The bartender was a slim man with thinning brown hair that had been carefully parted on the left side. His face was long and lean, with a soft jaw and chin. A pencil-thin mustache topped his upper lip, and light blue eyes flanked a narrow, hooked nose. He wore a pressed white shirt and a black bow tie. He reminded me of café waiters in Budapest before the war.
"What will you have?" he asked me, bringing out a cloth and making a show of wiping clean the section of bar I had claimed as my own.
"Do you water your beer?" I asked, recalling the watery brew I had in Holon in my meeting with Yossi Talmon.
He chuckled. "These days, nothing is pure. Everything is mixed with something else. But we don't add as much as other places do."
"All right. I'll have one."
He nodded and drew me a glass. He poured it slow and well, and the foam only took up an inch near the top of the glass. I took a slow sip. "Like you said, it's not pure. But it's not totally corrupt, either."
He laughed, and I sensed that it wasn't a laugh he offered merely as part of his service. I laid some money on the bar, and when he brought back my change, I took some of it and waved at the rest.
"For you," I said, taking another long sip.
He gave a nod of thanks before sweeping the coins into his hand. They disappeared somewhere below the bar.
"You haven't been here before," he said.
"First time. This is a nice place."
The left side of his mouth curled into a smile. "I do my best."
"What else do you serve that's good?" I asked.
"You mean food or drinks?"
"Neither."
He looked at me thoughtfully. "Are you a policeman?"
"No."
"You look like a policeman."
"I've been told that."
"It's something in your eyes. Okay, so you're not a policeman. But your question didn't just come out of thin air. You know what there is to be had here."
I glanced toward the dance floor. "Are they all working girls?"
He followed my eyes. "Not all of them. Not even half of them. As you said, this is a nice place. Couples come here to drink and dance and enjoy themselves. The rest is extra. Are you looking for anything specific? I am not a pimp, you need to understand. I simply allow working girls the use of my bar."
"For a fee, I suppose."
His cheeks reddened with indignation. "As I said, I am not a pimp. I do not charge the girls anything, nor do I try to claim ownership of them. I simply offer them a safe place to operate. It is safer here than being on the streets and better than other bars as well."
"I was too quick to judge," I said. "I apologize." And I meant it. He was right, probably more than he would have guessed. The most dangerous place for a prostitute was on the street. Here, in the bar, it was well lit and there were people around. True, once she left with a client, the prostitute would once more be alone and vulnerable, but a killer might be deterred by the fact that other people had seen his face when he picked her up in the bar.
The anger left his face. "Apology accepted. The truth is that they're good for business. They draw the men in, and as long as they are not too obvious about their business, female patrons don't seem to mind too much either. But you haven't told me what sort of woman you're looking for."
I took out the photograph of Maryam Jamalka that her brother had given me and set it on the bar. I pointed at it. "This one."
He looked at the picture, then up at me, suspicious.
"You are a policeman," he said.
I shook my head. "No."
"Then why are you looking for Miryam?"
"Miryam?" I said, frowning for a moment before realizing that Miryam was the Hebrew version of the Arab name, Maryam.
He blinked, realizing he had just admitted to knowing her.
"I don't want to get her into trouble."
"She won't get into any trouble," I said, figuring it was better to keep the fact of Maryam's death to myself for now. I felt uncomfortable lying to this man but knew it might be the best way to catch her killer off guard. "Her family is looking for her."
"Maybe she doesn't want to be found. Some of these girls, they didn't have a good family life."
"She talked about her family life?"
"No. She didn't talk a lot, that one. Not with me, at least."
"But she did talk with some of the other girls," I ventured.
He looked away toward the dance floor. I considered offering him money for the information, but I decided against it. He seemed genuinely protective of the women who plied their trade in his bar. I didn't think he would open up at the sight of a coin or a banknote. In fact, he might take it as an insult. He chewed his lower lip, and a line appeared between his eyebrows.
"You're worried about her," I said. "You haven't seen her for a while."
He scrutinized my face. He seemed to like what he saw because he let out a breath, walked down the length of the bar toward the dance floor, and signaled for someone to come. A curvy, red-haired young woman disengaged herself from her dance partner with a smile and a pat on the chest and sauntered over. Her black dress clung closely to her hips and breasts and displayed a wedge of pale flesh across the top of her chest. She leaned one elbow on the bar to the left of me, and I noticed the powder that covered her cheeks, forehead, and nose. She had painted her lips with bright red lipstick. She was trying too hard to make herself more beautiful.
"What is it, Akiva?" she asked, a little exasperated. Perhaps she was about to close the deal with the man she had been dancing with. Or perhaps she had simply enjoyed his company. She looked at me, and her gaze turned businesslike. She held out a hand the way a lady would, with the back of her hand up and her fingers curled down. "Hello, I'm Lydia."
"Adam," I said. I could smell alcohol on her breath.
"Well, Adam," she said, taking a big breath that made her chest heave, "what can I do for you?"
She wasn't unattractive, but as with her makeup, she was trying too hard to be seductive. On me it had the opposite effect than the one intended. Her accent was Eastern European. Something to the east of Hungary. Ukraine, or perhaps Russia.
Akiva said, "Lydia, this man is looking for Miryam. I haven't seen her here for a few weeks. Do you know where she is?"
She turned off the charm now that she discovered I was not interested in her. She looked at the bartender. "I was sort of busy, Akiva. Surely this can wait."
I put some money on the bar. "A few minutes of conversation, right here, and this is yours."
She glanced at the money, then at Akiva. "Is he all right?"
By which she meant, could I be trusted? Akiva gave me another quick look and nodded. "I think so," he said.
Lydia shrugged. She parked herself on the stool next to mine and scooped the money into a black leather purse.
"Get me a drink, will you, Akiva?"
He gave her something clear in a short glass. She gulped it down in one swallow, grimacing. A customer called for Akiva from the other end of the bar, and he went to him, leaving Lydia and me alone.
"Haven't seen Miryam for over a month," she said.
"You two are friends?"
She gave it some thought. "Not really. We just look out for each other. We girls have to stick together." She looked at me. Her eyes were light green and a bit bleary. "You know what we do."
"Yes."
"So we need to be there for each other, because no one else will. Oh, they'll take us to bed or to the backseat of their car, if they have one. They'll buy us a drink here, a drink there, but they won't be there for us in case we actually need them. Understand?"