“Oh, not at all. There are two acres for me in his will.”
“Then why didn’t he mention it?”
“It would have been most discourteous and thoughtless. It would have placed me in the position of a greedy nephew who desired his death. No, he couldn’t possibly mention it.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” Beckman admitted.
Masuto drove on in silence for a while, and then he asked, apropos of nothing, “Are you a religious man, Sy?”
“What?”
“I mean, since you’re Jewish, you might belong to a synagogue.”
“That’s another matter entirely. You got kids, they got to have a bar mitzvah. It’s a matter of teaching. Religious? Well, we go on the High Holy Days. I ought to go more often, but you know the way it is.”
“Then you belong to a synagogue?”
“I belong. Why?”
“I’d like to talk to a rabbi. How about the rabbi at your place? Would he talk to me?”
“He’ll talk to anyone. You ever see a rabbi who didn’t like to talk?”
“Where’s the synagogue?”
“On La Cienega, south of Wilshire.”
“Would he be there now, or at home?”
“Let’s see-today’s Thursday, and if I remember that’s the sisterhood night. They meet at eight, so he should be back at the synagogue by seven-thirty. It’s just seven now. What do you want to talk to him about?”
“Jews.”
“Why don’t you talk to me?”
“I thought I’d get an expert opinion.”
“I figured maybe you wanted to be converted. You know, its a thing in Japan now. I was reading how a whole group of Japanese went and settled in Israel. You know, they tell the story about the Jewish tourist. Wherever he went, he’d look up the local synagogue. So he comes to Tokyo and he looks up the local synagogue and goes to the Friday night service. When the service is over, he goes up to the rabbi, tells him he’s a Jew from New York. The rabbi looks at him and says, ‘That’s funny. You don’t look Jewish.’”
He waited. “You’re not laughing,” he said to Masuto.
“I appreciate it.”
“Maybe you didn’t get the point. You see, the rabbi was Japanese, and when he looks at this guy-”
“I got the point.”
“But you’re not laughing.”
“I told you, Sy, I appreciate it.”
“Maybe it’s a question of a Jewish sense of humor-” Beckman began, and Masuto burst out laughing. “Now what’s funny about that?”
It was just a few minutes after seven-thirty when they reached the synagogue. “You know, my wife’s going to be here,” Beckman said, “and the kids are at home raising hell by themselves, and she hasn’t seen me since three o’clock in the morning when the captain woke me up, and she’s going to burn my ass, so let’s get out of here before eight by a side door or something, and anyway I am half asleep, and God almighty if I get woken up tonight, I quit this lousy job.”
They were told that the rabbi was in his study. They walked through the foyer of the synagogue and down a hallway, and Beckman opened the door for Masuto. It was a pleasant room, walls lined with books, a desk, and behind the desk a round-faced man with glasses. He rose as they entered. “Seymour,” he said to Beckman, “this is a nice surprise.”
“Seymour?” Masuto whispered.
“This is Detective Sergeant Masuto,” Beckman said hastily. “Rabbi Schineberg.”
“Sit down,” the rabbi said, indicating two chairs on either side of his desk. “Masuto. Nisei, yes?”
Masuto nodded.
“Beverly Hills police. Interesting. We’re becoming civilized. What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“He wants an expert opinion about Jews,” Beckman said sourly.
“Then you shouldn’t come to me. I’m totally biased. I like Jews. That’s how I earn my living.”
“The fact is,” Masuto said, “that I want to talk to you about the Jewish Defense League.”
“I understand them but I don’t approve of them,” the rabbi said unhappily. “They’re the result of history, and in my opinion, they’re most often misguided.”
“You can take the rabbi’s word for that,” Beckman said.
“You know members of the organization personally?”
“Some of them.”
“What do they stand for, Rabbi? What is their purpose?”
“You know that they believe in militant action-for the most part in favor of easing Soviet emigration standards for the Jews who wish to leave. They hold on to the memory of the holocaust of World War Two, the slaughter of six million Jews, as their central focus, and they believe that only by their militant and sometimes, unfortunately, irresponsible protests can they be effective.”
“How militant?”
“Well, I’m sure you’ve read reports in the newspapers.”
“Tell me this-do you believe that members of this organization could take part in a cold-blooded, premeditated murder?”
“No! Absolutely not!”
“Why not?”
“It’s unthinkable. I know so many of them. They’re hotheaded, excitable, but premeditated murder-no.”
“What about you, Sy?” he asked Beckman.
“You wanted an expert opinion.”
“I got it. Give me your nonexpert opinion.”
“I agree with the rabbi.”
“Rabbi,” said Masuto, “do you have a colleague in Las Vegas who is a personal friend of yours?”
“That’s an odd question. It happens that I do. Rabbi Bealson at the Conservative Temple in Las Vegas is an old friend.”
“Well, I have a request as odd as the question, and I would not make it except that I am very tired and trying to prevent something from happening that could be very terrible, and without knowing what I am trying to prevent or what will happen.”
The rabbi thought about it for a long moment, and then asked, “How do you know it will be very terrible?”
“Because I have been a policeman for many years, and because I learned to sense things. That’s not a very good answer, is it?”
“Tell me something, Sergeant Masuto, are you a Christian or a Buddhist, or perhaps simply a person without any particular faith, as so many are these days?”
“I am a Zen Buddhist.”
“Interesting. What is your request?”
“I would like you to call your friend in Las Vegas and ask him whether he knows a man, a booking agent, named Jack Stillman.”
“Why should he know him?”
“Stillman lives in Las Vegas. I think he’s Jewish.”
“Still, Las Vegas is a large place. It seems a most peculiar request.”
“If you feel it’s out of line-” Masuto spread his hands.
Both Beckman and the rabbi stared at Masuto for a few moments. Then the rabbi consulted his desk directory, found the number he wanted, and dialed it.
“Rabbi Bealson, please,” he said. And a moment later, “Larry, this is Hy Schineberg in Los Angeles.” Pause. “Yes, too long. But you’ll have to make it here. My congregation watches me too carefully for me to get away to Vegas.” Pause. “No, I’m calling at the request of an interesting policeman. Do you happen to know a Jack Stillman? He lives in Vegas and he’s a booking agent.” Now the rabbi listened. “Now that is odd, very odd indeed. Thank you, Larry.” Pause. “Soon, I trust.”
He put down the telephone and stared at Masuto, smiling slightly. “Well, Sergeant Masuto, the world is full of interesting coincidences.”
“I don’t think that what you are going to tell me is a coincidence.”
“Do you know what I am going to tell you?”
“I can guess. I would probably be wrong.”
“All right, let’s see. First of all, Jack Stillman is Jewish. He is not a member of Rabbi Bealson’s congregation, although he was, very briefly, when he married his first wife, whom he recently divorced. Shall I continue, or would you like to guess?”
“Would one of you please tell me what this is all about?” Beckman demanded.
Masuto liked the rabbi. A part of Masuto’s life was a game, and he had the feeling that the rabbi understood this particular game.
“Let me guess. Stillman was connected with the Jewish Defense League.”