By a Spider's Thread: A Tess Monaghan Novel (24 page)

Plus, Tess couldn’t quite shake Mickey Harvey’s gloom, not even after two bags of fresh-made Utz chips, one crab and one barbecue. She had read that potato sales were down because of the mania for low-carb diets, and she wanted to help the farmers of the world.

“You’re
supposed
to steal the
afikomen,
” she said, brushing a fleck of salt from the corner of her mouth. “It’s part of the Passover ritual. If every
afikomen
filcher ended up in prison, there wouldn’t be any nice Jewish boys left.”

“Ah, but I stole the
afikomen
from the kid who stole the
afikomen.
You see, I was the best negotiator among my cousins, and I always got more money for it. I hated seeing Adam and Jody give it back so cheap.”

“I’ve seen your record. You weren’t in prison for stealing.”

“I stole tens of thousands of dollars from my employer to feed my cocaine habit.” He laughed at Tess’s arched eyebrows. “I know — cocaine was so
over
by the time I got hooked. A client gave me a little taste, to get me through tax season. By the time April fifteenth arrived, I was a full-fledged addict. Hey, but at least I was ahead of the curve on accounting fraud.”

“You served time for possession with intent to distribute.”

“Oh, puh-leeze. I wasn’t a dealer. I was a
pig.
I planned on snorting every last bit of that myself. Well, maybe selling a little, just so I could make enough profit to buy more. Anyway, my family made restitution for what I stole, so the theft charge was dropped as part of my plea. But they couldn’t make the distribution charge go away. You know what my mother said when she found out I had a cocaine habit? ‘At least he doesn’t drink, like the goyim.’ ”

“Where are you getting your material —
Portnoy’s Complaint
?”

“What does an Irish lass named Monaghan know from Portnoy and
afikomens
? I imagine you reading James Joyce and drinking pints of Guinness in Locust Point bars.” He leaned across the counter toward her, making serious eye contact. “I like the freckles, by the way.”

Tess smiled enigmatically. She had no intention of telling this garrulous charmer that she was half Jewish. She wasn’t convinced Kirsch had kicked all his bad habits, but she had outgrown her bad-boy jones long ago.

“I hate to dredge up your life in prison —”

“Dredge away. It’s some of my best material. In fact, it’s the centerpiece of my first-date story. Do you think that’s why I’m not getting many second dates?”

She let the pass pass. “I’m curious about the group of Jewish prisoners who met back at Jessup, going back more than ten years ago. One prisoner’s daughter ended up marrying one of the volunteers, and now she’s missing.”

“Whose daughter?”

“Boris Petrovich’s.”

“Ah, yes. The nubile Natalie. I had first crack at her, you know.”

Tess didn’t like to show surprise — it was a fatal weakness — but she couldn’t help being flustered. “Excuse me?”

“Petrovich showed her photo around our cell block, along with one of a friend. I don’t remember the friend so well — she was a little coarse. But Natalie. You don’t forget a face like that.”

“What do you mean by ‘first crack’?”

“Boris was pimping her.”

“Bullshit. You can’t pimp in prison, not to other prisoners.”

“Ah, you’re not quite as innovative an entrepreneur as our friend Boris. He had a whole fee schedule. You could get letters from her or photos in a variety of garb — or lack thereof. If you were willing to put more money in his account or slide a few more of your privileges his way, he’d offer to get the girls on your visiting list. The prices went up steeply from there, of course.”

“Of course?”

“A hand job from a woman costs a lot more in prison than it does on the street. The old law of supply and demand.”

“No way.” But even as one part of Tess’s mind was trying to knock the story down, the more calculating part was seeing how such an arrangement might work for prisoners who weren’t in maximum security. She had been close enough to Boris to touch him — not that she would — and the guards had been selective about what they noticed. It had taken Boris’s sudden movement to get their attention.

“It’s not very private, to be sure. And the guards draw the line at visitors going down on their knees. But groping is within bounds.”

“Yeah, but he was her
father.
What kind of man would do that to his daughter?”

Kirsch shrugged. “A man who knew his daughter was a whore and figured he deserved a piece of whatever she earned. Once a pimp, always a pimp.”

“I was told that Petrovich was a thief, who killed a man in a dispute.”

