." Her voice rushed at him then. "There were two men here to see him. The y threatened him. I didn't know who they were, th e way they were talking, saying things about you , asking questions--"

  "It's okay," Rosen said quietly. "Take it easy, okay? What were their names?"

  "I don't know. Mr. Bandy said . . . first he was afraid, when they were here and threatened him.

  Then he wasn't afraid anymore, when they were gone. He was like a different person. He said . . . a terrible thing."

  "What did he say?"

  "He said they wanted to kill you." Her voice dropped. "He's coming out."

  Rosen could hear the toilet flushing. "Did the money come?"

  "Yes, but it was more this time."

  He could barely hear her. "What? How much more?"

  "Two--"

  "Listen, okay, tell him it's me. Tali? Don't worry." He heard her saying, away from the phone , "It's Mr. Rosen."

  Rosen sat back in his chair in the semi-dark room, the Jaffa Gate illuminated outside beyon d the garden. He looked at his watch. Ten-fifteen. He lit a cigarette and felt ready, a leg up on Mel, read y for Mel's openers. He began to think, If you neve r liked him much, why did you hire him? . . .

  "Rosie, Jesus Christ, man, I been worried sick. I t hought you were gonna call this afternoon."

  "I didn't know I was supposed to," Rosen said.

  "They told you. My flight was due in at one thirty-five. I've been sitting here, Jesus, worrie d sick."

  "How was the flight, Mel? You're feeling a little jet lag, I suppose."

  "Rosie--"

  "Mel, just a minute. Ross . . . Rosen . . . even Al. But no Rosie, okay?"

  "Sorry. Christ, you're worried about that--Gene Valenzuela was here."

  "Yeah, go on," Rosen said.

  "I mean right here in this room. He's looking for you."

  "Mel, a guy tries to run over me with a car and takes five shots at me. You think it's some guy of f the street?"

  "I mean he walked right in here, he says, 'Where's Ross?' He's not keeping it any secret."

  "If I already know the guy's after me--" Rosen said. No, forget it. "Mel, tell me what he said."

  "He asked me, he wants to know where you are.

  I told him I had no idea. I said I was here to see you on business, but now I wasn't sure if you'd contac t me or not."

  "What business?"

  "I tried to explain that the reason I was here had nothing to do with what was going on."

  "What business, Mel? You said you wanted to see me on business."

  "It's not something we can handle over the phone, I mean in any detail," Mel said. "I want t o see you--as I told them, it's the reason I'm here--b ut under the circumstances I think we're gonn a have to wait. They'll be watching me like a fuckin g hawk, every move I make."

  "Tomorrow's payday," Rosen said. "I was wondering
if it had arrived."

  "Yes, the guy brought it, the Marine."

  "Did you look, it's all there?"

  "Everything's in order." Mel paused. "As a matter of fact there's more this time. Considerably more."

  "Why?" Rosen said.

  "Jesus Christ, I never heard anybody questioning money coming in."

  "Mel, why'm I getting more?"

  "I want to sit down and talk to you, Rosie, as I m entioned. But we can't do it over the phone. Righ t now, the thing to decide is how to get the money t o you."

  "Why don't you bring it?" Rosen said. "Then we can talk."

  "That's exactly what I can't do at the present time," Mel said. "They're on my ass. I go down t o the lobby, Valenzeula's sitting there reading th e paper."

  "What do you want to do, send Tali?"

  "Rosie, where are you? You in Tel Aviv?"

  "I don't want Tali to deliver it," Rosen said.

  "You understand? She's not in this."

  "Christ, I'm not either," Mel said. "I'm trying to help you on something that doesn't concern me a t all, but it's entirely up to you. You tell me wher e you are or where you're gonna be and I'll get th e money to you, somehow, without sending Tali."

  "I'll call you back," Rosen said.

  "Wait a minute--when?"

  "Sometime tomorrow." Rosen hung up.

  He lit another cigarette and sat in the evening quiet by the window that faced the Old City. He could still picture in detail the hall in the Detroi t Federal Building, could still see Gene Valenzuel a and Harry Manza coming along with their attorneys. Valenzuela with his heavy, no-shit look, from the time he had been with the Teamsters and th e time he was Harry Manza's construction supervisor: showing the T-shirt beneath the open collar, hair skinned close like a cap over the hard muscle i n his head that narrowed his thinking. No style, n o imagination. He remembered the time the Teamsters had walked out and the independent hauler had been trying to talk to Valenzuela, explai n things, and Valenzuela listening before beating th e shit out of the guy and burning his rig. That wa s business, his job. The situation now was personal.