“Ah, he’s learning,” the older man said.
“Who’s this?” Junior asked.
“A good friend. His name is…what’s your name?”
“You can call me David.”
“Get your stuff, Junior. We’re leaving now.”
“What, no food?”
“For all practical purposes, food wasn’t going to happen anyway. Let’s go.”
The worn out hostess watched them step out, holding a cup in each hand. “You don’t want your coffee?”
“Crisis of conscience,” Turnbull replied. “I can’t drink coffee while the polar bears are melting.”
They headed west on Sunset, trying not to make eye contact with any of the locals, faces down by habit. There were occasional cameras; the men all knew not to face them.
They moved at a quick pace, but not so fast that it would draw attention. It was still light out, so they had some time left to get off the streets.
“How far? “ Turnbull asked. David shrugged.
“Not too far.” They turned north on a side street lined with old apartment buildings.
“Interesting juxtaposition,” Turnbull observed, looking at a poster stuck on a teetering wooden fence. It featured the Star of David on fire and the words “Smash Zionism!” And across it someone had spray painted “G-D Rules.”
“Somebody has a little fight left in them,” Junior said.
“Yes, a little,” David said. A shape rushed out of the bushes and tackled him onto the dry patch of dirt between the sidewalk and street. Three, maybe four shapes followed, preparing to face Turnbull and Junior, but they were too late. Turnbull’s pack was already falling to the ground thanks to the quick release on the shoulder strap even as he was accelerating into a run.
They were in their late teens, maybe early twenties, wearing denim or leather jackets, thin and tatted up on their necks and arms. The sight of Turnbull charging them simply did not compute – people were supposed to run away or beg for mercy – and the second of indecision as they tried to figure out how to respond cost them dearly.
Turnbull punched the closet one in the throat, the force multiplied by his 200 pounds moving at sprint. The thug went down, gripping his throat, gasping.
Turnbull rushed past him toward the next one, connecting the thin punk’s chest with his right shoulder and taking him down to the sidewalk flat on his back. Turnbull was past the other two, who simply stood gaping. Turnbull stopped, turned on his heel, and charged back; they broke and ran.
The punk who tackled David did not notice any of this; he was too fixated on his victim. “Hey fucker, where’s you rat-“
Junior grabbed a hunk of greasy hair and yanked backwards, pulling the punk off to the rear and laying him out flat on his back. The punk looked up in terror as Junior’s boot came down heel first on his gonads. He screamed like a little girl, a harbinger of things to come considering the damage Junior did to his testosterone farm.
In the meantime, Turnbull dispensed with the one he tackled with a kick to the face that shattered his jaw, spewing blood and teeth across the concrete. Walking back to his companions, he paused to viciously bring his heel down on the groin of the one whose throat he had punched. The punk uttered a silent scream of agony. Satisfied the enemy was gone or incapacitated, he extended his hand and pulled David to his feet.
“You okay?”
“I’ll be okay. Them, maybe not so much.”
“They’re lucky they’re not dead,” Junior said. “Believe me. This guy is a one man mortality rate.”
“We need to go,” said Turnbull, and they left the three rolling, groaning thugs behind.
8.
There was a metal sign at the corner that read “Neighborhood Watch In Effect.” Someone had used a black marker to announce, in oddly elaborate gothic script, that “VAG ’14” had marked his territory. Underneath, in the same color marker but less gothic, was a crudely rendered male member spraying the word “Watch” with some unspecified but readily identifiable fluid.
The neighborhood watch concept had changed significantly since the Split. Before, it involved neighbors reporting to the police on suspicious criminal behavior by outsiders. Now, designated residents reported to the PBI on the activities of other neighbors. Racism, sexism and deviant behaviors like religious activity were of particular interest.
They crossed the street to a weathered, multi-story apartment complex. The outside revealed nothing of the interior; all the facing windows had blinds drawn. Flickering lights indicated candles. This particular city grid was in brownout.
A high, wrought iron fence with sharp spikes lining the top barred the way into a corridor that led inside. They waited for David to find his key, which he did after a few moments. From the second floor, Turnbull could see the corner of a blind drop back into place. They were being watched.
The gate creaked open – it could have used a spritz of WD-40, if that had been available to regular people anymore – and they hustled inside and down the corridor. The gate clanked and locked behind them. Turnbull seemed relaxed, which relaxed Junior a little, though he kept his hand on the Glock under his shirt.
The corridor led through the width of the building to a central courtyard which was entirely enclosed on all four sides. There were trees and grass, though most of the interior was taken up with a garden, where kids played, laughing and running, out of sight and safe. There were adults too, eyeing the newcomers. The men wore kippahs.
“Welcome to our home,” David said, pulling a skullcap from his pocket and fitting it on his head.
“We’re Jewish,” he said helpfully.
“I didn’t think any of you were left,” Turnbull replied. A boy of about 14 ran up and hugged David, then looked at the strangers.
“My son, Abraham.”
“I think we’re already friends,” Turnbull said, extending his hand. The boy took it cautiously, and shook firmly. Then he did the same with Junior.
“We should go inside,” David said. “Come.”
The apartment was up three flights of stairs – Junior had been in the blue long enough not to bother asking about the elevator. It was modest in size, but comfortable and warm – the first such place they had experienced since Utah.
And there was food, rice with some chicken and boiled water – no one drank straight from the tap. The visitors ate it gratefully; both understood how, as guests, they were certainly eating better than their hosts.
“Just curious, but how do you keep kosher?” Turnbull asked. The kosher butchers and grocers had been targets early on of the anti-Zionist protests. At least, the government called them protests; “pogroms” was more accurate.
“We do what we can,” David replied. “This is nothing new. In fact, what it was before in America, that was something new for us. We could live openly, our own way, not bothered, not frightened. This is how our ancestors lived, so we can’t complain.”
“Why didn’t you leave?”
“This was our home. We thought it would pass. Some of us even welcomed the Split. They thought it would make for a fairer, more just society. After all, you red people were supposed to be anti-Semites, and anti-black, and anti-everything else.”
“A lot of Jews came over early on. They seem to be happy in the USA.”
“We waited too long and got stuck. That’s not unprecedented. We try and keep to ourselves, live our lives as He wishes. When they ended the religious tax exemptions, we lost our temple to the state. Most of the Christian churches were foreclosed too. Only a few are left, the ones they wouldn’t dare not give exemptions too. Black churches, some Catholic churches in the Latinx areas. But the ones in the suburbs? All closed down. There’s still one temple left in Beverly Hills, so we couldn’t get there even if we wanted to. The Jews who declared themselves non-believers still go and play at Judaism on the High Holidays. No prayers, no Torah, no Lord. Less a temple than a social club. The rabbi would probably eat bacon cheeseburgers if there were bacon cheeseburgers anymore.”