Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

I could hear cars rumble by on Broadway; but for that, the night was still.

Milo inspected the wallet. “There’s twenty bucks in here. You know different?”

Silence.

Then: “No.”

“Twenty whole dollars,” said Milo. “Preparing for a big night on the town, smart guy?”

“He’s Hitler,” said the man. “That pig. He lies, he’s Hitler-”

Milo ignored him and read his driver’s license. “Elliot Simons… what’s this, here… Cedars-Sinai ID card- RN… you’re a nurse?”

“Surgical nurse,” said Elliot Simons.

“Great for you,” said Milo. “You’re a little out of your element, Mr. Simons.”

“He’s Hitler, he lies, claims to be-”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Milo.

“Stop cutting me off, let me finish,” said Simons. “He claims to be-”

“He’s a fraud,” Milo cut in. “Wrote a book, claiming to be a Palestinian refugee from Jerusalem, but he was born in Italy, is half-English, half-Syrian. There was an exposé on it in one of the Jewish magazines.”

I stared at my friend. So did Elliot Simons.

He kept quiet as Milo thumbed through his credit cards. Then: “You’ve been watching him? Who sent you?”

“Who do you think?” said Milo.

“The government? They finally got smart and put him under surveillance? About time, the man’s a traitor, September 11 happens, and the government still can’t get it right. How many outrages does it take to get you people on the ball?”

“You see Issa Qumdis as a terrorist.”

“You heard him.”

Simons had a workingman’s face, an ordinary face. Except for his eyes. They blazed with something well beyond anger.

He rattled his cuffs. “Let me out of these.”

“How long have you been stalking him?” said Milo.

“I haven’t stalked anyone,” said Simons. “I read the papers, found out he was spreading his lies, and decided to do something about it. I’m not apologizing for anything, you want to arrest me, go ahead. I’ll tell the whole story.”

“Which is?”

“The guy’s Hitler with a fancy Ivy League degree.” Simons’s eyes heated further. “My parents were in Auschwitz. I’m not going to stand by and let some fucking Nazi spread big lies.”

Milo pointed to the red splotch across the front of the pea coat. “That really pig’s blood?”

Simons grinned.

“Where’d you get it?” said Milo.

“East L.A.,” said Simons. “One of the slaughterhouses. I took some heparin from work and mixed it in. It’s an anticoagulant, I wanted to make sure it was nice and wet.”

“Fancy work. Being a surgical nurse and all.”

“I’m the best,” said Simons. “Could’ve been a doctor but couldn’t afford to go to med school. My dad was always sick, couldn’t work, because of what they did to him in the camp. I’m not whining, I do fine. Put four kids through Ivy League colleges. I’m the best. You don’t believe me, check me out, the doctors love me. They ask for me because I’m the best.”

“You know Dr. Richard Silverman?”

Simons nodded hard and fast. “I know him, he knows me. Magician with a knife- how do you know him?”

“I know of him,” said Milo.

“Yeah, well,” said Simons. “You call and ask Dr. Silverman about Elliot Simons. He knows I’m no nut; when it comes to getting the job done I’m totally focused.”

“Tonight you were focused on ruining Issa Qumdis’s clothes.”

“If only I had a real gun-”

“Don’t say more, sir,” said Milo. “For your sake, I don’t want to hear any threats.”

” ‘Sir’,” said Simons. “All of a sudden you’re turning official?” Another shake of his cuffs. “So what now?”

“Where’d your kids go to school?”

“Three at Columbia, one at Yale. Fuck them,” said Simons, spraying spittle. “Not my kids. Them, the Nazis and those commies back there who believe all that shit. Fifty years ago they wanted to exterminate us, we survived and thrived and said, ‘Fuck you, we’re smarter than you.’ So fuck them. You want to arrest me for standing up for my people, fine. I’ll get a lawyer, I’ll file suit against the Nazi bastard who kicked me back there and his douche bag Nazi bitch. Then I’ll sue that Arab scum and that Swedish prick who’s probably fucking him in the ass and throw you in, too.”

Breathing hard again.

Milo said, “Why’d you single out Issa Qumdis?”

“He’s a Nazi, and he’s here.”

“Any other reason?”

“That’s not reason enough for you?” said Simons. Muttering, “Goyische kopf.”

“Yeah, I’m a stupid goy,” said Milo. “Meanwhile, it’s you with blood all over your clothes and your hands in cuffs and all you accomplished back there was to solidify that guy’s support.”

“Bullshit,” said Simons. “They came in as Jew-haters, they’ll go out as Jew-haters, but at least they know we’re not going to stand by while they try to herd us into the ovens.”

He peered at Milo. “You’re not Jewish, are you?”

“ ‘Fraid not.”

“What, German?”

“Irish.”

“Irish,” said Simons, as if he found that baffling. To me: “You Jewish?”

I shook my head.

Back to Milo: “So, what, cops are reading The Jewish Beacon ?”

“I pick up stuff, here and there.”

Simons smiled knowingly. “Okay, so you are on a serious surveillance. About time.”

“The guy who introduced Issa Qumdis,” said Milo. “What about him?”

“What about him?”

“What should I know about him?”

“Fucking Swede, ” said Simons. “Another fucking professor - my kids had professors at college, I could tell you stories-”

“Let’s keep it to Professor Larsen, specifically,” said Milo. “What should I know about him?”

“He’s with that Nazi, so he’s probably a Nazi- did you know that the Swedes claimed to be neutral during the war, but meanwhile they were doing business with the Nazis? SS soldiers were fucking the Swedish women right and left, having orgies, getting the Swedish women pregnant? Probably half of the supposed Swedes are German. Maybe he’s one of them. Larsen. Did you hear what he said in there? I should’ve shot him, too.”

“Stop,” said Milo. “You keep talking like that, I’ve got to take you in.”

Simons stared at him. “You’re not going to?”

A car drove up the alley, slowed to pass us, continued to Sixth, and turned left.

Milo remained silent.

“What?” said Simons. “What’s the deal here?”

“You drive here in your own car?”

“This is L.A., what do you think?”

“Where are you parked?”

“Around the corner.”

“Which corner?”

“Sixth,” said Simons. “What, you’re going to impound me?”

“What kind of car?” said Milo.

“Toyota,” said Simons. “I’m a nurse, not a goddamn doctor.”

Keeping the cuffs on, we walked him to his car. Two vehicles in front of my Seville. Milo’s unmarked was across the street.

“Here’s the deal,” said Milo. “You drive straight home, don’t pass Go, don’t come back here. Ever. Stay away, and we call it a lesson.”

“What’s the lesson?” said Simons.

“That it’s smart to listen to me.”

“What’s special about you?”

“I’m a dumb goy who knows the score.” Milo took hold of Simons’s collar, bunched it up around the man’s thick neck. Simons’s eyes bugged.

He said, “You’re-”

“I’m doing you a favor, idiot. A big one. Don’t test my good nature.”

Simons stared back at him. “You’re choking me.”