Color was creeping into Benny Regev's cheeks. And it wasn't there just because he was drunk.
"Tell me the truth," I said. "Did you put that money on his nightstand? That was a nice touch. That eliminated any possibility of a burglary gone wrong. Even a burglar too stupid to take everything Kaplon had in his pocket would have scooped up the money from the nightstand. Come on, share with me, Benny. How much money did you take? What was your score?"
He looked at me for a moment. "You're nuts. Out of your mind. I'm out of here."
He started to get up and I grabbed his forearm, right where a number would be stamped had he been born in the wrong place at the wrong time. "Don't go, Benny. Have another beer. Or are you afraid to get sick again? Like you were in that apartment when you saw the body. You left traces of your breakfast in the toilet, you know."
I was guessing now, as it could have been Kaplon who had thrown up. But the shocked look on Benny Regev's face was proof enough that I'd called it right.
I went on, "You're right about one thing: I was in the war. I saw dead bodies up close. Blood and guts spilled on the ground. I fought." I pointed a finger at his face. "And I will bet all I have that you have never fought a battle in your life. Otherwise, you wouldn't have gotten sick at the sight of some blood and one poor dead guy. You could have handled it like a grown man should. So tell me, what did a healthy-looking guy like you do in the war while other Jews fought and died so we could be free? Did you push papers across some desk or arrange supplies on a shelf in some warehouse? Or did you spend the entire war on the beach in Tel Aviv, working on your tan? Because I gotta tell you, a lot of us cowards from the camps fought and bled and died in that war. While you kept yourself safe."
There was shame in his eyes. He tried to hide it, but I saw it. He knew exactly who he was. He tried jerking his hand free, but I held on tight.
"Let me go," he said, lips contorted in pain, his voice rising. "And if you ever try to tell your lies about me taking money, I'll arrest you. So help me God, I will. Perhaps I'll do it anyway. A week in jail should teach you to keep your mouth shut."
I tightened my grip, and he winced. "You just try, Benny-boy, and I'll round up some witnesses who'll say how much money Yosef Kaplon had on him the night he died. People will talk. They'll wonder whether the money went into your pocket. Whether you scavenged it off a dead body. I know how it works, I told you that. I was an officer. You're not the first policeman to take money off a corpse, and you won't be the last. But all those other guys know how to do it without anyone noticing or talking about it. They won't like it when people start to question whether you took that money, because that question will be asked about other officers, too. They'll want to get rid of you then. Trust me. As I said, I know how it works."
I dug my fingers into the flesh of his forearm, the soft bit between the bones. I twisted my fingers, grinding his bones. He let out a small moan. "And if you're thinking about doing some other thing to me, reconsider. Go ask around about me. Find out what I did in the war." I looked at him. "I don't get sick when I see dead people, and I didn't get sick when I killed them, either. Do you understand?"
He turned his eyes away from mine and looked down at his feet. "I want to go," he said. His lower lip was trembling and his tone was pleading.
"Pay up for the beer and food and you can go," I said. He looked up. "You've already been paid for the information you've given me. The money you took from Yosef Kaplon should cover our bill here tonight and still leave you with more than you deserve." I let go of his arm. "So pay up, and get lost."
He did both.
8
I walked around Tel Aviv in a daze of fury. How I wished I were in Germany at that precise moment, hunting human monsters on the dark streets of Munich or Hamburg or Frankfurt. Anywhere but this city, where many of my people considered me a lunatic due to my past. Killing Nazis made more sense, and was certainly a more useful way to spend my time, than investigating the suicide of a man I had barely known prior to his death.
An hour or so after leaving the bar, I realized two things. The first was that I'd been clenching my teeth that whole time. The second was that I was not heading home as I had planned. I stopped at a nearby street corner and checked where I was. Then I knew where my subconscious was leading me.
My watch said that it was a quarter after ten. The streets were nearly deserted, some of the houses already dark for the night. It was too late for most people, but not too late for her.
Four minutes of brisk walking later, I knocked on her door. Wearing a man's button-down shirt and a knee-length black skirt, Sima Vaaknin opened the door and greeted me with a half smile that notched a deep dimple in her left cheek. At twenty-eight years of age, she could have been mistaken for seventeen. She was a beauty made of black and brown. Her hair was jet black and cascaded down past her shoulders in thick undulating waves. Her eyes were a dark shade of brown, like an aged tree that had weathered its share of storms and seasons. Her skin was a lighter brown than her eyes, the color of caramel. It made you want to taste her. Only her teeth were white and as even as piano keys. They shone between her pretty lips as she glanced up at me, leaning against the doorjamb. She bent her right leg, resting the sole against the side of her left knee. She was barefoot and a sliver of thigh peeked from beneath the raised hem of her skirt. She had lovely toes and a lovely thigh. All delicate unblemished brown.
"You look like hell." One eyebrow was raised in the shape of an upturned V and there wasn't a trace of concern in her voice. She wasn't about to ask me what was wrong with me. She had simply observed something and was commenting on it. "Should I be insulted?"
"Insulted?" I asked.
"That you would come calling on me looking so awful."
"Do I really look so bad?"
With her head tilted to one side, she said, "You look like you've been beaten." She tilted her head to the other side. "And you did not hit back. You have some pent-up energy."
Again, there was little emotion in what she said. There usually wasn't.
"I actually did beat back some," I said.
"But not enough. Not even close."
I rubbed my forehead. "Can I come in?"
She turned and went deeper into the apartment as an answer. I followed her in, shutting the door behind me. She padded over to a sofa and sat down with her feet drawn under her.
"How have you been?" I asked her. "Is everything all right?"
She laughed. She had a merry, lilting sort of laugh. Like that of a young child.
"You're funny. You know that, don't you? You're so chivalrous and caring. Even when you're in trouble, you first have to make sure that I'm all right."
"Am I in trouble?"
"Of course. At least you feel that you are. Otherwise you wouldn't be here. Each one of my acquaintances has his own reasons for coming here. Some come when they're lonely; some come when they're chatty; others come when they're angry at their wife or their boss or their life in general. Oddly, very few come simply because they're horny. Men are such complex creatures. They only act simple. But you—" she flicked her hand in my direction "—you come here when you're upset. And not just about anything. Not about small things. Not if you've had a fight with your neighbor or lost some money playing cards. You come here when you're wounded inside. Like you are now. I can see it in your eyes."
"You make it sound like I'm crazy," I said, and my voice quavered on the last word. Wasn't that what had been going through my mind on the walk from Café Tavor to her apartment, the fear that I was indeed crazy, as Mrs. Greenberg and Benny Regev assumed I must be? If so, I probably was, for coming to see Sima Vaaknin was a sort of madness in and of itself.