I looked around, but the man I was there to see wasn't present. I checked my watch. It was ten thirty-five. He said he would be there before eleven o'clock. It looked like I was going to have to wait.
A burly man with receding hair and a thick black mustache worked the bar. He gave me a suspicious look when I approached. I was expecting it—I was the only Ashkenazi Jew present, the rest were Mizrahi Jews. The music playing in this club originated in North African countries—Morocco, Tunisia, Egypt—and was not the usual fare of Ashkenazi Jews. If I had to bet on it, I was the only Ashkenazi patron they'd had since they opened their doors. I ordered a beer. The bartender made no move to get me one. Perhaps he thought I was a policeman, there to hassle them. It was quite possible there was a card or dice game in some back room and the bartender was concerned I might be there to bust it. If he did, he was a fool, for no policeman in his right mind would raid a club by himself. Another possibility was he thought I was there to put the squeeze on them. Quite a few policemen supplemented their income that way. There was no point in finding out what was bothering him. I clanged some coins on the bar. "I'm not here to make trouble," I said. "Just want to enjoy the music for a while. Get me a beer, please."
He pressed his lips for a moment, then, wordlessly, got a tall glass and poured beer into it. He didn't tilt the glass, so the head accumulated, filling up half the glass. I didn't complain. Getting into a fight over cheap beer wasn't what I was there for.
I carried my glass to a vacant table, dropped into a chair, took a sip of the beer, and took in the band. The singer alternated between Hebrew and Arabic and was fluent in both. His voice was high and clear, and he delivered the lyrics in loopy ululations that curled around the room like flitting butterflies. The singer's skill, the rapid finger play across mandolin strings, and the lively beat of the percussionist gave an air of unbridled festivity, and there was an invitation in those songs, an exhortation to be happy, even when one's fortunes indicated a different emotion was in order.
The melodies were new to me, and when the song was in Arabic, the lyrics incomprehensible. Yet I found myself tapping the toe of my shoe to the beat of the music. It spoke to a deeper level than understanding and tugged at a basic rhythm within my body and mind. I wished I had arrived there earlier in the evening so I could have enjoyed more of the set.
Some of the patrons were slipping me suspicious looks similar to that given me by the bartender. I didn't pay them much mind, kept nursing my beer, and periodically checked my watch.
Shortly after eleven I saw Charlie Buzaglo enter the bar, a slim dark-haired girl in a tight-fitting black dress on his arm. He went to the bar, shook hands with the bartender, and waited while the latter poured him two tall glasses of a clear liquid. He gave one to the girl, took one for himself, and surveyed the club. It was dark, and apparently he didn't see me, because he led the girl to a table. They sat close together, his arm around her shoulders.
I rose, taking my near-empty glass with me, and went to his table.
"Hello, Charlie," I said.
He squinted up at me. "There you are. I've been waiting for you."
"Hardly," I said. "I've been here for twenty minutes."
"Well, anyway, it's good that you're here. We need to talk, you and I." He took his arm off the pretty girl, who up close looked not a day older than sixteen, and motioned at a vacant chair. I sat, looked at the girl, then back at Charlie. I raised an eyebrow. What we had to talk about was best discussed without an audience.
He nodded once, turned to the girl and said, "Revital, go sit at the bar for a while. I need to talk to Adam in private."
Revital pouted and didn't move. He waved his hand in a shooing motion.
"Go on now. It will only take a few minutes. Then I am all yours for the rest of the night."
She rose with an irritated sigh and strutted to the bar. Charlie watched her with keen eyes until she took a stool, lighting a long cigarette with a match provided by the bartender.
"She is something, isn't she?" he said, still looking at her.
"She's a little young, wouldn't you say?"
He turned to me and smiled. "She's old enough. Trust me on that."
I didn't smile back. I didn't like men who had romances with young girls. I didn't like Charlie Buzaglo. But I had done a job for him, and he had only paid a quarter of the total sum we'd agreed on when he hired me. I was there to collect the rest of it.
"You found your merchandise?" I asked.
Buzaglo's smile faded, and he gave me a long probing look. He was a wiry man, five foot seven in height, with a long, light-brown face topped by black hair that had been combed back and slicked with oil. His nose and chin were sharp and narrow, his mouth small and pinched. He looked like a pampered rat. His close-set eyes were narrow slits as he scrutinized me.
"Everything but Mordecai. He seems to have vanished into thin air."
Buzaglo was a smuggler who had been importing a variety of goods—food, alcohol, clothes, radios—that were rationed or hard to come by in Israel. He'd hired me a few weeks before, after one of his shipments arrived minus half its intended contents. Missing along with the goods was Mordecai Ohayon, one of Buzaglo's employees. Buzaglo had asked me to find the merchandise, hopefully before it got sold off on the black market, and to locate Ohayon as well.
I'd conducted a quick investigation, which led me to a small warehouse in the town of Herzliya, a few kilometers north of Tel Aviv. On a cot at the back of the warehouse I came across an unshaven and unkempt Mordecai Ohayon. He was asleep, with the hilt of a butcher knife peeking from beneath his thin pillow. When I woke him up, he nearly fainted. He bawled his heart out, begging me not to hurt him. He was sure I'd been sent to beat him to a pulp, if not worse. He never even went for the knife.
I quickly persuaded him that if he wanted to stay in one piece for much longer, running away was his best bet. He tried to take a few whiskey bottles with him as he left, but I wouldn't have it. I was not about to hand him over to Charlie Buzaglo, but I was not going to help him steal from my client either. I told Ohayon he should be happy to get away with all his bones unbroken and all his teeth in his mouth. He left empty-handed. I hoped, for his sake, that he went someplace far away.
Now, Charlie Buzaglo was dissatisfied with me for not delivering to his hands the man who stole from him.
"So you didn't get Mordecai," I said. "But at least the merchandise was all there. That's where you make your money from. So what's the problem?"
"It was all there. But I can't have people robbing from me and getting away with it unpunished."
"Apparently the man can't show his face in public. Isn't that punishment enough?"
"Perhaps," Buzaglo said. "But not quite what I had in mind."
Which was exactly why I didn't hand Ohayon over to him. I was no longer a policeman, and petty crime like a little smuggling did not interest me all that much. God knew, the black market had its uses. Without it, you couldn't get much proper food in Israel. If I had to guess, most of the population bought some items that were restricted. But what would happen to Ohayon if I handed him to Buzaglo was not like buying a little extra butter or meat. It would involve a good deal of violence and pain. I was not about to have that on my conscience. I reserved violent punishment for violent people and murderers, not petty thieves who stole from each other.