"Take it. It's yours. Let me go and I'll give you more. Okay?"
I shook my head again and counted out a sum equal to the retainer he'd given me when he hired me. I folded the bills and stuck them in my pocket. The rest I stuffed back in his wallet and placed it on his stomach.
"I did half the work, so I should get half the pay," I said. "I don't want any more of your money."
He just looked at me. He didn't understand me. That was all right. If he did, it would have meant I was doing something wrong.
"So that settles what you owe me for my work. But there is the matter of you trying to break some of my bones."
He started shaking his head, but I held up a hand. It was my right hand, and the sight of the knife and the smeared blood made him draw a sharp intake of breath.
"Don't waste my time. Your friend and I had a talk." When his gaze went over my shoulder, I added, "He's gone to take care of his wounds. We're all alone."
He kept quiet, which was smart. A part of me was itching to beat him up some more. I took a deep calming breath.
"The only smart thing you did, Charlie, was that you didn't come to kill me. You see, I don't like to kill people. I only kill those I have to. And I'm thinking that maybe I don't have to kill you. If you came to kill me, then it would be different. But you didn't, so you get to wake up tomorrow with sore ribs and nothing more. But if you ever come after me again, I will kill you. Is that clear?"
He nodded, his eyes wide with disbelief. He couldn't believe I was letting him go so easy, and without even emptying his wallet.
I held out my left hand to him. He cringed, thinking I was about to strike him. He looked at my hand for a moment before taking it gingerly. I jerked him to his feet and got a sick pleasure when he groaned and grimaced in pain.
We stood looking at each other for thirty seconds or so. Then he looked at his feet, turned and walked quickly away. I stood watching until he disappeared around a corner. I folded the knife and held it in my hand all the way home. When I got to my apartment, I washed my knife and then washed myself. I got into bed and closed my eyes. I knew the nightmares that usually haunted my sleep would not torment me that night. I always slept well at the end of bloody days.
7
The next day was Friday. I got up early, restless and impatient. After eating a quick breakfast of bread and margarine and coffee with powdered milk, I went to the corner and entered Levinson Drugstore.
Like the vast majority of people in Israel, I did not have a telephone in my apartment. A home telephone was considered a luxury; the only people who had them were doctors, army officers, politicians, and government officials. There were two such men on Hamaccabi Street, but neither offered the use of his phone to his neighbors. The only phone available to the public was in Levinson Drugstore on the corner of Hamaccabi and King George.
The phone was attached to a meter that calculated what you owed for the call. Each call was limited to fifteen minutes at the most, so as not to create a long line of impatient neighbors. The time limit was maintained with polite but implacable strictness by Mrs. Levinson, who ran the store with her husband.
Luckily, I only had to wait for three minutes for the telephone. I called Reuben.
"Tell me you have something for me," I said.
"Good morning, Adam," he said. "I do indeed. I spoke with Sergeant Talmon, and he has agreed to meet with you."
"When and where?"
"At nine thirty tomorrow night at a café in Holon." Reuben gave me the name of the café and the address.
"Why Holon? Does Talmon live there?"
"I was asking myself the same question, but as far as I know, he lives in Tel Aviv. I have no idea why he would drag you and himself to Holon at such an hour."
I did, but I said nothing.
Reuben went on, "It wasn't easy to persuade him to talk to you, Adam. At first he didn't want to hear of it and was quite brusque when I told him what case you were interested in."
"Maybe he doesn't like the idea of civilians being involved in police matters."
"Maybe, but I think there was something else there. When I first mentioned the name Maryam Jamalka, Talmon got quite upset. He asked who told me about her, and for a moment I considered not giving him your name."
"And in the end?"
"I talked to him some more, and he suddenly changed his tune and said I could arrange the meeting."
"Good. You did good, Reuben. Thank you."
"Just a second, Adam. Talmon was acting very strange. He made me swear not to tell anyone but you about our talk and his agreeing to see you. And he also told me I must not speak to anyone else in the department about the case."
"Did he give a reason for all this secrecy?"
"No. I asked him, and he told me it was none of my business. It's the first time in my career that such a thing has happened."
"I see," I said, though in truth, I was not sure that I did. Since when was a murder case treated like a military secret?
"You must also keep this to yourself, Adam. At least until you meet with him and see what's gotten him all upset."
"I'll tell no one, Reuben."
"I wouldn't want to be caught in the middle of some departmental power struggle or whatever the hell this is."
"No one will know you're involved. Not from my lips, they won't."
He let out a breath of relief, and I cursed myself for involving him in this case. Reuben had saved my life. I would have gladly given my life to save his. I wanted no harm to come to him. There was something fishy going on with this case, and I had no clue what it was. I needed to make sure Reuben would not be harmed by my actions.
"I have to get off the phone, Reuben. Don't worry. Your part in this is over. I'll meet Talmon and see what's going on. I'm sure none of it will ever get to you."
"I hope you're right, Adam."
"Sure I am. Thanks for all your help, Reuben. Forget about this whole thing, and we'll talk soon."
I hung up, went out to the street, and leaned against a stone fence with a cigarette burning between two fingers. I ran my mind over my conversation with Reuben and added Ahmed Jamalka's impressions of the investigation the police were conducting. What it added up to was that there was a murder about which the police were doing very little, and it was shrouded in such secrecy that not even police officers were supposed to know about it. I couldn't figure out a reason for these two facts and gave up trying once my cigarette had burned its way to half an inch from my fingers. I would know tomorrow, I hoped. When I met with Sergeant Yossi Talmon.
8
Holon was a city that, like Tel Aviv, had risen out of the dunes of the coastal plain of Israel. But unlike its sister to the north, Holon did not develop into a culture and nightlife center, but remained a bedroom community peopled by hardworking men and women of low to moderate income. The residents of Holon mostly worked as day laborers in construction projects throughout the Tel Aviv district, or they held various blue-collar jobs in small workshops and factories in the area. Many were employed in the local textile factory. Holon's buildings showed none of the flare of the Bauhaus architecture of Tel Aviv. They eschewed artistry in favor of functionality. Consequently, the streets of Holon were lined with tenements of gray-brown stone with a rough exterior and a modest, utilitarian interior.
I got off the bus at the Holon terminal and made my way west. Men in undershirts and women in plain dresses stood smoking on open balconies. Screeching cats fought turf wars over garbage cans. Open windows let out the sounds of radios and family squabbles, along with a confusing mix of cooking scents. I had never been in Holon before, and I lost my way a couple of times before I found the café Sergeant Yossi Talmon had designated as our meeting place.