Laura Lippman - Baltimore Noir

Only a slight narrowing of her eyes gave away the hurt she still felt. She’d forgiven me a long time ago for shaming her, but wouldn’t forget. I still had to work on forgiving myself before I could truly let go.

The task was made easier with the day-to-day work. Some customers gave me an extra look, scouting my face for some recognition of familiar features, but most people weren’t nearly as blatant because they were too preoccupied with making sure they had the right item to buy. I followed Sam’s advice and was courteous to each and every person who walked in, from the prominent members of the Jewish community who liked to act the part to the giggly teens who “accidentally” broke things, to frazzled mothers of crying groups of children. It was an education.

A couple of months in, I was working alone on a Thursday morning. Sam couldn’t show up till later in the afternoon because his granddaughter was starring in her school play. He was so proud of her that even as he feigned reluctance over giving me full responsibility for the store, I knew he had confidence in me. I knew what I could and couldn’t handle or touch, what advice to give, and when to keep my mouth shut.

A wiry, bearded middle-aged man wearing a black hat with an upturned brim strode in with a purposeful gait. The purpose being me.

“You’re Danny Colangelo,” he stated in a surprisingly deep voice. Surprising because I’d expected a higher-pitched tone to match his skinny frame.

I never heard my name during working hours. Right from the start, Sam insisted I use a different moniker because “it’s easier for you, and easier for the customers.” I didn’t argue, so if anyone needed to know my name, I was David. I flinched at hearing my true name spoken.

It must have shown, because the man added, “Look, Sam Levin said you’d be alone at the store and it’d be the best time to speak to you. So don’t worry about it.”

Whenever anyone, except my mother, said, “Don’t worry about it,” my guard went up even more.

“Who are you?”

“My name later, my problem first, if you don’t mind.”

I folded my arms. “Actually, I do mind. I’d prefer it to be the other way around, uh-”

“Oh, all right then,” he said in an exasperated tone. “Chaim Brenner.”

I cut him off before he continued introducing himself. “I know who you are.”

His eyes widened. “Sam’s already told you about me?”

“Sam hasn’t told me a damn thing. If he was supposed to, then he’s probably acting like the cagey bastard we both know, but I doubt it. Anyway, even a goy like me knows you run Ner Israel.”

The principal of Baltimore’s prestigious school for young rabbis and scholars-in-training laughed. From the sound of it, he didn’t do so very often.

“All right, I think that’s enough male posturing from the both of us. I’m not really very good at it.” He chuckled softly a more genuine sound. “Probably why I chose my path and you chose yours.”

I wondered if he’d ever get to the point. “How can I help you, rabbi?” I emphasised his title.

He apologized, then began his story. “My daughter Beryl is to be married next month. She’s the second youngest in the family, and a lovely girl. Beautiful, really. If you saw her you’d understand what I’ve had to deal with.”

“Fighting off the boys with a stick?” I said only halfironically. Some of the yeshiva boys who showed up in the store talked about the same things any guy would. Namely, women. And not necessarily in the nicest of terms.

“You might say that,” said Rabbi Brenner tightly. “I should be happy she’ll be settled down soon.”

“But you aren’t.”

“Correct.” The door swung open and a young, heavily pregnant mother wheeled in a stroller containing two crying toddlers. The rabbi briefly stepped away from the register to say hello to her. She responded, looking at the rabbi with undisguised awe. Her stay was brief: She wanted candlesticks, I found them for her, and five minutes later, having paid a small fortune, she left.

The rabbi resumed his story. “On paper, my future son-in-law is very desirable. A decent young man, attends a yeshiva in Cleveland, went to Israel last year, and comes from a good family with yichus… ” That word I didn’t know. He hesitated briefly before translating it as, “Breeding, good lineage. It’s hard to express in English, but this boy, he is perfectly acceptable. On paper. And he’s always been a gentleman with Beryl, and extremely respectful of me and my wife.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“In the last two or three weeks, I’ve heard… rumors. Usually I wouldn’t dare take unsubstantiated gossip, loshen hara, into account, but too many stories are repeating themselves from different sources. I’ve tried to warn Beryl but she won’t listen to a word I say. The girl believes that because she’s getting married, she won’t have to answer to me anymore!”

I can’t say I blamed the girl’s reasoning, but I said nothing and let the rabbi continue.

“Anyway, this boy, Moshe, everywhere he goes, trouble seems to follow. In Israel, the rabbi at the yeshiva he attended in Be’er Sheva couldn’t prove anything wrong, but any time a boy was beat up-and there were four incidents like this-he’d clam up as soon as Moshe reappeared. I called up the principal of the school in Cleveland, and after some serious questioning I received even more stories along the same lines, but even worse.” Rabbi Brenner trailed off, his face twisting in sudden pain.

He dropped his voice to a whisper even though no one else was in the store. “One boy had to go to the hospital, the beating was so bad. They hushed it up and made it clear Moshe would not be welcome to return once he’d finished the year. This happened three months before my daughter met him, and now it’s too late. She insists on marrying him and refuses to listen because all I have are bubbe-meises, ‘fairy tales,’ as she says.

“There’s no other way to put it: Moshe is a blot that must be rid of.”

I tried to process what the rabbi was saying, and it didn’t make any sense. Or at least, I didn’t want it to make sense in the way I thought he meant.

“Look, rabbi, you’re going to have to be a whole lot more specific. Because if you’re asking me to do what I think you are, then you’ve asked the wrong person.”

“Sam said I could count on you!”

“And I’m very glad my employer trusts me. But killing someone’s going way too far.”

The whisper was gone now. “That’s not what I meant!” Rabbi Brenner blushed. “My God, how could you think that of me? That I’d hire a… hit man, or whatever it’s called. Never mind that to do so would be illegal and immoral, but it’s a sin.”

“Not like it hasn’t happened before,” I pointed out. “Look at the guy in New Jersey.”

“He was not a real man or a good Jew. No, this is what I want: Follow Moshe around. Find out what he does. Find out if the rumors are true and do so before he marries my daughter.”

What Rabbi Brenner proposed shocked me more than if he’d asked me to kill his future son-in-law. “You want me to play private investigator?”

He smiled. “If that’s how you want to think of the task, then yes, I do. You already know how to blend in, else how would you have worked here so long?”

“Good point,” I acknowledged. Blending in was a talent I’d developed when I was little. I’d never looked stereotypically Italian, thanks to a smattering of Irish inherited from my maternal grandmother and some stray Scots ancestry on my father’s side. Instead, I grew up to look like a taller, stockier absentminded professor. Granted, one who could alter his perceived appearance depending on whether the situation was benign, neutral, or dangerous. I’d harnessed the ability even more when I’d taken up space in certain city corners to deal, and it was even more of an asset in prison.