Miles To Go E-Book

W.L. Liberman

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Mo and Birdie are back in their element, swimming against the tide.

Mo is seriously conflicted about life, love, family and religion. Without Birdie to guide him, Mo would simply be a rudderless canoe drifting aimlessly with the current.

After they're summoned to solve a brutal murder in Yidtown, Toronto's Jewish quarter, Mo realizes he knows the victim, Mendel Black. A class-A putz, now with a steak knife in his heart, he just happens to be married to Mo's soulmate, Miryam. Their first meeting in over 14 years will not be the happiest of reunions.

Navigating a maze of various suspects, incl. Miryam herself, it turns out that the victim was not an ideal husband, son, brother or businessman, and the duo needs to unravel the various schemes and angles he worked. But who wanted him dead, and can Mo & Birdie catch the killer in time?

Leseprobe

MILES TO GO

MO GOLD AND BIRDIE MYSTERIES BOOK 2

W. L. LIBERMAN

CONTENTS

1. Toronto 1961

2. Toronto 1961

3. Toronto 1961

4. Toronto 1961

5. Toronto 1938

6. Toronto 1961

7. Haifa, 1947

8. Palestine 1947

9. Toronto 1961

10. Toronto 1961

11. Palestine 1947

12. Palestine 1947

13. Toronto 1961

14. Palestine 1947

15. Toronto 1961

16. Toronto 1961

17. Toronto 1961

18. Toronto 1961

19. Toronto 1961

20. Palestine 1947

21. Toronto 1961

22. Palestine 1947

23. Palestine 1947

24. Toronto 1961

25. Toronto 1961

26. Palestine 1947

27. Palestine 1947

28. Palestine 1947

29. Toronto 1961

30. Toronto 1961

31. Palestine 1947

32. Toronto 1961

33. Palestine 1947

34. Palestine 1947

35. Toronto 1961

36. Toronto 1961

37. Palestine 1947

38. Palestine 1947

39. Toronto 1961

40. Toronto 1961

41. Toronto 1961

42. Palestine 1947

43. Palestine 1947

44. Toronto 1961

45. Toronto 1961

46. 1947 Palestine

47. Toronto 1961

48. Toronto 1961

49. Palestine 1947

50. Palestine 1947

51. Palestine 1947

52. Toronto 1961

53. Toronto 1961

54. Toronto 1961

55. Palestine 1948

56. Palestine 1948

57. Toronto 1961

58. Toronto 1961

59. Palestine 1948

60. Toronto 1961

61. Toronto 1961

62. Toronto 1961

63. Toronto 1961

64. Palestine 1948

65. Palestine 1948

66. Toronto 1961

67. Toronto 1961

68. Toronto 1961

Next in the Series

About W. L. Liberman

Copyright (C) 2021 W.L. Liberman

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Edited by Dave Malone

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

This book is dedicated to Finn and Sawyer. May you grow in stature and prosper.

1

TORONTO 1961

The gloved fist arced upward floating toward me in slow motion. Mesmerized, I stared helplessly. My body seemed to have shut down and awaited the inevitable. The fist exploded against my chin. I wobbled on jelly legs squeezing air through bruised ribs. My arms hung limp at my hips. Too heavy. So heavy. A sweet one-two to the gut zapped whatever life I had left. The world went dark and woozy. Somewhere below the belt, I felt my knees buckle. Slowly, I crumpled to the canvas. Life disappeared. Breath whistled out of my nostrils, roaring in my ears--an ancient nag on a trip to the glue factory.

Sully stood over me and looked down. “Pathetic,” he said.

My business partner, Birdie, chuckled but didn’t comment.

“Thanks,” I wheezed. “That was great.” And tried to push myself to a sitting position but fell back on my rump.

“Stop with the fags and come to the gym more often,” Sully barked. “Then we’ll really get you into shape. Don’t be an idiot.”

To give me a hand, Sully dumped a bucket of ice water over my head.

“Jeezus,” I gasped. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” Sully retorted.

Sully hailed from Galway and had been a serious middleweight contender in his day. Now he ran his own gym on King Street. “Hit the showers Mo before I pound you again.”

“I’m ready,” I muttered. Birdie guffawed. For some reason, he enjoyed seeing me humiliated.

The phone in Sully’s office jangled. He turned to answer it. I called it an office but it consisted of a metal desk set against a wall near the ring. By this time, I’d managed to lift my head off the canvas. I glanced at Birdie who smiled hugely then shook his head giving me his tsk tsk expression.

“Thanks for the support,” I said and staggered to my feet. The world pivoted around me.

“You’re welcome,” he replied.

Sully returned. He tossed me a towel.

“That was Callaway,” he said. “You’re wanted.”

When the cops called, you gotta get a move on. I hobbled into the showers. Ten minutes later, I emerged from the locker room dressed. At least, I think I had my pants on the right way.

The Chevy sat parked at the curb. As we walked toward it, I lit a Sweet Cap. Catching Birdie’s eye, I said, “Don’t tell Sully.” I unlocked the driver’s side, then slid over and popped the button. Birdie folded his six-foot seven frame into the passenger’s seat. My head had just begun to clear.

Birdie glanced over.

“I’m fine,” I replied. “I only see three of you.”

Birdie grunted.

“Relax.” I gunned the engine and ripped away from the curb. A Sunday driver two blocks down honked in irritation.

It was an early evening in late May, just approaching dusk. I rolled the window down and felt the warm air stream in. “Where we going?”

Birdie read out the address he jotted down while I was getting cleaned up. I jerked a bit.

“What’s he doing in Yid town?” I asked.

Birdie shrugged. “Guess we’ll be finding out soon enough.”

2

TORONTO 1961

Baldwin Street held dark memories for me. But there had been beams of light too. I stopped opposite number 92. A small crowd had gathered outside. One of the beat cops tried to shoo the dark hats and blue suits back toward the curb to clear the walk leading up to the house. A typical semi-detached Victorian on a street filled with the same. Narrow lot, three stories, boasting creaky, oak stairs in between, deep yard. Built sturdily and meant to last. Upper balcony for the family living on the second floor. That’s how people lived, as if they’d never left the old country. Packed in together, huddling against the odds, weathering the storms of life. A couple of young men prayed in the corner of the tiny front yard. They bowed their heads and swayed, murmuring feverishly under their breath. Beneath dark vests, fringes dangled and danced.

“Oy,” said Birdie.

“You can say that again.”

