Friday the Rabbi Slept Late (21 page)

Wasserman looked at his watch. “Well, gentlemen, a meeting I’m afraid we won’t have today.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time we didn’t get a quorum,” said Becker.

“And what do I tell the rabbi? That he should wait another week? And next week, we are sure we’ll get a quorum?” He looked quizzically at Becker.

Becker colored. Then suddenly he was angry. “So if we don’t get a quorum, it’ll be next week, or the following week, or the week after that. You’ve got the votes. Does he need it in writing?”

“There’s also the little matter of the opposition votes that you mustered,” Casson reminded him.

“You don’t have to worry about them now,” said Becker stiffly. “I told my friends I was in favor of renewing the rabbi’s contract.”

Hugh Lanigan dropped by that evening to see the rabbi.

“I thought I’d congratulate you on your reprieve. According to my source of information, the opposition to you has collapsed.”

The rabbi smiled noncommittally.

“You don’t seem very happy about it,” said Lanigan.

“It’s a little like getting in through the back door.”

“So that’s it. You think you’re getting this reappointment or election, or whatever it is, because of what you were able to do for Bronstein. Well, here, I am in a position to teach you, rabbi. You Jews are skeptical, critical, and logical.”

“I always thought we were supposed to be highly emotional,” said the rabbi.

“And so you are, but only about emotional things. You Jews have no political sense whatsoever, and we Irish have a genius for it. When you argue or campaign for office, you fight on the issues. And when you lose, you console yourselves with the thought you fought on the issues and argued reasonably and logically. It must have been a Jew who said he’d rather be right than President. An Irishman knows better; he knows that you can do nothing unless you’re elected. So the first principle of politics is to get elected. And the second great principle is that a candidate is not elected because he’s the logical choice, but because of the way he has his hair cut, or the hat he wears, or his accent. That’s the way we pick even the President of the United States, and for that matter, that’s the way a man picks his wife. Now wherever you have a political situation, political principles apply. So don’t you worry as to why or how you were chosen. You just be happy that you were chosen.”

“Mr. Lanigan is right, David,” said Miriam. “We know that if your contract had not been renewed you could have got another position as good or better than this, but you like it here in Barnard’s Crossing. Besides, Mr. Wasserman is sure the raise will be granted, and we can find some use for that.”

“That’s already spoken for, my dear,” said the rabbi hurriedly.

She made a face. “More books?”

He shook his head. “Not this time. When this business is finally over, I’m going to apply the extra money toward a new car. The thought of that poor girl … Every time I get into the car I almost shudder. I find myself thinking up excuses for walking instead of riding.”

“Understandable,” said Lanigan, “but maybe you’ll feel differently once we find the murderer.”

“Oh? How does it look?”

“We’re getting new material all the time. We’re working around the clock. Right now, we’ve got some promising leads.”

“Or to put it another way,” said the rabbi, “you’re at a dead end.”

Lanigan’s answer was a shrug and a wry grin.

“If you want my advice,” said Miriam, “you’ll put it out of your mind and have a cup of tea.”

“That’s sound advice,” said Lanigan.

They sipped their tea and talked about the town, politics, the weather – the aimless, idle conversation of people who had nothing weighing on their minds. Lanigan finally rose with obvious reluctance.

“It’s been very pleasant just sitting here and talking, rabbi, Mrs. Small, but I’ve got to get back now.”

Just as he was leaving, the telephone rang, and although the rabbi was nearest his wife ran to answer. She said hello, and then listened for a moment, the receiver pressed firmly against her ear. “I’m sorry, you have the wrong number,” she said firmly and hung up.

“We seem to be getting quite a few wrong numbers the last couple of days,” observed the rabbi.

Lanigan, his hand on the doorknob, looked from the rabbi, his face innocent and bland, to his wife, her cheeks pink with embarrassment? with annoyance? with anger? In response to his questioning look he thought he detected an almost imperceptible shake of her head, so with a smile and a wave of his hand he let himself out.

