Tod Goldberg - Gangsterland

There was nothing illegal with that, at least not on the face of things. Nor was there anything illegal in getting meat delivered, though Jeff wondered when Temple Beth Israel had begun to use Kochel Farms. In fact, there was no proof yet that this Savone guy had done anything wrong, though legitimate businessmen didn’t usually let their local newspapers call them wiseguys.

Jeff stood up and looked out the window. He could see the parking lot, a bit of a playground that was filled with children now, and then, in the distance, tractors moving land, maybe thirty construction workers in the midst of various tasks, a water tank, and acres of undeveloped land that hadn’t even been graded yet. How much did this kind of development cost? Millions. Multi-millions. Where was that money coming from? And how would Sal Cupertine fit into this? Or was he buried underneath that high school? There was that, too, he supposed. He needed to find out from Agent Poremba all he could on Bennie Savone and how the hell he ended up married to the daughter of a rabbi. The local Las Vegas boys would know more than Poremba, but it wasn’t like he could just walk into the field office anymore. He was little more than a rent-a-cop at this point. Then he’d call Matthew, get him to drive up from Palm Springs, only four hours south, and start getting eyes on this temple.

“Beautiful view, isn’t it?”

Jeff startled at the sound of Rabbi Cohen’s voice, turned, and saw that the rabbi was standing directly behind him, just inches away. The office door was closed. Christ. When had he walked in?

“The construction?” Jeff said.

“No,” Rabbi Cohen said, “the children playing.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose it is,” Jeff said.

“But they can be a bit loud.” Rabbi Cohen reached past Jeff, slid the window closed, then closed the thick brown curtains, too, descending the office into half-light. “Please, have a seat, and I’ll see if I can help you.”

Jeff sat down. He needed to settle his thoughts, take this point by point. There was nothing here yet, just some words in a newspaper article. He needed to be meticulous, as ever. “Right,” Jeff said, mostly for himself. He took the photos of Sal Cupertine back out of his notebook and set them on the rabbi’s desk, next to the newspaper. “As I said, I’m looking for this man. Have you seen him?”

“And who are you?” the rabbi said.

“A private consultant for the FBI,” Jeff said. It was a mouthful. And not one that Jeff particularly cared for.

“What does that mean?”

“I’m working on a special project for them,” Jeff said.

“They don’t have enough agents?”

“Not for this, no,” Jeff said.

“There seem to be quite a few agents in Las Vegas,” Rabbi Cohen said. He pointed at the newspaper, which was still open to the column about Bennie Savone. “If what Mr. Curran in the Review-Journal says is to be believed, at any rate.” Rabbi Cohen picked up the photos of Sal Cupertine then and carefully looked at each one. “He doesn’t look familiar, I’m afraid,” he said eventually.

“He would have been here in April,” Jeff said. He flipped through his paperwork. “The twenty-second, to be exact.”

“Doing what?” Rabbi Cohen said.

“We’re not sure,” Jeff said. “But there’s some indication he might have been transported via the company who delivers meat to your cafeteria. Kochel Farms.”

“And what did he do that he needed to escape inside of a meat truck?”

“He murdered three federal agents and a confidential informant,” Jeff said.

“Oh, I think I read about this,” Rabbi Cohen said. “In Detroit, wasn’t it?”

“Chicago,” Jeff said.

“I see,” Rabbi Cohen said. “And it’s your belief he is now standing in our cafeteria, waiting for you?”

“No,” Jeff said. “It’s my belief he went from here to somewhere else, but I’d like to talk to your staff and see if they recognize him, remember any details about the day in question.”

“This man,” the rabbi said. “Does he have a name?”

“Sal Cupertine,” Jeff said.

“Oh,” Rabbi Cohen said. “Now I understand.” He picked up the newspaper and spent a few moments looking at the article about Bennie Savone. “This is the only city in America where it’s illegal to be Italian, apparently. As you can imagine, Rabbi Kales is sickened about all of this. That’s the father of his grandchildren and the husband of his only child that this. . this. . golem . . is libeling.”

“If he’s innocent,” Jeff said, “he has nothing to worry about.”

Rabbi Cohen opened a desk drawer and pulled out a pair of silver scissors and began to cut the story out of the newspaper. “Talmud says that there are those who gain eternity in a lifetime, others who gain it an hour,” he said, and he continued cutting up the story until it was little more than confetti, then he very carefully scooped the pieces up and dumped them in his trash can. “How long do you think an article in a newspaper lasts?”

“Bennie Savone is not my business,” Jeff said.

“And yet here you are,” Rabbi Cohen said.

Rabbi Cohen tented his hands together at the fingertips but didn’t speak for a moment. Jeff couldn’t quite place the inflection in the rabbi’s voice, couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or intrigued or simply bored. He didn’t seem surprised by the appearance of someone working for the FBI, which most people are, and that seemed odd. The more he stared at the rabbi, the more Jeff also got the sense that maybe he’d been in some kind of accident, because the skin on his neck and along his hairline seemed slick. Not like he’d had a facelift, exactly, but like he’d had something reconstructed. Maybe he’d been attacked by a dog or something. That would account for the weird way his mouth wouldn’t quite wrap around a smile. And then there was the way his beard didn’t quite connect with his sideburns. . must have been an accident, maybe a burn? It was impossible to tell what the skin around his mouth looked like under his thick beard.

“You’re wondering about my face,” Rabbi Cohen said.

“I’m sorry?” Jeff said, because he didn’t know what to say.

“I see you looking at my face,” Rabbi Cohen said, “trying to figure what’s wrong with it. It’s all right. You’re not the first person. Turns out children frequently have the same question.”

“I apologize,” Jeff said. “I just. .”

Rabbi Cohen waved him off. “No need,” he said. “You can’t be more candid than you are with your own face, now can you? Talmud tells us that we cannot expect the Torah to live in only the most beautiful people. Eventually even the best wine spoils in gold chalices.” He tried to smile again. “Well, in light of everything, Mr. Hopper, I’m afraid that I can’t let you search our grounds without a warrant. While I trust your intentions are pure, you’ll pardon me for not trusting the FBI right now.”

“I’m not an FBI agent,” Jeff said.

“Then you’re just trespassing,” Rabbi Cohen said, “and I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“This is how you want to do it?” Jeff said. “You want twenty guys in here tomorrow? That’s what you want?”

“If you’d like,” Rabbi Cohen said, “I’m happy to take you on a tour of our public facilities. Show you that all we’re hiding here is dirt and sand. And if tomorrow you come back with a warrant, Temple Beth Israel will be happy to let you do as much searching as you’d like.”

Jeff knew one thing for certain: Poremba wasn’t going to be able to get a warrant to start searching a temple in twenty-four hours. He’d be lucky to ever get one. And Jeff wouldn’t be in on the search even if they did. Tomorrow, he and Matthew would do this on their terms.