Hostile looks turned to glares as we strode up the walk. The beat cop looked flustered. His eyes widened as we approached. Onlookers thickened around us. Guttural sounds filled the air.

We stopped. Birdie raked the nosy neighbours with his death stare and it seemed that some of them actually shrank back as if they’d been cursed. They’d never seen a large black man up close before. I turned to the cop.

“Callaway sent for us.”

The cop nodded and jerked his thumb, then stepped back to let us through. As we passed by, the gawkers and mourners surged toward him filling the gap.

In the hallway, Birdie said, “That’s one of the best receptions we’ve ever had.”

“At least no one spat at us,” I replied.

“For a change,” Birdie boomed.

The odour hit me hard. That combination of chicken fat, mothballs and hair oil. Catapulted me into the past, where I didn’t want to go. Suddenly, I had a bad feeling about this.

“Why are we here,” I said quietly like I was talking to myself. Birdie gave me a strange look.

“Finally,” Callaway said, poking his head out of the kitchen. I looked down the gloom, following the length of the hall and walked it like I trod a familiar path. Identical to the house where I grew up. Identical to the house where everyone else I knew, grew up. Callaway beckoned. “Down here,” he said.

Inspector Callaway turned his broad back—a grey man in a grey suit with grey hair holding a grey hat. He’d lost his partner, Roy Mason, last year. Mason took a slug in the forehead during an operation gone bad at Christie Pits, a local park and the scene of a Fascist rally in the years before the War. No one had volunteered to take Mason’s place, so Callaway worked on his own. I knew him from my years in homicide. A good cop. Honest. That said something. Thinking about Mason—bent as a lawyer looking for a handout or better, a politician telling the ‘truth’—turned my mind to my old man, Jake Gold. Currently incarcerated in Kingston Penitentiary. I helped put him there. Great memories. But who was I kidding? More lay ahead.

In the kitchen, we entered a mob scene.

Two uniforms guarded the entrance, in case anyone tried to steal the dill pickles in the fridge. I saw the shoes first, scuffed black brogues, a flattened piece of gum ironed on the left heel, Bubblicious, I think. Next came a pair of splayed-out legs clad in dark, shiny trousers. The pant legs rode up his calves exposing light blue veins close to the surface of the skin. The cheap suit jacket flaps, flopped open, shirttails pulled up, exposing a torso of pale, flabby flesh. A crime technician and the coroner hovered over the body. Two plainclothes men had positioned themselves at the stiff’s head with their wide backs to the kitchen counter. Just behind them I could make out an alcove tunneling to the rest of the house. I glanced around the kitchen. It reminded me of my grandmother’s place. Waxy, grey linoleum flooring. To the side, a fold-up metal kitchen table with four, hardback chairs. Boxy cupboards painted off-white turning to yellow from cooking grease. To my left, the door to the back porch led to the narrow yard. With so many bodies in the way, the temperature in that close room climbed and I began to feel clammy. I glanced over at Birdie who remained impassive and watchful and cool. Maybe it was the past that made me feel queasy.

I turned my attention to the corpse. A youngish man with a trimmed beard, wire-rimmed glasses askew across his cheeks, the eyes wide open in surprise and perhaps, realization. The sort that came too late. The face pudgy, the mouth small, almost delicate and wide open. I spotted some gold fillings in the back molars. The bone hilt of a knife stuck out of his chest, the blade buried in his heart. A formidable blow. The suit jacket and formerly white shirt had sopped up the blood but there’d been enough to spill and splatter on the floor. Odd, no fringes. Naturally, I recognized him. Mendel Black. One Class A Putz.

“Nice work,” I said. Birdie grunted.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Callaway said.

“And another?”

“A mess,” he replied. I looked at Callaway curiously, about to ask him what the hell we were doing there when a grating voice echoed my thoughts.

“Who asked for him?” All the cops in the room, the crime technician, the coroner, me and Birdie, turned his way. A voice that flayed nerves, guaranteed to raise hackles. He stood framed in the doorway, pointing an accusing finger in my direction. “We don’t want him here, do you understand? Get him out.” He could have been the corpse on the floor. A bit taller. A bit thinner but the same pale complexion, the same trimmed beard, wire-rimmed spectacles, an identical cheap blue suit, fringes hanging below the jacket hem. The only difference? A red, star-shaped birthmark on his forehead. He wore his hat low to cover it. He tried to press himself between the two cops but they didn’t budge, blocking him with their thick arms and broad shoulders.

I ignored the intrusion for the moment. “He’s not wearing his fringes.”

“What?” Callaway looked quizzical.

“Look,” I said and pointed at the loudmouth. “Hanging below his jacket.”

Callaway turned to look, then looked back at me.

“What are they?”

“Known as a tzitzits. A reminder of a Jew’s religious obligations. Commanded by God to attach these fringes to the four corners of garments worn,” I replied. “I should say, that the men wore.”

“Hypocrite,” the grating voice shouted. “Hypocrite. Get out of here. We don’t want you. No one asked for you. Schlemiel. Dreck. Out.”

“Still the loudmouth, Avrom,” I said. Not phrased as a question. His dark eyes went blacker behind the spectacles and if the two burly cops hadn’t blocked his way, he might have come at me. Still, the bad blood burbled. Birdie straightened up and took a step forward.

“You think you can intimidate with your schvartze? Your own dybbuk? Shame. Shame on you.” Nonetheless, Avrom shrank back allowing the cops to shield him from Birdie’s presence.

“I asked for him,” a husky voice piped in, shielded by the cops in the doorway. “Let me through.”

Avrom and the two cops turned, opening a passage to the scene. I got a clean look.

I stared. Maybe, I gaped. I wouldn’t be surprised if my mouth hung open.

“Hello Mo,” she said. “It’s been a long time.” Her voice sang of black coffee and cigarettes.

The pipes in my throat rasped but some sound trickled out. “Miryam?” Jesus. Could it get any worse?

Callaway and the cops looked at me curiously. Birdie’s eyes roved the low ceiling that appeared to be about three inches above his upturned nose. Avrom, Miryam’s brother, continued to glare.

She’d aged, of course and put on some weight. Naturally, she wore a wig but I was certain her head wasn’t shaved. I didn’t think Miryam would allow that. She wore a high-necked blouse and a long skirt that trailed to the floor. She and her brother shared the same dark, burning eyes. I knew those eyes burned in a different way, not with hatred. She sized me up. I couldn’t tell if I passed inspection or not. A lot had happened since we’d last seen each other, just after the War.

