I couldn't help but think that twice in her life, Maryam Jamalka had lost her family because of what Sima Vaaknin called "her hopeless romanticism." The first time she fell in love with a man of the wrong faith and lost her birth family. The second time her lover was a man of the wrong profession, and that cost her a woman who had treated her like a sister. In both cases, the men she'd loved had taken advantage of her. The first of these men was dead. The second was still nameless, his fate unknown. I had to find this second man, this pimp for whom Maryam had lost Sima and given up her apartment on Hovevei Tsiyon Street.
A little after eight, I said goodnight to Greta and exited the café. I walked south, enjoying the cool air, and for a while I let my mind go where it pleased. Thoughts came and went without order or direction, and none stuck or came forward to demand my attention. I walked all the way to Elifelet Street and got to Club Adom at a quarter after nine.
It wasn't as busy as the night before, and the crowd seemed to lean more towards couples than men looking to feast their eyes or other parts of their anatomy on young, purchasable women. I didn't see Lydia, but Akiva was manning the bar, once again sporting a black bow tie.
He smiled when he saw me and began drawing me a beer before I had a chance to ask for one. I laid money on the bar, and he made it disappear.
"Did you meet with Sima?" he asked me.
I nodded and sipped some beer. I kept my eyes on my glass, feeling him peering at me. Finally I looked up and met his eyes. "You're wondering if I slept with her."
Now it was his turn to look down. He cleared his throat and I regretted being so blunt. I was about to say I was sorry when he spoke. "I was wondering if you learned anything about Miryam."
"A little. Sima told me about meeting her and bringing her here." I decided not to say anything about visiting Maryam's old apartment. No use having people from this part of her life snooping around that part. What I said was, "Sima told me that a few months ago, Miryam got seriously involved with someone. A pimp."
Akiva blinked and his eyes narrowed in a frown.
"Do you know anything about that?" I asked.
"No. It's no secret that I don't like pimps, and if I ever found one hanging around here, I would throw him out. The girls know that. But I don't doubt that some of them have boyfriends who are little more than pimps. I can't do anything about what happens outside these walls."
"Do you remember someone sitting around while Miryam was here working? He would have likely sat by himself, not gotten into conversation with any of the girls, including Miryam." Akiva was shaking his head till I mentioned that the guy looked "slimy," which stopped the shaking abruptly and made Akiva's eyes widen.
"There was someone. Thin, dressed in black clothes. Had black hair, combed back and shiny. Probably used Brilliantine or some other similar product. He never sat at the bar, always at a table by the wall. And always alone. That's unusual. Most people come here with company, and those that come alone usually intend on getting company of the paid-for variety."
"Was he ever here on nights when Miryam wasn't?"
Akiva thought it over. "No. I couldn't say so with any certainty, but I think he never was. I hadn't noticed it at the time. I don't recall them coming in together or ever speaking with each other."
"Probably because she knew what you thought of pimps."
"Probably so."
"When did he start coming by here?"
"I couldn't say."
"I don't need an exact date, Akiva. Just an estimate."
Akiva shut his eyes and took a deep breath to help his concentration. "Oh, I'd say three months ago, maybe a couple of weeks earlier than that."
"And the last time you saw him?"
He had been polishing a glass with a rag, and his hands paused as the answer came to him. He looked at me with rounded eyes. "The night she was arrested. I remember that distinctly. He was sitting right there at that table when the policeman handcuffed Miryam. I remember her turning her head in his direction. I couldn't see her expression and she didn't say anything, but she could have been looking right at him. When the policeman led her out, the man quickly followed. He never came back in. Come to think of it, he didn't even settle his tab that night."
"And after Miryam was released, when she came here?"
"I don't remember seeing him again," Akiva said. "I'm pretty sure he never returned."
I drank the rest of my beer while he went to pour drinks and exchange pleasantries with other patrons. It seemed I had uncovered another pivotal moment in the final months of Maryam Jamalka's life. The first was when Sima and she broke contact over the new man in Maryam's life. The second came shortly after, when Maryam gave up her apartment, again because of the man. The third was her arrest. It marked a change in her behavior, and it was the last time her pimp had been seen in Club Adom.
And the arrest itself was unusual. Normally, I had learned from my talk with Lydia, prostitutes were not taken into custody, and they weren't subjected to a three-day stay in jail. They came to some accommodation with the arresting officer and were let go. Why had Maryam's arrest been different?
I had the name of the arresting officer from the crime report Yossi Talmon had given me. I could go talk to him or ask Reuben to sniff around for me. Either approach was problematic. If I talked to the arresting officer, it might make it to Inspector Rosen's ears, and so far I'd been able to avoid coming to his attention. And as for Reuben, I did not want to involve him any deeper in this case. Not unless I had to.
For now, I was still making progress on my own. I would reconsider my options if and when I hit a dead end.
When Akiva finished with the other customers and came back to stand across the bar from me, I asked him if Lydia might know who the man was, and he said that she might.
"Has she been around tonight?" I asked.
"Not yet. She isn't here every night, but she might still show up."
He wrinkled his face when I asked him about the hotel that the prostitutes took men to.
"It's a sleazy place. Wouldn't sleep there if you paid me."
"Do you have the address?"
He did and he wrote it down for me. He gave me a long look as he handed me the paper. "Ever since our talk the night before, I've been thinking."
"What about?"
"About Miryam and her not coming around here no more, and you asking all these questions. Should I be worried about her?"
"No," I said, and it was the truth, but not the way he meant it. Worrying about Maryam Jamalka, or Miryam Cohen, as he thought of her, was pointless. She was beyond worry or help.
"Somehow that doesn't convince me. I keep thinking she might be in trouble somehow, or…" His face turned pale and he swallowed so hard his Adam's apple wobbled like a buoy in a stormy sea. "I can't bring myself to say it."
"So don't," I said. "Don't say it."
He rubbed his mouth and cheeks. "Why not? Do you think it will change anything? Like the evil eye or something?"
"No," I said. "Words change nothing. Bad things happen with or without them. But if they make you feel bad or sad or sick to your stomach, then don't say them."
He nodded shakily. "All right. I won't."
At that moment Lydia walked in. She tottered a bit, steadying herself on the back of a chair. She was wearing a clinging black skirt that stopped above her knees and a low-cut white blouse that showed a portion of her breasts. She came over to the bar and leaned on it in a way that brought emphasis to her bust. She smelled of cigarettes and alcohol and an underlying scent of recent sexual contact. She flashed me a lascivious smile. "You've changed your mind? You're here for me?"