Tod Goldberg - Gangsterland

Jeff stood up. “Show the way, Rabbi.”

Christianity, unlike Judaism, Rabbi David Cohen learned, was about rejecting the idea of luck. It was a consequence-based process. If you led a pious life, good things would happen. If you led an evil life, bad things would surely follow. If you led a pious life and bad things still happened, then that was the hand of God, it was meant to be, and in the afterlife you would be rewarded with the gift of God’s eternal love. He created humans, gave them free will, only to demand fealty, or there would be hell to pay. Nothing was chance. All was either reward or punishment.

It wasn’t unlike being in the Mafia. Except at least with God, if you waited until the last minute and said that you were sorry, and you really did respect his authority, you could go on living your life in everlasting peace. David was not under the impression his cousin Ronnie, nor Bennie Savone, operated under those same rules. He was certain that the FBI wasn’t about to accept his apology for knocking off their agents, especially not this Jeff Hopper, a man he thought he’d killed.

And yet here they were, two men raised from the dead, walking through a cemetery, David pointing out where the aquatic center would be housed, the bluff they were constructing so that the performing arts center could be seen from the bottom of the street, all the better to attract natural light, you see, to catch the brilliant colors of the desert sunset, as it was in Israel. “For the Talmud tells us,” David told Agent Hopper now, “whoever did not see Jerusalem in its days of glory never saw a beautiful city in their life.”

“You’ll pardon me, Rabbi,” Agent Hopper said, “but it’s still Las Vegas.” David heard a hint of boredom in the agent’s voice, which was good. They’d spent the last thirty minutes walking the perimeter of the temple and its property, David narrating the entire time, filling Agent Hopper with the arcane and the minute, explaining every plan Temple Beth Israel had for the future. The agent had stayed largely quiet, apart from every now and then muttering some empty platitude.

As they walked, David let the agent stay at least a half step in front of him, let Agent Hopper feel like he was guiding the tour, when in fact David was pushing him the entire time. They were inching toward the far end of the cemetery, blocks from the street and the bustle of people, where later that afternoon David was scheduled to bury a man named Alan Rosen who’d been brought up from Palm Springs that morning, but who David guessed was an Indian. The grave was already dug, a mound of dirt covered by a green tarp in the distance, the simple green shovel they used in burial ceremony placed at the ready for the mourners who preferred not to use their hands. All that was missing was the body.

“Where there is the temple, there is Israel,” David said.

“I’m sure that’s true,” Agent Hopper said. “But don’t you have a difficult time believing in the sanctity of your faith in a town like this?”

“Chicago is any better?” David asked.

Agent Hopper chuckled once. “Tell me something, did you always believe?”

“Does anyone have absolute faith?” David said.

“My family was not particularly religious,” Agent Hopper said. “Personally, I never bought into any of it.”

“So you think the world is just wicked?”

“That’s what the evidence suggests,” Agent Hopper said. He stopped walking then and turned around, a field of the dead before him. “Did any of these people die with any faith left? Any pride?”

“And you have yours?” David said, doing something Rabbi Kales had taught him, to answer questions with questions, as the Jews have always done.

“I don’t know,” Agent Hopper said, “but I’m still alive.”

“ Mazel tov ,” David said. He reached into his pocket and felt the butterfly knife there. It hadn’t been luck that made him carry the knife every day, nor faith; it was fear. God told Abraham that Israel had no mazel , and so the Jews created their own. A single mitzvah , done without question, done without the need for recognition, was the door to finding mazel. Luck didn’t happen because of mazel , luck was the embodiment of it: Everyone was able to transcend the merits of their life and, for at least a moment, find prosperity and unfathomable happiness. A wedding, a baby, a new job? Mazel tov. Jews had forgotten what the term really meant. It was only the moment that was blessed. You still had a chance to fuck up what came next.

And wasn’t that what David’s life had been? He’d found true love, had a baby, been given a new job. And then, mazel tov , the FBI showed up. It was someone else’s good luck. David would have to make his own.

Agent Hopper walked over to the hole that had been dug into the ground for the Rosen funeral and looked down.

“Is it really six feet?” Agent Hopper asked.

“Jewish custom requires ten handbreadths,” David said. He stepped beside the agent and examined the grave. “It seems deep enough, doesn’t it?”

“Off the record, Rabbi,” Agent Hopper said, “you ever seen anything funny here?”

“How would I know?” David said.

“You seem like a man who pays attention.”

“This person you’re looking for,” David said, “is he a monster?”

“He’s just a man,” Agent Hopper said. “Nothing special about him.”

“Then he shouldn’t be very hard to find,” David said. He’d spent all this time observing Agent Hopper. He wasn’t wearing Kevlar and didn’t have a gun on his belt or slung over his shoulder. Just a notepad, a file filled with pictures, and a hunch. This was the man who’d made Fat Monte kill himself? If he knew anything, he would have come with an assault team. If he knew anything, he’d still be an FBI agent, not a consultant. If he knew anything, he’d start running.

“You happen to remember where you were last April 22?” Agent Hopper asked.

David shook his head. “Do you know where you were?”

“Yeah,” Agent Hopper said. “A funeral for one of my friends.”

“Talmud tells us we have two faces,” David said, “one that lives in sorrow, one that lives in joy.”

“Didn’t Bruce Springsteen say that?” Agent Hopper said.

Shit. “Did he?” David gripped the knife in his pocket.

“Yeah,” Agent Hopper said quietly. He took a step away from the grave, a curious look on his face.

David was no more than a foot away from Hopper, but he’d need to lunge for him at this point. David needed to be closer.

“You know, you haven’t answered a single question I’ve asked.”

“I hope you find your man,” David said. He extended his hand, but Agent Hopper took another step, this one to the side, near the mound of dirt and the shovel.

“You didn’t tell me what happened to your face.”

“All is vanity,” David said. He tried to smile, but his mouth wouldn’t follow directions.

“Then I’d think you’d want a better plastic surgeon.”

The Talmud said that if someone comes to kill you, you should wake up early and kill him first. David doubted Jeff Hopper knew that edict in the religious sense, but he surely knew it as an FBI agent, or else he wouldn’t have made such a sudden move for the spade.

As soon as he did, David was on him.

He plunged his knife into Hopper’s back once, twice, three times, the blade snapping off in Hopper’s rib cage as David tried to pull it out so he could cut the agent’s throat. They both fell to the ground, deep in the dirt.

David stood up then and rolled Jeff over onto his back, his eyes wide open, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. David had seen this before. He wouldn’t need to use the shovel. At least not to kill the man.