“How have you been, Miryam?” It was the best I could do under the circumstances. She ignored me.

“I need to speak to Mo,” she said. “Alone.”

“No,” Avrom shouted. “I forbid it. It isn’t proper.”

Miryam faced him coolly. “You forbid? You forbid Avrom? No longer, do you hear? One more word and I will ask you to leave this house, do you understand?”

Avrom reddened then raised his hand. As he did so, Birdie and the two cops leaned in to stop him. Avrom hesitated then slowly lowered his arm to his side. “It isn’t proper to be alone with a man you are not married to,” he hissed.

“Gittel will be with me. I won’t be alone, even if it is your own reputation you are concerned about.”

“Gittel,” he repeated. “But she’s…”

“Retarded? Yeah I know,” Miryam said. “But I prefer her company to yours.”

Avrom choked down his words. His face turned red, cheeks puffed out. He looked like he’d swallowed a chipmunk. Instead, he turned on his heel, pushed through the cops and disappeared down the hall. I heard the soles of his cheap brogues pounding the rickety wooden floor. Creaky oak boards popping and cracking. A distant door slammed.

Miryam turned to Callaway, who had an amused expression on his face. He seemed to like the way she dealt with her overbearing brother. She jerked her head toward me.

“Is it okay?”

Callaway nodded.

“Sure, why not?” It didn’t follow procedure but he wasn’t one to let little things get in the way.

She glanced at me. “Come into the parlour. I left my sister there and we can talk. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“Not him,” she said, looking at Birdie. “Just you.”

I shrugged. Birdie nodded. “Fine.”

3

TORONTO 1961

“Where’s Gittel?”

The parlour comprised a small sitting room at the back of the house with a view of the meager yard. I imagined chickens scratching away at the loose dirt. Thankfully, only a few families kept chickens anymore.

“She’s taking a nap. I lied about her being here.”

Miryam stood on the far side of the room. Lies never fazed her. I faced her as she examined me, sizing me up like a piece of haddock she’d purchased at the fishmonger’s. She cupped her chin with her hands. Her dark eyes turned obsidian, impenetrable. After a moment, she dropped her hands to her sides and walked toward me slowly. I held my ground. She stopped in front of me. I didn’t flinch and neither did she. She put her hands on my face and stroked my cheeks. It felt nice. Damned nice. She seemed to disappear for a minute but then she came back from wherever she’d been. She swiveled her right shoulder and using the momentum from her twisted torso, slapped my face so hard that it forced me to take a step to the side.

I didn’t ask but she said, “That was for running away.”

I touched my face gingerly. A thousand bee stings radiated from my cheek into the jaw. “I never ran away. You told me to go.”

“Then you shouldn’t have listened.”

“It wouldn’t have worked. We both know that.”

Miryam came from an ultra-orthodox family, her father, a rabbi, her brother, the rabbi-in-training, as-well-as, a supreme idiot. Me, from a non-religious family of sinners and criminals.

Miryam laughed harshly. “Oh sure. And this worked out?”

I hadn’t understood before but now I got it. “Mendel was your husband?”

“For a detective, you’re pretty smart,” she sneered.

“Then, my condolences.”

“You’re not sorry. Not really.”

“He was a putz before. I’m guessing he didn’t change much.”

She stepped back, then hugged herself. Her body began to heave and quake. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She looked up.

“He was going to divorce me,” she said.

I didn’t say anything, just raised my eyebrows.

“I couldn’t give him children. Not that we tried all that hard.”

She turned her face away.

“Maybe we better sit down,” I said.

Miryam sat in an armchair. The plastic cover crackled.

I pulled a straight back over and set it opposite her. I made certain we were out of field goal range. I sat, pulled a pencil and a pad from my jacket pocket.

“Give me a cigarette,” she said. I shook one out of the pack and she took it. I fired up the Zippo and she gave me a long look under cover of the flame.

“Thanks.”

She blew out a stream of smoke.

“You better tell me what happened,” I said. “That’s the least Callaway expects, apart from us playing happy memories, that is.”

She smiled grimly. “Some of them were happy.”

I held the pencil poised above the paper. “Yeah. I guess.”

“How did you get so hard?”

I shrugged. “Time passed. Things happened.”

“And so tight-lipped?” I opened my mouth but she beat me to it. “Things happened, I know.” She sighed, drew on the fag, flipped some ash on to the floor. Never a housekeeper was Miryam.

“I went next door with Gittel. My brother lives in the next house and she lives with him but I look after her during the day while he’s at work.”

“Time?”

“We went over after lunch. We were baking for Shabbos. I was making chocolate rugelach. Your favourite, as I recall.” A smile played on her full lips.

“Still are,” I said. “Then what happened?”

“We finished. We had a cup of tea and I brought Gittel back here about six o’clock.”

I glanced at my watch. Getting on to three hours earlier.

“And then?”

“I took Gittel upstairs so she could have a lie-down. Then I went into the kitchen and there Mendel was. Dead.”

Her face had gone slack as if the memory had killed something inside her. “And then?”

“I called the police and then I called my brother.”

“Sure it wasn’t the other way around?

She dropped the butt end and ground it into the floor.

“I’m sure,” she said.

“You didn’t scream? It’s not every day you find a body on your kitchen floor especially if it’s your husband.”

“I didn’t scream. I probably gasped or went into shock. I remember a heavy feeling. It was hard to lift my hand to pick up the phone.”

“Your brother came over?”

“Yes.”

“Did either of you touch anything?” I wondered whose fingerprints we might find on the knife handle.

Miryam shook her head. “No. I could see he was dead. He certainly wasn’t breathing.”

“And Avrom? He didn’t touch anything? The knife handle, for instance?”

“No. I made sure he didn’t.”

“But he wanted to?”

“It was a shock to both of us. I thought he was going to pass out. He turned white as a ghost.”

“And Mendel and Avrom. How would you describe their relationship?”

“Friendly. They were friends. They got along. We’re neighbours. We’re in and out of each other’s houses all the time.”

I took a moment to light a Sweet Cap. I held the pack toward her but she shook her head. Then she got up, rooted around in a drawer and came up with an ashtray that she set on the table beside me. “Thanks.” I paused. “Miryam. You said you and your husband were getting divorced.”

“I should never have told you.”

“How did Avrom feel about it? His friend divorcing his sister?”

“I guess it was okay. You know Avrom. Always taking the man’s side of things,” she said with a hint of bitterness.