Night after night pretty much the same group sat in the circular booth down front at the Ship’s Cabin. Sometimes there were as many as six, most nights only three or four. They called themselves the Knights of the Round Table and were inclined to be noisy and boisterous. Although Alf Cantwell, the proprietor of the tavern, was strict and prided himself on running an orderly establishment, he was likely to be lenient with them because they were regular customers, and if they did occasionally get quarrelsome they kept it within the confines of their own circle. Even then, on the two or three occasions he had had to order his barman to stop serving them and had in fact told them to leave, they had taken it in good part and had come back the following evening without rancor and a little repentant: “Guess we were a little high last night, Alf. Sorry, won’t happen again.”

There were four of them at the table when Stanley came in at half-past nine Monday. Buzz Applebury, a tall, lean man with a long nose, hailed him as he entered. He was a painter-contractor who had his own shop, and Stanley had worked for him on occasion.

“Hi, Stan’l,” he called, “come on over and have a drink.”

“Well …” Stanley temporized. They were a cut above him socially. In addition to Applebury there was Harry Cleeves who had an appliance repair shop, Don Winters who operated a small grocery store, and Malcolm Larch who had a real estate and insurance office. These men were all merchants, whereas he was a laborer.

“Sure, come on and sit down, Stan’l,” Larch urged and moved over on the circular bench to make room for him. “What’ll you have to drink?”

They were drinking whiskey, but his customary drink was ale and he did not want them to think he was taking advantage of their hospitality.

“I’ll have ale,” he said.

“Attaboy, Stan’l, you keep sober because maybe we’ll need you to take us home.”

“Beauty,” said Stanley in appreciation.

Harry Cleeves, a blond giant with a round baby face, had been staring moodily at his glass all this time and had paid no attention to Stanley. Now he turned around and addressed him with an air of great seriousness. “You still work up at the Jew church?”

“At the temple? Yeah, I still work there.”

“You been there a long time now,” Applebury observed.

“Couple – three years,” said Stanley.

“You wear one of them dinky little hats they wear when they pray?”

“Sure, when they’re having a service and I’m on duty.”

Applebury turned to the others. “When they’re having a service and he’s on duty, he says.”

“How do you know that don’t make you a Jew?” asked Winters.

Stanley looked quickly from one to the other. Deciding they were joking, he laughed and said, “Jeez, Don, that don’t make you no Jew.”

“Of course not, Don,” said Applebury, looking down his long nose reprovingly at his friend. “Everybody knows they got to cut off your whatsis to make you a Jew. They cut you off, Stan’l?”

Stanley was sure this was intended as a joke and laughed accordingly. “Beauty,” he added to indicate his full appreciation of the jest.

“You want to watch out, Stan’l,” Winters went on, “you might get so smart associating with them Jews you’ll just naturally stop working.”

“Oh, they ain’t so smart,” said Applebury. “I did a job of work for one of them up on the Point. They ask me for an estimate, so I give them a figure a third higher than the job is worth, calculating on coming down in the dicker. But this Jew fellow just says, Go ahead but do a good job. At that, what with his wife wanting the colors just so, and Would you make this wall just a shade darker than the other, Mr. Applebury? and Could you make the woodwork perfectly flat, Mr. Applebury? – why, maybe it was worth the difference at that. She was a real nice little woman,” he added reminiscently. “She wore those tight black pants – toreador pants, I guess they call them – and her little arse wiggled so when she walked I couldn’t keep my mind on my work.”

“I heard that Hugh Lanigan was setting up to become one,” said Harry Cleeves. The others laughed, but he seemed not to notice. Suddenly he turned to Stanley. “How about that, Stan’l? You hear anything about any preparations they were making down there to swear Hugh Lanigan in?”

“Naw.”

“Now Harry, I heard something about that,” said Malcolm Larch. “It ain’t that Hugh’s planning to join them. It’s just this business about the girl. I figure Hugh is working with this rabbi of theirs to make sure no evidence gets out that would show that the rabbi did it.”

“How could he do that?” asked Cleeves. “If the rabbi did it, how’s Hugh going to cover up for him?”

