The rabbi had a surfeit of homes offering him sumptuous meals on tables set with silver and the good china, with everyone on their good behavior, listening with polite attention as he discoursed on the moral issues of the day. Her home, she was sure, was the only home in the rabbi's congregation where he was greeted by the man of the house calling out, "Lock up the booze, the rabbi's here."
She didn't think the rabbi sat with his tie pulled down and his shoes off in anyone else's basement, sucking beer from the bottleneck watching the fights on TV, or arguing politics loudly, or laughing deep in his belly at Lowenstein's recounting of the most recent ribald story of theSchwartzes or the Irishers or the wops in the Roundhouse.
The rabbi needed a respite from the piety of the congregation, and Matt gave it to him. That was a contribution to the congregation, too, more important, Sarah had come to understand, than having Matt serve on the Building Committee or whatever.
And it worked the other way too. When Matt had been a lieutenant in the 16^th District, and had to shoot a poor, crazy hillbilly woman who had already used a shotgun to kill her husband and was about to kill a cop with it, and was as distraught as Sarah had ever seen him, Rabbi Steve had gone off with him and Denny Coughlin to the Jersey shore for four days.
All three of them had bad breath and bloodshot eyes when they came back, but the terrible look was gone from Matt's eyes and that was all, Sarah thought, that really mattered.
Rabbi Kuntz had "dropped by" ten minutes before Lowenstein came home, fifteen minutes late, to announce that he had run into Mickey O'Hara and invited him and his girlfriend for supper.
"You could have called," Sarah said. "They have telephones all over. What time's he coming?"
"They.He's bringing his girlfriend. I told him half past six."
"If I had a little warning, I could have made a roast or something. Now I don't know what I'm going to do."
"Go to the deli," Lowenstein said, grinning at Kuntz. "Mickey's a smart Irisher. He likes Jew food."
"You're terrible," Sarah said. "You think that would be all right?"
"Of course it would," Lowenstein said. "Get cold cuts and hot potato salad."
"Well, all right, I suppose."
"You really like that coffee, or would you rather have a beer? Or a drink?"
"I think I'll finish the coffee and go," the rabbi said.
"Don't be silly. Mickey's always good for a laugh. You look like you could use one."
"I'd be in the way."
"Beer or booze?"
"Beer, please."
"Don't be polite. I'm going to have a stiff drink. It's been a bad day."
"Beer anyway."
"Samuel's not home yet, so don't go in the basement," Sarah said as she took her coat off a hook by the rear door. "You wouldn't hear the doorbell."
"Where is he?"
"He called and said he would be studying with the Rosen girl, Natalie."
"That's what they call that now, 'studying'?"
"He must have had a bad day, Rabbi, excuse him, please," Sarah said, and went out the door.
"A bad bad day?" Kuntz asked. "Or an ordinary, run-of-the-mill bad day?"
Lowenstein took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and handed it to Kuntz, and then made himself a stiff Scotch, with very little ice or water, before replying.
"Maybe in the middle of that," Lowenstein said, raising his drink and adding "Mazeltov."
"Mazeltov,"the rabbi replied.
"I spent a painful hour and a half-closer to two, really-before lunch with the commissioner and the mayor," Lowenstein said. "Most of it strained silence, which is actually worse than an exhibition of his famous Neapolitan temper."
"What about?"
"That young Italian cop who got himself shot down by Temple University. You know what I'm talking about?"
Kuntz nodded. "It's been in the papers."
"Has it really?" Lowenstein said bitterly. "There was another editorial in today'sLedger, you see that one?"
Kuntz nodded.
"We have no idea who shot him or why," Lowenstein said. "Not even a hunch. And the mayor, who is angry at several levels, first, giving him the benefit of the doubt, as a cop, and then as an Italian, and then, obviously, as a politician, getting the flack from the newspapers, and not only theLedger, is really angry. Frustrated, maybe, is the better word."
"Which makes him angry."
"Yeah."
"And he's holding you responsible?"
"He took the job away from me-technically away from Homicide, but it' s the same thing-and gave it to Special Operations. I think he now regrets that."
"Special Operations isn't up to the job?"
"You know Peter Wohl? Runs Special Operations?"
Kuntz shook his head no.
"Very sharp cop. His father is a retired chief, an old pal of mine. Peter was a sergeant in Homicide. He was the youngest captain in the Department, and is now the youngest staff inspector. Just before Carlucci gave him Special Operations, he put Judge Findermann away."
"I remember that," Kuntz said. "So why can't he find the people who did this?"
"For the same reason I couldn't; there's simply nothing out there to find."
"But wouldn't you have more resources in the Detective Division? More experienced people?"
"Wohl took the two best homicide detectives away from Homicide, with the mayor's blessing," Lowenstein said. "And I passed the word that anything else he wants from the Detective Division, he can have. The way it works is that if you don't get anything at the scene of the crime, then you start ringing doorbells and asking questions. Wohl's people have run out of doorbells to ring and people to question. Hell, there's a twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward out-Nesfoods International put it up-and we haven't gotten a damned thing out of that, either."
"And the mayor knows all of this?"
"Sure. And I think one of the reasons he's so upset is that he knows he couldn't do any better himself. But that doesn't get the newspapers off his back. I had a very unkind thought in there this morning: The only reason Carlucci isn't throwing Peter Wohl to the wolves-"
"This man Wohl was there?"
"Yeah. Wohl and Denny Coughlin too. As I was saying, the only reason he hasn't already thrown Wohl to the wolves is because he knows that whoever he would send in to replace him wouldn't be able to do a damned thing Wohl hasn't already done. And he-Carlucci-would look even worse if his pinch hitter struck out."
"Yes, I see."
"Shooting a cop is like shooting the pope," Lowenstein said. "You just can't tolerate it. So you throw all the resources you can lay your hands on at the job. We've done that, and that hasn't been good enough. But there's other crimes in the city, and you can't keep it up. Not even if it means that for the first time in the history of the City of Philadelphia, a cop killer will get away with it."
"Really? This has never happened before?"
"Never," Lowenstein said. "Not once. And, at the risk of repeating myself, you can't let anyone get away with shooting a cop."
"So what will happen?"
Lowenstein shrugged his shoulders and threw up his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
"And two other little items to brighten my day came to my attention," he said. "One connected to the Magnella-that's the name of the young cop-job. Interesting problem of ethics. You know Captain Frieberg, Manny Frieberg?"
"Sure."
"He's got the 9^th District. One of my boys. Good cop. There are those that say I'm his rabbi."
"I've heard the term," Rabbi Kuntz said with a chuckle.
"He came to see me just before I went to see the mayor. At half past three this morning, one of his cars answered a call about a body in a saloon parking lot. It wasn't a body. It was a passed-out drunk. Specifically, it was one of the hotshot homicide detectives I mentioned a moment ago, who were transferred from Homicide to Peter Wohl. He passed out, fortunately, between the barroom door and his car, so he didn't have a chance to run into the cardinal archbishop or a station wagon full of nuns."