“He wasn’t angry or resentful? It’s a big deal, a divorce. Was he going to give you a Get?” Without Jewish divorce papers, a woman couldn’t re-marry within the faith, not in the religious sense. Sometimes, the husbands withheld the Get just to be bastards.

Miryam hesitated. “That’s not why I wanted you here.”

“Why then?”

“Because I thought you would understand. Because I thought you would be sympathetic.”

“I am, believe me. And you can bet that the treatment by the cops would be a helluvalot worse, I can tell you. If they found out about the Get, they’d hammer at you. Wouldn’t be the first time an abandoned wife jammed a knife into her husband’s heart.”

She went pale. Her hand shook. “You can’t believe that.”

I leaned forward. “Let me tell you what they see, okay? They see a crime scene that screams an impulse kill. A husband has done something to the wife. They argue. They fight. Maybe he hits her. Maybe she fears for her life. In desperation, she grabs a knife in the full flush of anger and strikes out. The husband falls dead on the floor.”

“That’s not what happened,” she said. “I swear it on my father’s grave.”

“Have you washed your hands since you called the cops?”

“What? No. I, I, don’t think so.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

Before I could answer, there was a knock on the door and one of the lab technicians poked his head in. He looked a proper Pointdexter with rimless glasses and pale complexion.

“Sorry to interrupt. Mrs. Black, I need to examine your hands if I may?”

Miryam nodded. “Certainly.” She held her hands toward him.

“Thank you. It will only take a moment. I’m going to take some scrapings from under your fingernails. Ah, I see you bite them. Me too. Bad habit.”

He produced an envelope and expertly scraped away with a nail file making sure the droppings went into the envelope. The whole thing took about ten seconds.

“Thank you. And now we’ll need to take your fingerprints.” He produced a pad and some cards from his lab coat pocket. He placed them down on the table, flipped the top of the pad open and set a card next to it. “Index finger first please. Don’t worry I’ll be quick but it’s better to do it here and now rather than come down to the station.”

Miryam surrendered her finger. Pointdexter inked and rolled each finger in turn. He was brisk, polite and efficient. Used to be, the lab technician would shamble in, a fag hanging from his lower lip dropping ash everywhere.

“That’s it. All done, Mrs. Black. Thank you and sorry for interrupting. Soap and water will take off that ink if you wash your hands right away.” He packed up his things, gave me a quick nod and left.

Miryam stood up. “Excuse me.” She held up her hands to show me. Normally, a policewoman would go with her to make sure she didn’t shimmy out the bathroom window and escape.

When she returned, I noticed her knuckles and hands were rubbed raw. She’d really scrubbed at the ink. “It didn’t come off so easily,” she said and sat. “Can I have another cigarette, please?” I lit it for her and handed it over. “Thank you.”

“What kind of business was your husband in?”

“Diamonds. He was a diamond merchant. It’s a family business. His two brothers and his father all work together.”

That meant he would often carry uncut gems worth thousands of dollars with him. “How were things going there?”

“Well, I think. He rarely talked to me about the business. I didn’t mind.”

“Can you think of anyone who would want to harm him? Did he mention any difficulties at all lately? Was he worried about anything?”

She took a long drag.

“That’s three questions. No, I can’t think of anyone who would do this sort of thing. He didn’t mention any problems and he seemed his usual self.”

“And what was that, his usual self?”

“Oh, prickly, high strung, humourless.”

“Did you get along?”

“Not really. We avoided each other if you must know. I tried to stay out of his way.”

“Tell me about his fringes.”

“What about them?”

“He wasn’t wearing any,” I said. “Wouldn’t that be odd? Didn’t he wear them every day?”

“Of course. It’s like a second skin to a man like him,” she said.

“Does he take them off when he comes home?”

“Not usually.”

“Okay. In a minute, we’ll take a look and see if we can find them. Also, where’s his case, the one with the diamonds?” Diamond merchants kept a case with a lock chained to their wrist to prevent thieves from snatching the gems.

“I’m not sure.”

“But he carried it with him?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Every day?”

“Usually. In the evening after dinner and evening prayers, he would work in his study.”

“He took the case off first thing when he got home?”

“Yes, that was his usual practice.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Something else to look for.”

“What are you really looking for, Mo?”

“A motive for murder, Miryam.”

“You think I had one?”

“We always look at families first.”

The cigarette had burned down but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Thank you. That is very reassuring.”

I hesitated. “Why did you ask for me?”

“I thought you were still with the police. I thought things would go easier if you were here.”

“I’m not. And they haven’t.”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I don’t know how things might have gone.”

“Why did you marry him?” I asked, finally getting to the nub of it.

She shrugged and smiled sadly. “Because I thought it was the right thing to do. Because if you’re not married, you have no status in this community. I couldn’t think of what else I would do with my life. I had no ambition, no career.”

“You could have had both.”

“With you?” She shook her head. “Being a policeman’s wife would have been worse. Besides, you have no room for anyone else, Mordecai. That was clear years ago and seeing you today, it is still clear to me now.”

“Maybe things would have been different.”

Again, the sad smile. “It would be nice to think so but I don’t really believe it. Do you?”

I sighed. “May be not. Come on. Let’s go look for the fringes and the diamond case.” I stood up, hat in hand and waited for her.

“It’s still good to see you, even if it has been 14 years.”

“We were kids, Miryam. Kids think anything is possible.”

“I know,” she said. “Sad, isn’t it?”

4

TORONTO 1961

I informed Callaway about the search for the fringes and the case. This time, Birdie came along. The crime tech had finished in the upper part of the house.

Opposite the top of the stairs, you practically fell into the bathroom. These houses had a powder room on the ground floor. Banister to the left and a narrow hallway leading to three small bedrooms. Mendel Black had turned one of the rooms into an office. The smallest of the three. The one that should have been the nursery if things had gone that way.

“I’ll check the office. You take a look at the main bedroom.”

“What am I looking for?” Birdie asked.

“Tzit-tzits.”

Birdie shrugged. Miryam leaned up against the doorframe with an amused expression on her face.

“Did he have only the one?” I asked her.

“Yes,” she replied. “Just the one.”

Birdie lumbered down the hall. The threadbare carpet barely concealed the booming cracks as he walked. God, I loved these old houses. You took a breath and they creaked like a centenarian’s spine.

I heard Birdie moving around the bedroom. I hoped he didn’t fall through the floor and crash into the crime scene.

“He did okay, did he, Mendel?”

“We never seemed to want,” Miryam said.