“He did a thriving business in stolen goods, sure. But from what I understand — and I’m good at getting information, I’d be a decent private investigator myself — he killed a pimp who tried to take Natalie and her friend away from him. He didn’t care if his daughter turned the occasional trick, but he sure as hell expected her to bring her earnings home every night.”

“No way,” Tess repeated. It was not that she found the information so unfathomable, more that her mind balked at taking this news back to Mark Rubin. Natalie, a teenage whore. And Lana must be the friend in question. The pool of possible traveling companions had just swelled tenfold, a hundredfold, to all Natalie’s former tricks, or even her would-be pimp. No, he was dead, if Kirsch was to be trusted, killed by a father who resented the loss of income, as opposed to the loss of his daughter’s innocence.

“Well, I have to admit, she opted out of the prison thing early on, stopped coming around at all. But her friend even married a guy. Boris must have gotten a bundle for that.”

“One of the guys in the group?”

“Yep. Famous Amos, the world’s biggest Jew. I told my mom about Amos, and she said he couldn’t possibly be Jewish. But I think that’s because he knew how to fix cars, not because of his size.”

I was married once,
Lana had told Tess,
for about six months.
No wonder she had found matrimony so dreary. Her groom had been locked up.

“Natalie was last seen in French Lick, Indiana, with a man of medium height and average looks. Dark hair, slender frame.”

“Dark hair. Well, that lets me out, unless I was dipping into the Grecian Formula. French Lick, huh? I guess they must be hard-core Larry Bird fans.”

Hirsch’s unending supply of glib chatter was beginning to wear on Tess. If he was really worried about getting second dates, he should drop the Catskills-style delivery and try a moment or two of simple sincerity.

“Why did you sign up for the men’s group anyway?” She couldn’t help feeling aggrieved on her uncle’s behalf, and Rubin’s. They had been trying to do something worthwhile, and the only man who had valued their efforts was Mickey Harvey. Boris Petrovich was pimping, first to his fellow prisoners, then to Mark. The other guys were just passing time. “Everything seems like a big joke to you.”

“I admit — at first it was just for the distraction. An Islamic fundamentalist might have signed up for that group, just to vary the routine a little. But I gotta tell you, it helped. Those guys reminded me that I came from a community, and although I had sinned against that community, I could work my way back if I tried.”

“The prodigal son.”

“No, that’s New Testament, your people’s gig. The Old Testament isn’t quite as big on absolute forgiveness, but I had broken only one commandment. Well, two, because a drug is like a false god. Plus, I did a little coveting on the side.”

“What about taking the Lord’s name in vain? Keeping the Sabbath?”

“Four, five — the point is, it was good being reminded that I was a Jew. I didn’t have a wife, I didn’t have kids, and I sure as hell didn’t have a career left as an accountant. But I was part of something that was bigger than me, and there was a comfort in that.”

“Sounds like you did some twelve-stepping along the way.”

“Still do. I catch a meeting once or twice a week. I’ve got an addictive personality. Then I realized almost
everyone
has an addictive personality. The trick is to peddle legal ones that don’t particularly appeal to you. It came down to this or coffee.” He held a cigar up to his nose, inhaling its aroma. “Of course, I’m late to a trend again, just like I was with cocaine. Cigar sales aren’t what they used to be, and the Internet is kicking my ass. But I’m doing okay.”

“Congratulations. And thank you for your time today.”

“So…” He was back to full-bore-charm mode. “You ever date an ex-con? I may have embraced my heritage, but I’ve never quite lost the shiksa thing.”

Tess didn’t have the heart to tell him that she was not the goy of his dreams. “I sorta have a boyfriend.”

“Sorta?”

“I mean, I have a boyfriend. He’s just away right now, tending to some personal business.”

“I don’t know. Sounds like a Freudian slip to me, as if you’d be willing to
not
have a boyfriend under the right conditions.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

“Not in this shop, sweetheart. Not in this shop.”

F
or once Natalie held her ground and insisted on a motel at the top of their price range, which meant extras such as an indoor pool, a free breakfast buffet, and a coffeemaker in the room. After dinner in the restaurant — another meal that Isaac barely touched — she took the children down to the steamy, over-heated pool room, letting them swim in T-shirts and underwear until their fingers were shriveled and their lips almost blue. It turned out that the pool’s heater was faulty, so while the air was humid and sultry, the water temperature was colder than the Atlantic Ocean in June. But children never mind cold water, and she had to beg them to get out.