“Well, the way I heard it, he tried to pin it onto this Bronstein fellow instead, on account Bronstein wasn’t a member of their outfit. But then it turns out that he’s connected with one of their high officers so they had to let him go. Those in the know figure they’ll try to pin it on some outsider next. Hugh been bothering you any, Stan’l?” He turned to him innocently.

Stanley knew they were pulling his leg now, but instead of finding it amusing he felt uneasy. He forced a grin. “No, Hugh don’t pay me no mind.”

“What I don’t understand,” said Cleeves reflectively, “is what this rabbi would want to kill that little girl for.”

“Somebody was saying, but it didn’t seem too likely, that it’s part of the religion,” explained Winters.

“I don’t figure there’s much in that,” said Larch, “at least not around these parts. Maybe in Europe, or in some big city like New York where they’re powerful and could get away with it, but not around here.”

“Then what would he want with a young girl like that?” demanded Winters.

“She was pregnant, wasn’t she?” Cleeves turned suddenly to Stanley. “Isn’t that what he wanted her for, Stan’l?”

“Aw, you guys are nuts,” said Stanley. They laughed, but Stanley did not feel the atmosphere lighten. He felt uncomfortable.

Larch said, “Hey Harry, didn’t you have to make a telephone call?”

Cleeves glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s a little late, isn’t it?”

“The later the better, Harry.” He winked at his friends, and said, “Ain’t that right, Stan’l?”

“Guess so.”

This caused renewed laughter. Stanley kept a fixed grin on his face. He wanted to leave but did not know how. They all watched, not talking now, as Cleeves dialed a number and then talked on the phone. A few minutes later he came out and made an O with his thumb and forefinger to indicate that the call had been successful.

Stanley got up so that Cleeves could regain his seat. Standing, he realized that this was the time to break away. “Got to go now,” he said.

“Aw, c’mon, Stan’l, have another.”

“The night’s young, Stan’l.”

“Shank of the evening –”

Applebury grabbed his arm, but Stanley shook him off and made for the door.

Carl Macomber, Chairman of the Board of Selectmen of Barnard’s Crossing, was by nature a worrier. A tall, spare man with gray hair, he had been in town politics for forty years, and on the Board of Selectmen for almost half that time. The two hundred and fifty dollars per year that he received, fifty dollars more than the other members, for being chairman was certainly inadequate compensation for the three or more hours a week he spent in attending Board meetings all through the year, the dozens of hours he spent on town business, and the hectic weeks of campaigning every other year if he wanted to be reelected.

There was no doubt that his business – he operated a small haberdashery – had suffered from his devotion to politics. Every election he and his wife had extensive debates about whether he should run again, and convincing her, he often said, was the biggest hurdle of the campaign.

“But, Martha, I’ve simply got to remain on the Board now that the question of taking over the Dollop Estate by eminent domain is coming up. There just isn’t anyone else who knows the ins and outs of that business except me. If Johnny Wright would run, I could stay out. But he’s going to Florida for the winter. He was the only one besides me who was in on the negotiations with the heirs back in ‘52. And if I should drop out now, I’d hate to think how much it would cost the town.”

Before that it had been the new school, and before that the new sanitation and health department, and before that the wage survey of town employees, and before that something else. Sometimes he wondered about it himself. The unbending Yankee in him would not permit him to admit to himself anything so sentimental as love for the town. Instead, he told himself that he liked to be in the middle of things and know what was going on, and that it was his duty since he could do the job better than any of the other candidates.

Running the town wasn’t just a matter of dealing with questions as they came up, he always said; by that time it was too late. Rather, it involved a crisis in the making and forestalling it. Such was the situation right now with respect to Rabbi Small and the Temple Murder, as the newspapers had labeled the case. It wasn’t anything he cared to discuss at the regular meeting of the Board. Even the five members were too many when all he needed was a majority of three to railroad anything they decided through an official meeting with a minimum of discussion.

He had called Heber Nute and George Collins, the two older members of the Board, and next to himself the oldest in length of service. They were sitting now in his living room sipping at the iced tea and munching at the gingerbread cookies that Martha Macomber had brought in on a tray. They discussed the weather, the state of business, and the national political situation. Now Carl Macomber spoke up.