“But he was a bit tight?”

“He could be frugal.”

Looking around the house I didn’t doubt it. Diamond merchants could make a lot of scratch yet this house screamed poverty.

I turned my attention to the room. Not much of an office. A small, battered desk and lopsided swivel chair. Looked like they came from a rummage sale. A solid-state radio sat on the desk behind an ink-stained blotter and a tin holding a variety of pencils and pens. Formerly, a receptacle for Heinz baked brown beans. A three-drawer, wooden file cabinet sat in the corner adjacent to the only window. The blind had been pulled down. In the opposite corner stood a small safe. I took out my handkerchief, then tried the handle. Locked.

“Do you know the combination?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I didn’t mix with his business.”

“So, the case could be in there?”

“Yes. It could be.”

“Who might know the combination if not you?”

“His brothers. His father, maybe. That would be my guess.”

“You get along with them, your mispoucha?”

“We weren’t close,” she said.

“Not even with your mother-in-law?”

She shook her head. “She thought it was my fault. They all did.”

“Not bearing children?”

“You really are a detective, Mo.”

I took the pad out of my jacket pocket, tore off a sheet and handed it to her with my pencil. “Please write down all their names and their contact information. The cops will need to talk to them all, of course.” The beat cops worked their way up and down the street talking to neighbours, taking witness statements.

I went over to the filing cabinet. It too had a lock. I always carried a set of picks with me. I’d liberated them from a burglar I’d collared years before. Ever since, he lamented their loss. The lock took about 30 seconds to open.

“I didn’t know policemen also acted like criminals,” she said, sarcastically.

I smiled at her. “Now you know. And I’m not a policeman.” And pulled open the top drawer.

She sat at the desk to write out the information I’d requested. “Let me know if you find anything interesting in there.”

“Uh-huh.”

The top drawer contained a number of files pertaining to the house; mortgage documents, phone, water, tax and heating bills. Pretty mundane stuff. The second drawer contained more files that looked like business accounts; invoices to suppliers that had been paid or were still outstanding, some client invoices and so on. I wondered why he kept these files here and not in his office. I’d let Callaway and his minions go through them. I glanced over at Miryam, bent at her task. The curve of her cheek, the elegance of her slender neck, her dark, smoky looks. Things I didn’t want to remember. The fullness of her bosom. That I did remember. I shook my head and looked up to see her staring at me, her full lips slightly parted. Then, the same ironic smile before she returned to her writing. The small room suddenly seemed like a stuffy shoebox. That clammy feeling came back in waves. The third drawer came up empty except for a pair of handcuffs, an extra pair he used for the gem case, I figured. I reached in with my handkerchief and plucked them out.

“Have you seen these before?”

She glanced at them. “They look like the ones he used to carry his case with, but I couldn’t be sure. They all look alike to me.” t

So, he removed the cuffs and probably stuffed the case with the gems into the safe. Birdie filled the doorway.

“What’d you find?” I asked.

“Five blue suits, six white shirts, two pairs of black brogues badly scuffed and enough underclothes to keep him happy for about two weeks.”

“No fringes?”

He nodded and smiled. “No fringes.”

“Miryam. Was Mendel in the habit of going to the schvitz on the way home?”

She shook her head. “Not usually. Maybe once in a blue moon.”

“So, you don’t know if he did stop at the bath house for a steam on this occasion?”

“No, I don’t. Sorry.” She handed me the list and the pencil. “That’s everyone.”

“Thanks.” I shoved it into my pocket. “Er, was he seeing someone?”

She looked up at me blandly. “I wouldn’t know. Or care. For his sake, I hope he was.”

“Okay. And what about you?”

“No. I was a loyal wife.”

We trooped downstairs. The morgue attendants had finished wrapping up Mendel’s corpse. Three men stood with their heads bowed. They wore long, black silk coats with the sashes tied, black suits and kept their hats on. The two brothers and father of Mendel Black, I assumed. Callaway stood off to the side watching the scene. Behind the three newcomers sat an older woman in one of the hard backed chairs. Her eyes had swelled from weeping. She snuffled noisily into an embroidered handkerchief. The older two of the three men, as is the tradition, kept full beards. The younger one remained clean shaven. The father’s beard was shot through with grey. They looked up as we entered. Normally, Birdie captured attention everywhere but in this case their eyes focused on Miryam and the hostile glares couldn’t be ignored. The elderly woman stood up as the morgue attendants lifted the corpse on to a gurney and began to stickhandle it through the narrow doorway. The atmosphere had turned from oppressive to suffocating.

“We’ll need him back,” said the older man. “For burial. Jewish law demands it. It is forbidden to perform medical acts on my son’s body.”

“I do understand your concern, Mr. Black,” Callaway said. “But I am an officer of the law and I’m afraid your son needs to come with us. We will be as quick as we can and then return him to you.”

“He will be desecrated,” the older man said. “Violated in the eyes of God.”

“I’m sorry. I have no choice. We need to find the person who did this to your son as quickly as we can. I’m sure you want the perpetrator of this crime found and punished, do you not?”

The old man nodded once. “Yes, of course.”

I looked at the faces of the two brothers. One stood tall, slim and fair, blue-eyed and freckled. The other looked like a wrestler I used to follow at Maple Leaf Gardens. His coat barely contained his broad chest. His thick arms looked like they’d burst the seams of the sleeves. Both wore payot, the traditional sidecurls. I didn’t see grief on either. The bull spouted smoke from flared nostrils and the other, the slim, fair, one, looked afraid. Miryam kept her distance from all of them, even the sobbing mother-in-law.

We watched silently as Callaway nodded and the body was removed. No one spoke. I decided to pipe up.

“He wasn’t wearing his fringes. Does anyone know what might have happened to them?”

The mother stopped crying. The father looked up blasting me with a steely gaze.

“Who’s asking?” the bull brother said.

Callaway stepped in. “Er, he’s with me.”

“The name’s Mo Gold,” I said.

The old man cocked his head. “Gold? Gold?” he echoed to himself. Then recognition flooded in. I could see the flash of remembrance. “Gold,” he repeated. “Not the thief, the liar and jailbird. Not that Gold?”

“My old man,” I replied. “You can’t pick your relations. Now, the fringes? Anyone have an explanation as to why he wasn’t wearing them?”

The old man’s face turned purple. “Get out,” he roared. “Get out of my house, you blasphemer. I remember you now. You were a young schlemiel. Tried to make everyone believe you were one of us.”

