"You want this money?" I said. "Talk. How do I find Meir?"
"Like I told you, I don't know where he's at, but every evening between seven and eight, Mr. Moshonov goes out with a package of food. I heard him tell the cook one time that it was for Meir."
"No idea where he goes?"
A shake of his narrow head.
"How long does it take him to come back?"
He thought about it. "Fifteen minutes, tops."
"Does Moshonov own a vehicle?"
"No. I don't think so."
So Meir was somewhere close by. If this pipsqueak was telling me the truth.
"What's your name?" I asked.
He drew back his chin, fearful. "What do you need my name for?"
"I don't, really. You come to this restaurant often?"
"Every once in a while."
I smiled. "Just about every day, I guess. And you're easy to describe. Which means I'd be able to find you easily enough if you're lying to me. Are you lying to me?"
He gulped, jerking his head side to side.
"You sure?"
This time his head jerked up and down.
"Good. So here, take your money."
He snatched it from my fingers and took three quick steps back before shoving the money in his pocket.
"One more thing," I said, "you'd better not tell anyone about our little chat."
"I won't. I'm not stupid."
Yes, he was. If he was smart, he would have waited until I rounded the corner before he approached me. Where we now stood, anyone exiting the restaurant could see us.
"That's good to know," I said. "Now run along."
He did, walking briskly for a few steps before breaking into a sprint. I shook my head and went to find a dark spot in which I could wait undetected for Moshonov to appear. It was just after six. If what the pipsqueak had told me was true, I had between one and two hours to wait.
38
Moshonov came out of the restaurant at seven thirty-two. He held a brown paper bag in each hand. Seeing him, I retreated deeper into the shadows in the slit of an alleyway where I stood.
Moshonov began marching in the opposite direction, whistling some lively tune. I followed at a distance, sticking to the darkest patches of sidewalk.
It took him less than five minutes to arrive at his destination, a narrow two-story building with a partially detached drainpipe that swung in the evening breeze, banging rhythmically against the outer wall. I could see a family eating at the table in the ground-floor apartment. The second-floor windows were obscured by drawn curtains. But the lights were on. Someone was home.
Moshonov climbed the stairs to the upper floor, disappearing from view when he reached the landing. I stood, hands in pockets, and watched as two shadows moved about behind the curtains. One was the shape of Moshonov. The other was Meir Gadot's height and width.
After Moshonov left, I waited fifteen minutes, just in case he'd forgotten something and returned. Then, seeing no one about, I crossed the street, climbed the steps, and put my ear to the flimsy door. Sounds of cutlery scraping on a plate, a glass being set on a table.
Gently, I depressed the handle, but the door was locked. There was no peephole. I could have busted down the door, but that would have made a racket. Instead, I knocked twice, not too loudly. The sound of eating died; there was a short silent interval, then Meir Gadot's voice, anxiously asking who it was.
Trying to sound like Moshonov, I dropped my voice a full octave and put on a pronounced Bulgarian accent. "Meir, it's me. I forgot to bring you some almodrote. Just made it today." Hearing myself, I winced. My impersonation was far from perfect. But apparently, the promise of a fresh Bulgarian eggplant and cheese casserole, a dish I knew Moshonov hadn't delivered, was enough to get Meir to throw caution to the wind.
As soon as the key turned in the lock and the door handle began its descent, I used my shoulder to shove the door straight into Meir's face. There was a grunt followed by a heavy thud. I charged in, closed the door and relocked it, sliding the key out of the lock and into my pocket.
Meir was sitting crookedly on the floor, hands held to his face. His eyes were huge. The splotches on his cheeks were the color of ripe tomatoes.
"Get up," I said. "Go sit on the bed."
He pushed himself up with one hand, the other still pressed to his mouth. Wordlessly, he went to the bed. It was a single, the frame wooden and very low. When Meir sat, his knees were almost as high as his rib cage.
Other than the bed, there was a dresser, a rickety nightstand, and a small table bearing dirty dishes and cutlery. An open suitcase lay at the foot of the bed, a jumble of clothes in its open maw. The air smelled of the meal Meir had just consumed, with a thick underlayer of cigarettes. The drawn curtains made the room seem smaller and gloomy, like a cell in a dungeon.
By the table was a solitary chair. I lowered myself onto it, fixed my eyes on Meir, and waited, saying nothing. He was already scared, but I wanted him to be terrified. I could tell by his eyes that I'd been right. He hadn't fled his apartment for fear of his cousin. He did it to avoid me.
After a full minute of silence, Meir spoke from behind his hands. "Adam, I—"
I cut him off. "I can't hear you properly. You sound all muffled."
He lowered his hands slowly. There was blood on his lips, on his teeth and chin, but not too much of it. Painful, no doubt, but nothing serious.
Draped over the back of the chair was a shirt. I tossed it at him and told him to wipe off the blood.
"Can I go and wash it off?" he said, not wanting to ruin the shirt.
"Later," I said. "Maybe. For now, use the shirt. Go on, don't keep me waiting. I've wasted enough time finding you." It was a little petty on my part, but I wanted him to know he would only get something from me if he cooperated.
"How did you find me?" he asked once he got most of the blood off.
"How isn't important. What's important is why you left your apartment in a hurry. I guess it has something to do with the death of your cousin. My condolences, by the way."
He stared down at the bloodied shirt in his hands. He hadn't discarded it. His tone was quiet. "I'm glad you're alive, Adam."
"No thanks to you. You knew he was coming to kill me, didn't you?"
He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. The way the splotches on his cheeks blazed was answer enough.
I leaned forward, my nose picking up the scent of his blood, the stink of his fear. "Whatever you do, don't lie to me, Meir. There's no telling how that would make me feel, what it would make me do."
Sweat sprouted on his forehead and at his temples. He shook a little, clutching the shirt tighter. He wore gray trousers, brown socks, and an undershirt that showed a lot of hair on his shoulders and chest.
I said, "What did Amiram tell you?"
"That he was going to teach you a lesson. That you had it coming."
"You knew he meant to kill me?" And when he hesitated, I added, "Remember what I said: Don't you dare lie to me."
Meir swallowed hard and nodded.
"You didn't think to warn me?"
"Amiram told me I'd better not. That he'd hurt me if I did. You gotta believe me, Adam, I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn't listen. He hated you because you insulted him. He wanted you dead."
"You should have come to me, goddammit."
He nodded a couple of times. His eyes welled over. Tears spilled down his cheeks. "I know, I know. But I was scared out of my mind. Amiram...he wasn't like he used to be. He'd changed in prison. There was something crazy about him now. He told me he'd slice me apart if I breathed a word of what he was planning. And he laughed when he said it. I just couldn't bring myself to disobey him."
"He hadn't changed one bit, Meir. He killed three people. Starting in 1939."