Faye Kellerman - The Garden Of Eden And Other Criminal Delights

Then, as he tried to turn around, Groucho held him tightly, kept him facing forward, pressing his arm uncomfortably into his back. At that moment Feinermann felt the gun. Had he seen it when the two masked men made their initial approach? Maybe. But to Feinermann’s naive eyes, the pistol seemed like a toy.

“We’re not fooling around here, Rabbi,” Karl said.

Feinermann looked around the synagogue’s parking lot. It was located in the back alley on a little-used dead-end side street. He was alone with these hoodlums, but he had grown up in New York. Hoodlums were nothing new. Although the masks were a little different. In his day, a stocking over the face was sufficient-a ski mask if you wanted to get fancy.

But times change.

The old man had grown up in neighborhoods where ethnic groups competed for turf-the Irish, the Italians, then, later on, the Puerto Ricans. Each nationality fighting to prove which was the mightiest. Of course, they all tormented the Jews. Pious old men and women had been no match for angry energy and youthful indignation.

No, hoodlums were nothing new. But the gun in the back was a sad concession to modern times. Had mankind really progressed? the rabbi mused.

“Come on, Rabbi,” Karl said. “Don’t make this difficult on us or on yourself. I want you to walk slowly to the gray car straight ahead.”

“Which car do you mean, Mr. Marx?” Feinermann asked. “The eighty-four Electra?”

“The ninety Seville,” Groucho answered.

“Oooo, a Cadillac,” Feinermann said. “A good car for abduction. May I ask what this is all about?”

“Just shut up and get going,” Karl said.

“No need for a sharp tongue, Mr. Marx,” the rabbi answered.

Karl said, “Why do you keep calling me Marx?” He pointed to Groucho. “ He’s the Marx guy.”

“Your mask is Karl Marx,” Feinermann said.

“No, it’s not,” Karl protested. “I’m Albert Einstein.”

“I hate to say this, young man, but you’re no Einstein.”

“Will both of you just shut up ?” Groucho snarled.

“Then who am I?” Karl plowed on.

“Karl Marx,” Feinermann declared. “The founder of communism… which isn’t doing too well these days.”

“You mean I’m a pinko instead of a genius?” Karl was aghast.

“Just shut up !” Groucho yelled. To Feinermann, he said, “You can scream, Rabbi, but no one will hear you. We’re all alone.”

“Besides,” Karl added, “you do want to see your wife again, don’t you?”

Feinermann paused. “I’m not so sure. Nevertheless, I will cooperate. You haven’t shot me yet. You haven’t robbed me. I assume what you want from me is more complex than a wallet or a watch.”

Groucho pushed the gun deeper into Feinermann’s spine. “Get a move on, Rabbi.”

Feinermann said, “Watch my backbone, Mr. Jeffrey T. Spaulding. I had disk surgery not more than a year ago. Why cause an old man needless pain?”

Instantly, the rabbi felt relief as the pressure eased off his back. “So you’re not without compassion.”

“Just keep walking, Rabbi,” Groucho said.

“Who’s Jeffrey T. Spaulding?” Karl asked.

“ Shut up !” Groucho said. “Just cooperate, Rabbi, and no one will get hurt.”

“Mr. Hugo Z. Hackenbush, I have no doubt that you will not get hurt,” Feinermann said. “It’s me I’m concerned about.”

“Hugo Hack…” Karl scratched his face under his mask. “Who are all these dorks?”

“C’mon!” Groucho pushed the rabbi forward. “Step on it.”

As the Marxes sequestered him in the backseat of the Seville, Feinermann tried to figure out why he was being kidnapped. He wasn’t a wealthy man, not in possession of any items of great value. His estate-a small two-bedroom house in the Fairfax district of Los Angeles-would be left to Sarah upon his demise. He and his wife had had their differences, but he couldn’t imagine her hiring people to kill him for his paltry insurance policy. Sarah was a kvetch and a yente , but basically, a good, pious woman. And a practical woman as well. The cost of the hit would greatly exceed any monetary gain she’d receive from the policy.

Karl kept him company in the backseat as Groucho gunned the motor. Then they were off. The men were good-size, capable of doing major physical damage. And they seemed very nervous.

Perhaps this was their first kidnapping, Feinermann thought. It was always difficult to do something for the first time. It was then and there that Feinermann decided to make his abductors feel welcome.

“A nice shirt you have on, Karl Marx,” he said. “Is it silk?”

Karl looked at his buttercup chemise. “Yeah. You really like it?”

The old man fingered the fabric. “Very good quality. I grew up in New York, had many a friend in the shmatah business. This is an impressive shirt.”

“Quiet back there,” Groucho said.

The old man pressed his lips together. At least his discussion with Karl had produced the desired effect. Feinermann could see the man in the buttercup shirt visibly relax, his shoulders un-bunching, his feet burying deep into the Caddy’s plush carpeting. The Seville, with its cushy gray leather upholstery and its black-tinted windows, had lots of leg room. It was good that Karl felt at home. He shouldn’t be nervous holding a gun.

Groucho, on the other hand, was a different story. His body language was hidden from Feinermann’s view. The only thing the rabbi could make out was a pair of dark eyes peeking through the mask with the bushy eyebrows-a reflection in the rearview mirror. The eyes gave Feinermann no hint as to who was the man behind them.

Feinermann sat stiffly and hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees. Karl reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief.

“Sorry to have to do this to you, old man.”

“Do what?” Feinermann felt his heart skip a beat. “You are going to tie me up?”

“Nah, you’re not much of a threat,” Karl said. “I’m gonna have to blindfold you. Don’t want you to see where we’re taking you. Be a good man and hold still.”

“I always cooperate with people carrying revolvers.”

“Good thinking.”

Feinermann closed his eyes as they were covered with a soft cloth, the ends of the kerchief secured tightly around his head. Quality silk-very soft and smooth. His abductors had spared him no expense. It made the old man feel important.

“May I now ask what this is all about?”

“Soon enough,” Karl answered. “Don’t worry. No one wants to hurt you. They just want a little information from you.”

“Information?”

Groucho barked, “Keep your trap shut, for Chrissakes!”

“Are you talking to me, Mr. Rufus T. Firefly?” Feinermann asked.

“No, not you, Rabbi. I would never talk to a man of the cloth like that.” Groucho paused. “Well, maybe I did tell you to shut up. Sorry about that. I was nervous.”

“First time as a kidnapper?”

“You can tell, huh?”

“You don’t seem like the hardened criminal type.”

“I owed someone a favor.”

“It must have been a pretty big favor.”

“Ain’t they all. Just relax, old man. We’re gonna be in the car for a while.”

“Then maybe I’ll take a little rest.” Feinermann took off his hat, exposing the black skullcap underneath, and unbuttoned his jacket. “Is this your first kidnapping as well, Karl?”

“Yep.” Karl lowered his voice. “I owed him a favor.”

Feinermann took the “him” to be Groucho and pondered, “Groucho owed someone a favor, you owed Groucho a favor.”

“Yeah,” Karl said. “It’s kinda like a bad chain letter.”