“This is my house,” Miryam said quietly. “And I will decide who stays and who goes.”

The old man turned to her in astonishment. “What? What are you saying?”

“This is my house now,” she repeated.

“The house I paid for. The house I gave you,” the old man sputtered.

“Yes,” Miryam replied. “You never accepted me. None of you did. I tried to be a good daughter-in-law, to be dutiful but I couldn’t do or say enough. Well, that is now over. We are over. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened here, but I am certain the police will find out.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Black,” Callaway hemmed. “We will need to ask all of you questions. I’m hoping that tomorrow will be convenient. I understand you need to grieve for your son but we need to act quickly. I would like all of you to come down to the station tomorrow morning so we may continue our inquiries. And now, if you please, it is time we left.” He turned to Miryam. “Mrs. Black, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here this evening. Is there somewhere you can stay for the next few days? I will leave a man on guard here to watch the house.”

Miryam nodded. “I’ll stay with my aunt Helen. She just lives down the block.”

“Good,” Callaway said. “Take some things with you. We’ll wait until you go and one of my men will escort you.”

Miryam looked at me briefly then turned and disappeared upstairs.

I felt a thick palm against my chest and I looked into the bull’s glaring eyes. “Don’t think this is finished, Gold.” It hit me then. Twenty-five years earlier, my old man, Jake, had scammed the Lubovitcher Benevolent Society; a charitable organization that managed and maintained some cemeteries around the city. Old man Black had been the treasurer back then. Jake had wormed his way onto the governing council, then promptly disappeared with some of their cash. I’d spend my life cleaning up after Jake, it seemed. I must have been ten or twelve at the time. I remembered a husky kid hanging around then. Joel Black, I presumed, now thick chested with a memory to match. And one to carry a grudge.

I grinned at him. “It’s just beginning, yid. Now take your hand off me before I break it off at the wrist.” I sensed Birdie come up behind me.

“Hiding behind the schwartze? One day, he won’t be there.”

“Then I’ll have you all to myself.”

“Joel, please,” the mother spat. “Your brother is dead. This is no way to behave.”

Joel stepped back. He pointed a stubby forefinger in my direction. “Later then, Gold. Count on it.”

The happy Black family shuffled out of the murder house. I suspected sadder days ahead.

5

TORONTO 1938

Seventeen and my beard had begun to grow in. Miryam and I met at Rusholme Park on Shabbos afternoon. My excuse? I took my little brother, Eli, to the swings so he could play. Miryam snuck off for half an hour while her parents napped before dinner. We weren’t permitted to be in the same room alone together. No touching or holding of hands allowed. I wasn’t even supposed to talk to her. Insanity. The rules chafed. So, we got around them. I knew Miryam’s family would blame me if ever we’d been caught. I would be the corrupter. But she instigated all the way down the line.

I kept my eye on Eli once we arrived at the park. He did his ape routine swinging from the monkey bars, grunting and beating his chest. It scared off most of the other little kids and their parents.

“Your brother is energetic,” Miryam said.

“That’s one way of putting it,” I replied.

She laughed, full-throated, without concern. I kept my eyes peeled for the enemy.

“One day, they’ll catch us.”

“I’ve always liked your positive attitude,” she chided.

“Yeah, well. Law of averages, isn’t it?”

“I don’t care.”

“You should,” I said. “The consequences….” I left it hanging. Religious parents weren’t reasonable when it came to their daughters, their collective reputation and chastity. My father couldn’t care less. He was on some job in New Jersey, smuggling, gun-running, booze, who knew? But my mother suffered through it all. We’d been living in Kensington Market the longest we’d been anywhere; all of eight months. It was hard not to notice Miryam even though she was continually dogged by her older brother; a skinny, pimply geek with black hair, pale skin but the same intense, dark eyes. Her self-appointed protector. We loathed each other on sight. I didn’t wear a hat. I didn’t go to schul. I didn’t wear fringes. I didn’t pray. I wore open-necked shirts. I smoked. And drank when I could get my hands on something. Bad influence all the way round. That’s what Miryam liked. What she wanted. A release from her daily suffocation. She wanted to breathe.

Miryam stroked my face. In public. Forbidden act. Eli ran up, grabbed my hand, yanked on my arm. His timing was impeccable.

“Come on, come on,” he said. “We’d better get outta here.”

I looked down at him. Even at eight years old, he looked the spitting image of Jake. “Why?” Tried to wear his hair in a ducktail, too.

“Look,” he pointed.

I saw two men with angry expressions. Working men, sleeves rolled up, some heft to them, sunburn on their cheeks and foreheads. “What’d you do?”

“I didn’t do nothing.”

“That doesn’t look like nothing,” Miryam said.

I glanced over. The two men headed our way.

I squeezed Eli’s arm. “What’d you do?”

He flinched. “Yeow. Okay, so maybe one or two of those kids fell off the jungle gym or something. I dunno. They were in my way.”

“I should smack you,” I said.

“But you won’t,” Eli smirked. Family and the buttons they pushed.

“Miryam, you take Eli and start home.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“What I always do,” I muttered. “Take care of it. Now get going. I’ll see you later.”

“Mo…”

“Just take him, please, before he starts a riot.”

Miryam nodded. She took Eli’s hand and yanked him along.

“I wanna stay and watch,” he wailed. Miryam yanked him harder.

A kid’s pint-sized baseball bat lay in the dirt. I picked it up and smacked it into my palm. Small but had a little bit of spring to it. The two men strode toward me. One pale and large, with thinning blonde hair and the other, shorter but heavy set. He wheezed just walking up the slight incline. They stopped about five feet away.

The pale one pointed in Eli’s direction. “That kid’s a freakin’ menace. You need to do something about him. He pushed our kids off the jungle gym.”

I nodded. “I know.”

The other one piped up. “They might’ve broken somethin’.”

“My apologies. He’s a bit reckless. I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.”

“That’s it?”, the pale one said. “We’re supposed to believe you and let it go? Just like that?”

I realized the cause of the flushed faces wasn’t only because of the sun. They’d downed a few beers too. One thing about having a father as a shyster who hung out with shyster friends. You learned the rules of combat early on. You learned to take care of yourself.

“That’s right,” I said. “That’s it. I apologized. It won’t happen again. I’ll make sure of it.”

The dark one grinned and stepped forward. A happy glint lit up his face. “You people think you can get away with anything, huh? Do whatever you want?”

