I glanced at my watch. 21:21. I returned the billfold to the box and the box to its hiding place in the closet. I laid Henrietta's picture on the nightstand. There would be time for it later.
It was time to head over to Rachel Weiss. It was time to shed some blood.
4
Rachel Weiss owned and operated a small restaurant on Hayarkon Street. The street ran parallel to the shoreline, close enough so I could hear waves breaking on the beach and smell the salty scent of the sea.
It was a little after ten when I arrived, finding the door to the restaurant locked. I pressed my face to the glass and peered inside. The main room was deserted and dark, apart from a wedge of light that spilled from somewhere near the rear wall. By the scant illumination I could make out outlines of tables topped with overturned chairs, looking like deformed trees. I rapped on the glass and saw a woman's shadow emerge from the lighted area and pause where the light inked away into darkness.
With hurried steps, the shadow moved toward me, and as she neared, I could make out Rachel Weiss's face. She unlocked the door and pulled it open.
"Thank God," she said as I stepped inside. She hastily relocked the door. "I was scared you wouldn't come."
I had told her I'd be there at ten. I apologized for being late, but offered no excuse. What could I have told her, that I'd lost track of time thinking about the Nazis I'd killed, and half-fantasized about returning to Germany to kill some more?
"It's all right," she said. "Now that you're here, I can stop worrying."
Her face belied her words. Even bathed in shadows, I could see anxiety written all over it, from her pinched mouth to her restless eyes. They kept shifting from the door to me and back again.
"Yes, you can. I'll take care of everything. After tonight you'll have no more problems." To my surprise, an echo of Greta's voice rang in my head, warning me against being arrogant. Irritated at the vagaries of my mind, I added, "Let's step away from the door."
We walked side by side toward the source of light. It came from the kitchen, which opened to the left near the back wall off the dining room. From its entrance I could see the street door, which meant that anyone standing there would also be able to see me. But that was easy to fix.
"Turn on the lights in the restaurant," I told her, and when she did, I flicked off the lights in the kitchen. This way, I would be shrouded by darkness, in prime position to surprise the man when he arrived.
"This is where I'll stand," I told Rachel Weiss. "When he comes, you open the door for him and lead him back toward me. Here." I pointed to a place toward the end of the serving counter, close to the kitchen. "All right?"
Rachel nodded shakily. She was on the short side, curvy and soft-looking, with straight brown hair that fell to her shoulders. The sort of hair that would easily part if you ran your fingers through it. Her eyes were a deep and warm brown, and her mouth, though on the small side, boasted finely shaped lips. Though not beautiful, she was pleasant to look at, even when, as now, her face was tight with tension and fear. She wore a brown dress that covered her from neck to ankle and was too warm for the season. But maybe she felt it afforded her some protection. I could understand why she would want to believe that.
I had first met her a week earlier at Greta's Café. We sat over coffee and she told me of her problem. Three weeks before, a man had appeared one evening at her restaurant. It was near closing time, and he had been the last customer. When he'd finished his beer, he took the empty glass with him and came toward where she stood behind the serving counter, tidying up. The man—he told her his name was Yuri—informed Rachel that instead of him paying for the beer, she would be giving money to him.
"Or bad things will happen," he had warned her, "to your place and to you. Understand?"
"But I didn't understand," Rachel Weiss had told me at Greta's. "I don't know why, but his words didn't register with me. It was like he had just told a very bad joke, and I didn't know how to react to it."
Partly it was his appearance. He was of unimpressive height and build, with a face so bland that, though he kept his eyes constantly narrowed and spoke with a sneer, he simply did not look tough or threatening. There was also the fact that his voice was high-pitched, verging on whiny. Said with that voice, his words inspired not fear but ridicule.
Yuri must have read something in Rachel's face that enraged him, because his expression turned ugly and, without warning, he hurled the empty beer glass at her.
"He didn't hit me," Rachel Weiss said. "The glass flew just past my left ear—" she raised a hand to within two inches of her face, showing me how close it had been "—and shattered on the wall behind me. After that, I no longer found him ridiculous. Now I was terrified of him."
She paid him what he wanted, without hesitation or argument. She could hardly think straight with the fear that had gripped her.
"He told me he'd be back the following week and to have the money ready for him. He warned me not to go to the police. 'The police won't be able to help you, and I'll know about it if you blab to them,' he said. 'I have friends there. If you open your mouth, I will hurt you. Understand?' This time I understood all right. So I kept quiet. Maybe I did not fully believe it had really happened. Maybe I convinced myself that he would not come back again."
"But he did," I said.
"Yes. He did. Exactly when he said he would. And I paid him again. He laughed when I handed him the money. I felt humiliated. That was worse than having to pay him."
I took a sip of coffee and chose not to articulate what was running through my mind. Yuri had laughed, I believed, because he knew he had just vaulted over his steepest hurdle. He himself had not been certain what sort of welcome would be waiting for him that day. But once Rachel Weiss had meekly handed him her money the second time, he knew that he had broken her resistance. This was now an established routine. He could count on her paying him every week. He might even be able to raise her weekly payment without the need for much arm twisting.
And that was what happened for the next two weeks. Twice Yuri came and twice Rachel paid him. This might have gone on for some time had he been satisfied with only money.
Three days before Rachel and I met, Yuri had come to collect once more. Rachel had handed him the money without argument. He pocketed it and then grinned at her. "You're sort of pretty, you know." His voice had taken on a different texture, like something slimy. It made her shiver. He reached for her and caressed her cheek with his full palm. The shiver evolved to a shudder. "Yes. Pretty." He lowered his hand and ran his eyes over her. "Soon we'll get to know each other a bit better. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"And then he left," Rachel told me, her eyes lowered, her cheeks flushed a bright red of shame. A tear cut a line across each inflamed cheek, and she began sobbing silently.
I did not try to comfort her. It was hard enough for her to tell me all this, a stranger. I did not wish to augment her embarrassment by intruding on it. But at that moment I swore that Yuri would pay a heavy price for his deeds. I hated all bullies, but those who preyed on women I hated more than most.
When she had ceased crying, Rachel said, "Him doing that—him touching me and threatening to do more—was like a spell had been broken. Doing nothing was no longer an option. I had to do something to stop him."
So she had come to me.
Greta had made the connection. The two women were friendly, and Greta was the sort of woman people confided in. As I had once helped Greta get rid of a similar problem, she suggested Rachel speak to me about it.
"Do you think it's true what he said," Rachel asked, "that he has friends in the police?"