James Siegel - Detour

“You see anyone out there?” he asked.

“Anyone? What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? I mean, did you see anyone out there? Anyone not wearing a yarmulke, for example? Never mind. Doesn’t matter.”

He came back behind the desk, sat down.

“Why?” Paul asked again.

“Why? You sound like a child asking one of the four questions. Why do you think?”

“Money.”

“Money. Well, sure, money’s part of it. You ever bet on anything, Paul?”

“What?”

“You ever bet on anything? Guess not. Stupid question. It’s probably against the actuarial code. Remember the 1990 no-huddle Buffalo Bills?”

Paul was having trouble remembering anything except the gun pointed at his head.

“My first colossal blunder. You know you can bet straight up if you’ve got the guts. If you just know . None of those annoying points to deal with. Only you’ve got to lay three to win one. That’s okay. I was sure. I knew . My religion prescribes one ritual bath a year. That was mine.”

“You lost.”

“Oh yeah. Sure you didn’t see anyone out there, Paul? Someone driving by the house maybe?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“You said you bet thirty dollars here and there,” Paul said. “Just to keep things interesting.”

“I fibbed. It’s more interesting when you bet thirty thousand. I’ll tell you how I got started. One day I was sitting and waiting by the phone. You know what for?”

“No.”

“Neither did I. Something. When it rang and I picked it up, the person on the other end said Mr. Goldstein, this is your lucky day. It was a touting service. A Delphic oracle of the ESPN generation. They toss you the first pick for free, just to show what excellent prognosticators they are. They were excellent— that day. I won. I even won again. That’s the problem. You start feeling kind of omnipotent. You forget that’s reserved for the man upstairs. I began practicing a personal form of downside economics. I bet more than I actually had .”

Someone started up a car outside. Miles jerked his head toward the window, gripped the gun with knuckles turned suddenly white.

“It’s just a car,” Paul said.

“Sure. It’s just a car. Everyone walks on Shabbat.” He kept one eye on Paul, and the other on the window, at least until he heard the sound of the car engine slowly drifting down the street.

“Are you expecting someone?”

“Yes. I’m expecting someone. I’m just not sure when I’m expecting them. Sometime soon, I think.”

Miles closed his eyes, wiped his forehead.

“My bookie wasn’t very understanding, Paul. About not having the money. What were the odds he’d say no problem and wipe the slate clean? Come on, Paul . . . numbers?”

“I don’t know.” Paul was continuing to answer him, back and forth and back, as if they were in that car in New Jersey, just shooting the breeze. As if the pet weapon of the Russian KGB weren’t trained on his head. Maybe something brilliant would occur to him.

“You don’t know? Come on. You’ve met him. Moshe, the Russian businessman. By the way, he doesn’t really do a lot of business with Colombians. He doesn’t have to. He does perfectly fine taking bets from me.”

Paul remembered the conversation he’d overheard in the bathroom. Had Wenzel made the vig ? one of the men asked. Fucking GNP of Slovakia. And they’d both laughed.

“By the way, you know what the Russians call the Colombians?”

Paul shook his head.

“Amateurs.” He smiled, wiped his forehead again. “Moshe called me his favorite Jewish lawyer back at the warehouse? Because other Jewish lawyers take his money. I’m the exception. I’m the gift that keeps on giving. See, I owed Moshe what I didn’t have. What were the odds I could wiggle out of that one?”

Paul was calculating other odds—trying to gauge the distance to the office door, wondering how long it would take him to make it to the front door of the house if he made it out of the office.

“You’re still here,” Paul said.

“Yeah. I’m still here. You can have smarts and you can have luck. I needed both. I opened my arms and waited for manna from heaven. And I was delivered.”

“How?”

“ How? That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” The gun was still drifting—every so often Miles would notice with a slightly sheepish grin and attempt to re-aim it.

“You don’t want to shoot me,” Paul said.

“I don’t? That’s odd. That’s really odd. You see my neck’s back in the noose again. Not from you—you’re just inconvenient . It’s those assholes with Uzis and kerosene I’m worried about. They looked through my car—they know I’m here. They’re smelling blood. They’re starting to put it together. I can tell . They’re closing in.”

“Put what together?”

“Maybe they are amateurs next to the Russians, but not by much. In the pantheon of assassins, let’s call them lower Division 1. I’m cooked.”

Miles looked cooked. His face was in full flop sweat. Paul couldn’t help wondering if his trigger finger was sweating as well, if it might unintentionally slip.

“I don’t understand,” Paul said.

“I know you don’t.”

“The men in the swamp. You said they were Manuel Riojas’ men. What does he have against you?”

“What are the odds poor little Paul’s ever going to figure that one out? Let’s just say no good deed goes unpunished.”

“What good deed?”

“Okay. No bad deed goes unpunished.”

“I don’t—”

“He who saves one child saves his ass.”

It was as if Miles were speaking in fragments, Paul following a step behind, collecting each piece and desperately trying to glue them together.

“Joanna!” Paul nearly shouted it. Miles had lied about calling María. It suddenly occurred to him that he might have lied about something else. “You said she’s fine. Is she?”

It seemed to take Miles a second to refocus, to concentrate on the question being asked of him and actually answer it. “Sure,” he said. “Under the circumstances. Sorry about your wife and kid. Not my fault—sort of. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Can’t help you there. Wish I could.”

“Miles . . .”

“Uh-uh.” Miles waved his gun at him. “My turn. I’ve got one more question for you. Last one, honest. It’s not even an actuarial question. Ready—pencils out?”

Paul was preparing to launch himself at the door. Or across the desk. Pick one. He had nothing to lose.

“Know what’s the worst sin in Orthodox Judaism—other than marrying a shiksa, of course?”

“No,” Paul said.

“Sure you do.”

Paul made it only halfway across the desk when the bullet exploded out of the barrel. It entered the cranial cavity, which governs memory and social skills, exiting below the neck and embedding itself into the cover of New York State Adoption Statutes . He’d gone toward Miles because he thought it might give him the element of surprise.

He was wrong about that.

Miles had surprised him first.

The worst sin in Orthodox Judaism?

It wasn’t murder.

No.

I promise that after I talk to Paul here, I’ll take a nice long rest, he’d told his wife.

He’d kept his word.

TWENTY-NINE

Joanna was granted one of those rare afternoon feedings where she was allowed to linger with her baby, rock her into sleep, and simply stare at her.

When she came back to her room, Maruja and Beatriz were gone.