It had only been a few years since the Christie Pits riot where Nazi bully boys took on local Jews in a smashing dust-up. Jake had been there and loved every second of the head bashing and shin cracking that took place that day. So, when the guy said, ‘you people’ I understood exactly what he meant.

I had turned to go but swiveled back. They both looked a bit happier now.

“Take your shot, fatso.”

His eyebrows popped up in surprise. He let out a bellow and charged like a bull. I waited for him, then side-stepped and cracked him behind the ear with the bat. He went down face first in the dirt. Miraculously, the bat didn’t split. I turned to face the other guy who approached a bit more cautiously, inching in with his fists up.

“You’re not gonna trick me, Jewboy, you hear?”

“I hear you. And I can see you’re just as stupid and slow as your friend, sleeping beauty, over there.”

He threw an overhand punch. I ducked out of the way slamming the handle of the bat into his gut. He bent over making an ‘oooff’ sound but straightened up quickly. “Lucky,” he wheezed.

“Sure.”

He feinted with his left, then snapped out a right. It caught me in the side of the head and I stumbled backward. They guy laughed. “I’m going to enjoy this,” he said.

I found my feet and waited for him. He stepped forward in a crouch, a kind of mauling stance. His arms looked thick and meaty and I figured he’d love to get me in a headlock. He snatched at me. I rapped the bat across his knuckles. That brought tears to his eyes. He came for me again leaving his head exposed. I reached back ready to hit one out of the park. The bat wouldn’t move. Couldn’t move. I glanced back and saw a massive fist enveloping it. I glanced back at the blond man. He’d straightened up dropping his arms to his sides, a sheepish expression on his doughy face.

“What mischief is this then, on such a lovely day?” I let go of the bat. It now lay in the possession of a stocky police constable. He’d removed his helmet and examined the small bat thoughtfully. “Just playing around, were you?” he asked. I could hear a bit of a lilt in his speech. An Irishman--sworn enemy of the Jew.

“Something like that,” I mumbled.

“And him?” The constable pointed the bat handle at the dark-haired man sprawled in the dirt.

“Taking a nap,” I replied. “No harm in that, is there, officer?”

The constable nudged the man with his foot, who groaned but began to stir. “Must be a heavy sleeper at that,” he said. “And you helped him along a little bit, I’m thinking?”

“Maybe a little.”

Now he pointed the bat at the blond man. “And you, you thought you and your friend would double up on this young lad here, is that it?”

“Well, I, uh, no, no, it wasn’t like that….”, he stammered.

“You want to make a complaint?” the constable asked me.

“About what?” I replied. “Just a bit of fun, is all.”

The constable considered this, then nodded. “All right then. No harm done for the moment. But I won’t have this sort of behavior on my beat, is that understood? Next time, I’ll run you all into the station and you’ll cool your heels in a cell for the night. Do you get me?”

The blond man nodded vigorously. He bent down to help his friend up. The two of them staggered back the way they came. We watched them go.

“You handled yourself all right there, young fella,” the constable said.

“I manage.”

“I wouldn’t make a habit of fighting in public, if I were you.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.”

“What’s your name?”

“Mo Gold. You?”

“Callaway. Constable Callaway to you sonny.”

I grinned. “Sure.”

We shook hands. The constable sighed and replaced his helmet. “I hate a spot of bother on such a lovely day. I’m going to finish my rounds. You stay out of trouble.”

“Yes, I will, Constable Callaway.”

“See you around.” He trundled off, whistling under his breath.

6

TORONTO 1961

The presence of a hearse ensured that the crowd of onlookers didn’t dissipate. Gasps emanated as the shrouded corpse emerged from the house. Men bent at the waist and prayed. Women wailed and keened. Birdie, Callaway and I stood off to the side watching the spectacle. The morgue attendants moved solemnly, unsnapping the legs of the gurney smoothly as they loaded it up into the back of the hearse. The subdued professionalism encouraged the clot of mourners to pray harder and wail louder.

Callaway turned to me. “Happy families,” he said.

I nodded. “That’s an understatement.”

“They were pleased to see you again.”

“I didn’t part on the best of terms,” I said.

“No kidding. I thought the son who looked like Bruno San Martino was going to put you in a half-nelson.”

Birdie snorted.

“He’s not as tough as he looks,” I replied. “He trades diamonds, for Christ’s sake.”

“Okay,” Callaway nodded.

“And you can bet he weaseled out of his military service, all these black hats did,” I said.

Birdie said, “That was then. All in the past.”

Birdie believed in forgiveness. I had a harder time with it depending on who was being forgiven and the circumstances. My old man, for instance. I couldn’t forgive him for a crappy childhood, his life of crime, or inspiring my kid brother to act like him or for treating my mother like a dishrag, wiping his feet whenever he wanted.

“You need to get the combination to the safe upstairs from one of the pious and find out what happened to his fringes.”

Callaway leveled me with those pale eyes. “You seemed pretty insistent on that. Got the family riled up.”

I lowered my voice. “Listen, there were marital problems in the house, okay? According to Miryam, Mrs. Black, the two weren’t really having relations. There were problems because she couldn’t conceive. Bad news in the orthodox world.”

Callaway raised his grey eyebrows. “And?”

I shrugged. “Likely, he was schtupping someone else. And that could account for the missing fringes. Maybe he had to dress himself in a hurry and forgot them somewhere?”

“And so?”

“Just adds to the possibilities, that’s all.” I didn’t want to go further down that path and point him only at Miryam. There could be lots of reasons why someone wanted Mendel Black, putz that he was, dead.

Callaway nodded. “You want to protect the wife. I understand. But we gotta look at everyone and everything, her included.”

“Just keep an open mind.”

“I always do.”

Birdie snorted again.

Callaway glared at him. “Who asked you?”

“I did,” I said.

“Okay,” Callaway replied. “Even though you unsettle these people, I’m gonna need your help. Unsettling them could be a good thing. Sometimes, people say things they wouldn’t otherwise when they’re upset.”

“Sure.”

“And the wife trusts you.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

Now Callaway snorted.

“I would. Just don’t step over the line. She’s a suspect just like the rest of this bunch.”

“I know the boundaries,” I said.

Callaway jammed his hands into his suit jacket. “You’ve pushed them before. You both have.”

Birdie smiled. “That’s why the Lord gave us boundaries,” he intoned.

“Don’t start,” Callaway groused.

The rear door of the hearse slammed. The driver started the engine and it drove away, parting the onlookers. Gradually, reluctantly, they broke off into clumps and drifted back to their houses where the tongues would cluck and forefingers wag, conducting the gossip as it continued unabated.

