"Where do you suppose he is?" Buzaglo asked.
Cyprus, I hoped, for Ohayon's sake. Or maybe somewhere in Europe. I had no idea if he had the money for such a trip. If he was still in Israel, I hoped he was staying low and far away from Tel Aviv.
I said, "He could be anywhere. Out of the country, even."
"This presents us with a problem."
"A problem?"
"Yes. I hired you to find my property and Mordecai. But you haven't found Mordecai. And you're not going to find him, are you?"
I shook my head. "I'm done with this job."
He raised an eyebrow at the disgusted tone of my voice. Truth was, I regretted taking the job in the first place. Working for the likes of Charlie Buzaglo was not how I wanted to spend my time.
Charlie said, "So I'm asking myself why I should be paying you anything."
"Because I got you your goods back," I said.
"Yes. But that wasn't the whole job. I paid you to do two things, and you only did one. You didn't do what I hired you for. You should get nothing from me."
I looked at him, with his open-to-mid-chest black shirt and the thin gold-plated bracelet dangling from his wrist. He was a low-life criminal, and I felt dirty just sitting at the same table with him. In a way, it was my fault for taking the job in the first place. I now wished I'd let Mordecai Ohayon take those bottles with him.
"In fact," Buzaglo was saying, "I want you to give back the money I gave you as a retainer."
I raised an eyebrow, thinking he was joking. There wasn't a trace of a smile on his face. Now I understood why he had told me to come to this nightclub in Jaffa to get the rest of my money. He was a regular here, and I was the outsider. If I started anything, there would be five men on me in seconds.
I pushed my chair back and got to my feet. "I don't want your money. Nothing you pay me will make being in your presence worthwhile. But I'm not giving you a single lira back. What you paid me will cover my work in getting you your goods back."
His mouth tightened and his eyes flashed malevolently. For a moment I thought he was going to jump me, and I got ready to punch him in the face and then run for the door. But he stayed in his seat, his ratlike eyes glaring at me. He didn't even respond to my insults.
He slouched back in his chair and waved a hand dismissively at me. "All right," he said. "Go. Get out of here."
I didn't need to be told twice. I put my hand in my pocket, over the knife, and walked quickly to the door. I could feel eyes on me, escorting me on my way, making sure I really left.
6
I pushed the door of the club open and stepped outside. It swung shut behind me with a bang, muffling the sound of the band within. Only when I drew my first breath back on the sidewalk did I realize how smoky the nightclub had been. I coughed once to clear my throat, wishing I had some water with me. I took my hand out of my pocket and unclenched the other one. I had unconsciously made a fist with it.
The street was dark and deathly quiet, with less than half the streetlights casting desultory cones of hazy yellow illumination on the dirty pavement below. No lights showed from the windows of the apartments along both sides of the street. The inhabitants had settled in for the night. The only cars in sight were parked. The sidewalks were empty and thick with fathomless shadows.
I started walking away from the bar, and before I made it to the corner, the sound of the music got louder for a second or two, then diminished again. Someone had come out of the bar a minute or so after I did. I turned the corner, focusing my ears on the street behind me, trying to filter out all other sounds.
The city was never silent. There were always the sounds of vehicles, even at night, even when the street you were walking on was empty. There was the hum of streetlights, the burble of a radio playing melancholy night music, the hooting and squawking of nocturnal birds, the scrabbling of rats scouting for their dinner in inadequately closed trash cans. Still, as I walked that dark Jaffa street, I could make out the light thud of footsteps behind me. One or perhaps two sets of feet. Not running but walking at a brisk pace, faster than I was.
I crossed the street, so what had been to the back of me was now to the right, and I allowed myself a quick glance rightward, as if making sure that no car was coming my way. I spotted two shadows a hundred and fifty meters or so behind me. They moved and then abruptly stopped, trying to avoid being detected. That was a mistake because it answered the question that was running through my mind—were these men after me?
One of the shadows was tall and thick, the other shorter and narrower. It seemed that Charlie Buzaglo was not about to let me walk away with the retainer he'd paid me. He was coming to get it, or whatever there was in my pockets, and had some goon along with him. I cursed myself for my stupidity in agreeing to come to that bar at night without my Luger. But at least I'd brought the knife. I wasn't a total fool.
A warm tingle swept through my torso and arms. There was some part of me that welcomed the coming fight. For a fight was coming. I wasn't about to run. I was going to face them, and I was going to do it alone. There were no police cruising these streets, and calling for help would be pointless and even counterproductive. The residents of these streets were unlikely to come to my assistance, and I would be advertising to my pursuers that I was aware of their pursuit. Facing two men was not my idea of good odds. But at least they weren't expecting me to have the knife, and they didn't know that I knew they were coming after me. If I could surprise them, I would have a good chance of taking them both down.
I took a left and followed it with a quick right. I kept my pace even, the walk of an oblivious quarry, just taking in the night air, allowing the two men on my tail to slowly narrow the distance between us. I lost track of what street I was on—the signage was bad and I did not know this part of the city very well. A plan of action was formulating in my mind, but I needed the right place to put it into action. And the right timing. I kept my ears open, trying to gauge the distance of the two men at my back. The hair on the nape of my neck was prickling, and I was suddenly cold and wondering whether one of them had a gun. Could he be pointing it at my back that very second?
I decided that was unlikely. They would have rushed me if they had a gun. They could have shot me dead already.
Up ahead I saw a turn into a narrow cross street no wider than an alleyway. It was dimly lit along its middle, but both sides were pitch black, the kind of darkness that swallows all light and all hope of light as well. It was so dark that, a meter into the alley, you couldn't make out the walls on either side. I gingerly stepped into the alley, the stink of garbage and urine clogging my nostrils. Thirty meters ahead, the light from a connecting street could be seen. It was as good a place as any to make my stand. I shifted toward the wall to my right, flattened my back against it, and took out the knife, placing my finger on the spring button. My heart was pounding in my ears, and I imagined I could hear my breath as loud as a storm wind. My forehead was drenched in sweat and droplets hung in my eyebrows, some sliding down my cheeks in slick, tear-wide lines. Despite the stench, I took deep, slow, quiet breaths through my nose and tried to calm myself down. They had not been far behind me by that time. Forty meters or less. Soon.
Then I saw them, one tall and one medium in height, at the mouth of the alley, their frames backlit by the streetlights. The big one was carrying something in his hand. A knife? A billy club?