Back in the room, she hustled them into hot showers, surprising them afterward with cups of cocoa and hard little chocolate-chip cookies. The twins drank without comment, but Isaac wrinkled his nose.

“It tastes funny,” he complained.

“You’re just not used to instant,” Natalie told him. “Put some more mini marshmallows in it, and it will taste richer.”

Their cocoa gone, she tucked them into the bed farthest from the door. Penina was wearing pull-ups now, an utter defeat, but it was only fair to Efraim and Isaac. Natalie had bought another box of the pull-ups today, spending precious dollars at a discount department store not far from the motel. Married to Mark, she had barely noticed the price of anything. Now money seemed to be the only thing she thought about. Well, one of two things she thought about.

Worn out by the swim, lulled by the chocolate, the children fell asleep within minutes. Zeke, lying on the other bed, watching the television with the sound muted, saw that they were out and nodded at her, removing the phone’s handset and dropping it in his pocket.

In the car they started out as they always did, giggling a bit, stroking each other’s faces, feeling the glad relief of a moment when nothing was expected of them — no childish complaints or tears, no demands, no work to do, no people to deceive. But Zeke quickly moved ahead, urgent, keen to do what they had to do and get back in the room. He unzipped his pants, pushing Natalie’s head down with the usual gentle pressure. But this time she slipped her neck from his hand and slid across the unbroken bench of the front seat, straddling him and positioning his hands so he could feel she was naked beneath her skirt.

“C’mon, baby,” he said, trying to force her up and off him, but the steering wheel kept her in place. “We agreed. That has to wait until everything is perfect. A beautiful hotel suite, you in a silk gown. Candles, music. It won’t be long now. Be patient.”

“I don’t want to wait anymore. If you insist on perfect, you’re never going to have anything. Nothing is ever perfect. Besides, what’s the difference between being in my mouth and being in my —” She paused, not wanting to ruin the mood by saying something too crude. “Between my mouth and between
me
?”

He was ready, more than ready. She felt the telltale twitch where she held him, as if Zeke’s body were arguing with his head. Natalie began kissing him lightly — mouth, eyelids, ears. When he spoke again, his voice was faint, unconvinced.

“The kids — there’s always a chance Isaac will try to make a run for it if we stay out too long. He’s always looking for a chance to get away.”

“His eyes won’t open tonight. I put a little vodka in their cocoa.”

“Really?” He put his hand up to her mouth, trying to push her back. She sucked his fingers, but he snatched his hand away and grabbed her chin so she had to look at him. “Where’d you get vodka?”

“At the shopping center, where I bought the cocoa and the pull-ups.”

“So you had this all planned.”

“I need you, Zeke.”

“You have me. Don’t you remember anything? Back at Jessup, visiting me? We held hands on the top of the table, not underneath. We held hands and we made our plans, and wasn’t that a thousand times better than anything you ever felt before?”

“Yes, but…we’re together now. There’s no reason to wait anymore.” She started to weep. “You don’t love me. If you loved me, you would make love to me.”

“I love you more than anyone has loved you or ever will. I love you so much that I won’t let you treat me like one of the men you used to be with, back when you turned tricks in parking lots just so you’d have enough money to buy makeup and go to the movies.”

“You always said you didn’t mind, that you wouldn’t hold that against me.”

“I don’t. But what we have has to be different.”

“It’s different, all right. Are you sure you’re not a fag? Is that what happened to you in Terre Haute? You decided you like boys?”

He slapped her, and her tears were heavy enough to make her choke. She tried to get out of the car, but he seized her wrist. She wanted to rake her nails down his face, draw blood, show him that she would never again allow such treatment. Yet she was almost grateful for his hold on her because she honestly didn’t know what would happen if he let her go. Her arms might go anywhere, strike anything, and there was no doubt in her mind that she could shatter the windows, the windshield, Zeke’s face. Her own rages frightened her and she had tried hard, since the children were born, to control them. Zeke had brought them back. She could never be completely in control when Zeke was around.