7

HAIFA, 1947

The Greek registered cargo ship, Elena Karolina, eased into its moorings. A miracle it had made the crossing safely—a rust bucket of the highest order--it listed badly to starboard. A decent gale would blow it over, where, I had no doubt, it would settle into the lovely waters and disappear forever with barely a gurgle. The Greek crew and its captain bore the seamy look and demeanour of career criminals. I’d been around enough of them in my life to know. They charged exorbitant fees to the desperate yearning for escape and gave little in return. Rancid food, oily water and comfortable sleeping quarters below deck near the bilge. I stood on deck and watched the ship slide into its berth. The jetty creaked and groaned on contact. For a moment, I thought the whole structure might collapse into the Mediterranean Sea. I turned and looked behind me at the serene, azure waters of the Bay of Haifa. Around me stood anxious men, women and children who had made the pilgrimage to Palestine in the vain hope the British authorities might let them in. Refugees fleeing the torment of Europe and the brutality of the Nazi occupation. Jews mostly but not all, some Christian pilgrims who believed in a holy land and the birthplace of Jesus. Some thieves and crooks scattered within the crowd looking for new territory and new marks. But the Jews. You could feel their wanting, see the need and desire to be in a place they could call their own having fled decimated lives. Lives that had been burned to the ground. A bizarre, unworldly concept; that of a Jewish homeland. They stood quietly, anxiously, in the reverberating heat, their clothes threadbare, meager possessions gathered around them. The fact I had arrived at all, surprised me. Arranged by Jake through his shady network of contacts, I didn’t believe it might actually happen. I’d moved in a fog the previous ten days, making connections, having whispered conversations, meeting shadowy figures in doorways or rundown bars and finally, Palestine spread out before me. I did a rough calculation in my head and realized that today was Miryam’s wedding day. My heart contracted for a moment. All the more reason to get as far away as possible. The realization certainly darkened my mood in the glare of blazing light. We parted badly, open, oozing wounds between us. Miryam. Married. To someone else.

The crowd of refugees surged toward the gangplank, funneling into a jagged stream blocked by a line of British soldiers standing stiffly on the quay, rifles at ready. Although hopeful, the refugees looked beaten, certainly malnourished and despite the open journey across the Mediterranean, surprisingly pale. They shuffled forward in silence. What belongings they carried hiked up on shoulders, as they made their way slowly toward the stoic wall of soldiers.

I hung back a bit letting the crowd fill in before me. It took time for the six hundred and fifty men, women and children to disembark, encumbered physically and emotionally. The line backed up, packing people together even tighter. The sun blazed. Children whimpered. As we waited, a few of the refugees swayed, drifting in the still air. I knew that in a moment or two, some would crumple sending waves of panic through the line.

“We need some water up here,” I called. “We’ve got thirsty women and children.”

Heads turned my way. Bleached British eyes flicked in my direction. On the quay, an officer stepped in front of the line of soldiers. He removed his hat and wiped the inside of the band with a linen handkerchief. He settled the hat back on his head, shifted his swagger stick to his left armpit and began making his way up the gangplank. The line parted to let him through. Like the others, he wore khaki shorts, knee socks and a short-sleeve tunic with epaulettes darkened at the armpits. The officer threaded his way up the gangplank like a shark swimming against the tide. I remained still and watched. Finally, he drew near and stopped, then shifted his position so that he stood above me. A lanky figure, golden moustache and liquid blue eyes. The brim of the hat shaded a ruddy face. He grimaced or smiled. I couldn’t tell.

“Now then,” he said. “I believe you made a request.”

“These people need water. If they collapse on the gangplank, you and your men will have a significant problem. I don’t think you want to start carrying bodies of women and children out of here. If I’m not mistaken, I thought I saw a few reporters on the quayside. I don’t think that sort of publicity would be particularly beneficial, do you?”

“May I see your identification, please?”

“Of course, Lieutenant. My pleasure.” I handed him my passport.

He leafed through the pages languidly as if perusing some tome in a favourite book shop.

He glanced up.

“What is your business here, Mr. Gold?”

“Tourist.” I thought of Miryam in her wedding dress and my heart turned to ice.

The officer chuckled. “You expect me to believe that?”

“It’s the truth.”

“I’ve discovered that the truth is often a very nuanced concept.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate.”

“Indeed,” replied the officer. Then he turned and barked. “Wilson. Get some water up here for these people before they pass out on this gangplank. On the double.” He turned back to me. “I’d like you to come with me.”

“What for?”

The officer had already started back down easing past the waiting, tense bodies. I picked up my rucksack and followed. I felt their eyes on me as I made my way through the line. No one spoke. I made eye contact with a young child perched on her father’s shoulders. She stared at me solemnly. It spooked me. How does a child so young live in such silence?

The officer stood by an ancient Land Rover. A taciturn driver sat behind the wheel.

“Hop in,” he said.

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet.”

I climbed into the back seat. The driver hit the ignition and the engine coughed into life. The English officer sat beside me. The Land Rover lurched off.

“Your first time in Palestine?” the Englishman asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He didn’t say anything the rest of the way. The journey was short, barely five minutes down a series of dusty, pitted roads. The Land Rover pulled up to a gate that lifted as the driver slowed, then he punched the accelerator and we jerked forward shooting into an equally dusty courtyard. A group of battered Nisan huts sat along the perimeter.

The Lieutenant hopped out. “This way,” he said.

I followed.

He strode toward the largest hut pushing through a door with a posted sign that read, “Strictly No Admittance,” leading me into an office where men and women in uniform sat at desks answering jangling phones or typing frantically. He led me down a corridor to a glass door, opened it and waited.

“Go through.”

I went through. A large room with dual aspect windows and rickety blinds pulled down half-way. An arthritic fan stood in a corner feebly blowing hot air about.

The officer indicated a metal chair placed in front of a battered metal desk.

‘Take a seat.” I sat. “Drink?”

“Sure.”

“G and T all right?”

“Fine.”

He went to a sideboard and deftly poured some gin into some glasses and added the tonic water.

“No ice, I’m afraid,” and handed me one.

“Thanks.”

He took a gulp, then went round the desk and sat in a creaky chair on casters. He studied my passport with great interest.

“How’s the drink?”

“Fine,” I replied.

“Good. I see you’re a Canadian.”

“That’s right.”

“Passport seems in order.”

“Glad to hear it.”