The Golem of Hollywood (22 page)

N
o such tag,” Marcia said. “Anthony reran it three times to make sure.”

“What about the 911 tape?”

“They haven't gotten back to him.”

Figures. “Special Projects?”

“Nothing. What kind of top secret stuff are you into these days, Lev?”

“I'd tell you if I knew.”

“Keep safe.”

“I'll try.”

The soonest affordable flight to Prague was a Wednesday-night red-eye on Swiss, connecting through Zurich and costing eleven hundred dollars. While leaving Mallick a voicemail explaining his intentions, he fiddled with the white credit card, then tossed it aside disgustedly, girding himself to cough up a grand of his own money with no hope of reimbursement. Maybe the interest on the $97,000 advance on his salary would bring him back up to even in due time.

The sat phone rang before he could finish typing in his own credit card number.

“Lev, Mike Mallick.”

“Commander. Nice to finally hear from you.”

“We need to talk. Face-to-face.”

“You want me to swing by the garage?”

“That location's no longer active,” Mallick said. “Stay there. I'll come to you.”

—

H
E
CAME
ALONE
, pressed and slender, towering and tidy.

Standard eight-foot ceilings emphasized his height: he ducked his head as he entered, remained warily hunched, the habitual stance of a man living in a world not designed for him.

Jacob pulled out two kitchen chairs and offered coffee.

“No, thanks. But help yourself.” Mallick sat, smoothing down the white tufts of hair above his ears. “Getting along here?”

“That's one of the things I was hoping to talk to you about, sir. I've been having a few technical issues.”

“Is that so.”

“I keep trying to run a tag and my system crashes.”

“Mm.”

“I asked a friend in Traffic to run it for me, and she said it doesn't come up.”

“Then I'd assume it's bogus.”

“Yeah, maybe. But I also encounter the same problem when I look for the division address.”

“Special Projects?”

Jacob nodded.

“That's because there is none. This isn't an official detail. You want to know the address,” Mallick said, tapping his chest, “you're looking at it.”

“I sent you an e-mail,” Jacob said. “You never wrote back.”

“When was that?”

“A few days ago. I've sent several, actually. About a 911 recording, too.”

“Did you, now? I must have missed it.”

“All of them?”

Mallick smiled. “I'm bad with technology.”

“I asked Subach and Schott to tell you.”

Mallick didn't answer.

Jacob said, “You came here when I told you I was going to Prague.”

“Well, that's a significant expense.”

“No kidding,” Jacob said. “I'm the one paying.”

“You have a card for operational expenses.”

“It doesn't work.”

“Have you tried it?”

“Several times. It won't go through.”

“It'll go through,” Mallick said placidly. “At any rate, given the expanding scope of this investigation, I thought it would be best to discuss it.”

“Face-to-face.”

“I'm a people person, Lev.”

Jacob said nothing.

Mallick said, “You're making progress on the case.”

“I'd be doing better if I had the 911 tape or even the slightest sense why you're stonewalling me.”

“Don't be melodramatic.”

“You have a better word, sir?”

“I told you. It's sensitive.”

“Then I don't get the point of working from home. Or having a secure line. The idea was to avoid attracting attention. Not to put me in a box so small I can't function.”

Mallick didn't respond.

“Pardon my language, sir,” Jacob said, “but what the fuck is going on?”

“I've given you a very important task and I need you to carry it out.”

“What task is that, sir?”

“Exactly what you're doing,” Mallick said. “That's what I need you to do.”

“Tread water?”

“From what you've told me, you've done a good deal more than that.”

“So you did read my e-mails.”

“I read them.”

“Then you know there's crucial information that I'm not getting access to.”

“We're on top of it.”

“Who's we? On top of what?”

“That's all you need to know at the moment.”

“With respect, sir, fuck that.”

Mallick chuckled. “Everything they said about you is true.”

“Who said? Mendoza?”

“Are you asking me to take you off the case?”

“I'm asking to not feel like everybody's running around behind my back.”

“Everybody being?”

“Subach. Schott. Divya Das. Even the guy I talked to in Prague sounded spooked.”

