"Ah," said Rabbi Nathanson, standing back and shaking his head with his hands folded in front of him. "Never found. May the Lord have taken him to his bosom."
"Amen," said Abe, looking at Bess for guidance. It had been Lieberman's conclusion that Isadore Green had simply run away and was probably alive and well in Gallup, New Mexico, or some point even farther west.
Bess shrugged.
"Coffee, Abe?" she said. "More coffee, Rabbi?"
"Later," said Lieberman, joining them at the table. "Where are Lisa and the kids?"
"Todd took the kids to a movie, Die Hard 3 or 4 or something. Lisa's working late."
Alone at last, Lieberman thought, loosening his tie and looking at Rabbi Nathanson, who had nodded to indicate that more coffee would be welcome. Bess moved toward the kitchen.
Nathanson opened his mouth to speak but Abe stopped him with, "I'll be right back," and headed for his and Bess's bedroom.
In the bedroom, as he did whenever he came home, Lieberman opened the drawer of the night table on his side of the bed, using the key he always wore around his neck.
He put his.38 and holster into the drawer, closed it, and locked it with the key, checking to be sure the drawer was indeed locked. Then he returned to the dining room and the waiting visitor.
"Let me explain," said the rabbi, folding his hands on the table, "as I did with your wife, who, I would like to add, is doing a monumental job as president of Mir Shavot during the move to the new synagogue. Monumental."
"Thank you," said Lieberman, also folding his hands on the table.
Bess came back with the coffee pot and poured more in the rabbi's cup. The rabbi nodded in appreciation and returned his steady eyes to Abe's face.
"Rabbi Wass, your rabbi, indicated in conversation that you were planning to move, to be closer to the new synagogue site," the rabbi said in a near whisper, as if this were very confidential information.
" 'Planning' is a little strong, Rov," Lieberman said, looking at Bess across the table. She shrugged to indicate she had nothing to do with spreading such a rumor.
"Well," Nathanson said, "it may come as no surprise to you that congregation B'nai Shalom is seriously considering a move to this neighborhood to serve the older Jewish community, those who cannot easily move to the north with you, and to serve the young Russian immigrants who are coming to this area in ever-growing numbers."
It was not Lieberman's place or desire to contradict the rabbi, at least not till the man came to the point. Rabbi Camel had the reputation of delivering meandering sermons in which the point came late and was usually missed by the congregation. The older Jews in Lieberman's neighborhood were dying off, moving in with their children in the suburbs, or lounging in Florida high-rises if they could afford it. Some Russian immigrants were moving in, but the vast majority of those moving in were Asians and Indians and a few upwardly mobile Hispanics. The neighborhood change was the primary reason Temple Mir Shavot was moving thirty blocks north.
"We may build," Nathanson said, holding up one hand and then the other, "or we may buy a suitable edifice. It is unfortunate that the building you are abandoning has been sold to Chinese Christians."
"Korean," Bess corrected.
The Koreans, Lieberman knew, had made the best offer and Bess, Rabbi Wass, and the building committee had decided that the Korean Baptist Church and its leader Reverend Kim Park were conservative, honorable, and far better than the only other offer that they had received, from Kenehay Exporters, a group that Lieberman labeled after one phone call as being engaged in "dubious" enterprises.
"My wife…" Nathanson went on.
Lieberman pointedly looked at his watch. Bess frowned at her husband's manners and Rabbi Nathanson seemed not to have noticed. He was launched. There was no stopping him.
"My wife, Leah, and I have sold our house. The children, Larry and Rachel, are off at college. Rachel is at Brandeis. Larry is finishing dental school, University of California."
"That's wonderful," said Bess. "Isn't it, Abe?"
"A blessing," said Abe.
"Expensive," sighed the rabbi. "But for your children…"
"You make sacrifices," Bess concluded.
"So you sold your house," Lieberman prompted.
"Sold our house, where we had loved, nurtured, and raised a family," the rabbi went on. "Sold and moved into a condominium." 'That's nice," said Bess.
"We hate it," Rabbi Nathanson said forlornly. "No history, no character. We hung our paintings-you've heard of the priceless painting of the Torah we have, the one done by Hammasha of Jerusalem?"
He looked at Bess and Lieberman, who nodded slightly, neither knowing about this famous artwork.
"Well, it does not hang well in the apartment," he said sadly. "A cold museum no matter what effort my poor Leah puts into it. But this house…" He looked around the dining room and into the living room. "This house has a history, a family, the aura, if you win, of Jewish culture."
Lieberman nodded knowingly, sure that the aura was in part a failure to invest in new furniture for more than fifteen years plus the brisket simmering in the kitchen.
"Thank you," said Bess. "You sure you don't want coffee, Abe?"
"Later," Lieberman said, now fascinated by the apparently pointless but elegantly presented ramblings of the rabbi.
"In short, I wish to buy your house. I'm sure you will be reasonable," said the rabbi, pausing for a response.
"I don't think we're seriously considering selling quite yet," Lieberman said.
"Abe…" Bess said softly.
"Well, maybe," Lieberman conceded.
"Good," Rabbi Nathanson said leaning forward, ready for business. "A price?"
"One hundred and seventy-five thousand," said Bess.
Rabbi Nathanson sat back to consider this.
"No realtor, six and a half percent saved," said the rabbi. "One hundred and sixty-two thousand and five hundred dollars."
"We could consider mat," Bess said, looking at Lieberman, encouraging him with her eyes not to destroy this opportunity.
"We'll think about it," said Lieberman.
The rabbi put down the envelope in his hand, pulled out a fountain pen, and began writing.
"I will now give you a check for one thousand dollars," he said. "Earnest money. Good faith money to be applied to the purchase price. In return, you sign this document stating that you will sell to no one else for six months."
"I don't think…" Lieberman began, but Rabbi Nathanson was hunched over his envelope and the checkbook he had conjured from his pocket. He was lost in words and dollars.
"There," he said, handing check and envelope to Lieberman, who looked at them and turned the envelope over. It was a mailer from a Honda dealer on Western Avenue. Lieberman handed check and envelope to Bess.
"No offense, Rabbi," Lieberman said, "but I think we should think this over and talk to our lawyer before we sign anything."
Rabbi Nathanson nodded, all knowing, and said, "Fine, but I want you to keep the check, hold it, deposit it. I want this perfect house. I want to bring my wife to see it How is tomorrow night for you?"
The Liebermans exchanged looks and Bess, holding the check in her hand, said, "Fine."
"Seven?" asked the rabbi.
"Seven," agreed Bess as the tall rabbi took the envelope back and signed it.
"There. You have my check. You have my signature."
The rabbi rose. So did the Liebermans. They shook hands and walked their guest to the front door. On the way he scanned the walls, ceiling, and furniture with interest.
"The lighting fixtures," he said at the door. "They stay with the house?"
"Sure," said Lieberman.
"Good," the rabbi said. "Good. Tomorrow. Seven."
He hurried down the steps to the CLERGY car parked in front of the fire hydrant. Lieberman closed the door and looked at his wife.