“What's in Prague?”

“Another head.”

Mallick's brow creased, and his eyes grew unfocused. He remained that way for some time, nodding slowly.

At last he said, “I think you should go to Prague.”

“So that's a yes, sir?”

“That's a yes.”

The bout of permissiveness bewildered Jacob. “Thank you, sir. But can I ask why you're okay with me leaving the country but you won't help me obtain a simple 911 recording?”

Mallick rubbed his forehead and contemplated for another long stretch. He seemed to consider several alternatives before settling on taking out his phone, placing it on the coffee table, tapping the screen a few times.

Recording hiss.

Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?

Hello.
A woman's voice.
I'd like to report a death.

Sorry, ma'am, can you repeat that? A death?

The woman recited the address of the house on Castle Court
.

Are you—ma'am, are you in danger? Can you tell me if you—do you need assistance?

Thank you.

Ma'am? Hello? Ma'am? Are you there?

The hiss cut off as Mallick leaned over and touched the screen.

“Did that help?” he asked softly.

Jacob looked at him.

“Do you want to hear it again?”

Jacob nodded.

Mallick touched
PLAY
.

Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?

By the end of the second listen-through, Jacob's mouth was dry and he was gripping the edge of the table hard enough to feel his pulse.

Thank you.

Mallick reached over and pressed
PAUSE
. “Do you understand now?”

Jacob looked at him. “No.”

“I can e-mail you a copy, if you'd like.”

Jacob nodded.

“Regardless of whether you understand,” Mallick said, “it's vital that you keep doing what you're doing. Vital.”

“Sir?”

“Yes, Lev?”

“Are you sure I should go to Prague?”

“Why not?”

“I should probably stay here to try and . . . chase that down.”

The Commander gazed at him with strange tenderness.

“Go,” he said. “I think you'll find it educational.”

Long after he'd left, Jacob was sitting, motionless. The apartment got dark. He rose to shut and bolt the front door.

His computer seemed to be working fine now. As promised, Mike Mallick had e-mailed him the audio file. Jacob listened to it five, six, seven times, many more times than he needed to be absolutely certain that he'd heard right, that the voice on the recording belonged to Mai.

H
e called his father to tell him about the trip.

Sam said, “No.”

Jacob stuttered laughter. “Excuse me?”

“You can't go. I can't allow it. I, I—
forbid
it.”

Jacob had never heard his father like this before. “Abba. Seriously.”

“I am serious,” Sam said. “Do I not sound serious?”

“I've got a job to do.”

“In Prague.”

“What, you think I'm lying to you?”

“I think there's no reason for you to have to travel halfway around the world.”

“I'm pretty sure that's my call to make, not yours.”

“Wrong,” Sam said. “Wrong. Wrong.”

“I'm not asking for permission.”

“That's good,” Sam said, “because I'm not giving it to you.”

“What's gotten into you?”

“You can't do this to me.”

“What are you talking about? I'm not doing any—”

“You're leaving me.”

“You'll be fine. I spoke to Nigel. He'll be by every day.”

“I don't need him,” Sam said. “I need
you
, here.”

“What aren't you telling me? Are you sick?”

“I'm speaking, as your father—”

“And I'm telling you, as a grown man, that this is not a negotiation.”

A wounded silence.

“I thought you'd be excited,” Jacob said. “Home of the Maharal.”

Sam did not reply.

“Look,” Jacob said, “I'll drop by later, all right? Right now I've got to go.”

“Jacob—”

“I have a ton of stuff I need to do. I'll see you later.”

He hung up before Sam could object.

—

H
IS
PASSPORT
WAS
a few months shy of expiration and bore two stamps from the previous decade: a winter jaunt to Baja, a last-ditch attempt to repair things with Renee; another to Paris, same deal with Stacy, more expensive, equally unsuccessful.

Per Mallick's instructions, he used the white credit card to book his flight and hostel.

It went through.

Maybe they had a list of preapproved purchase categories—travel, for instance, but not food. Long as he wasn't paying.

He went off to pack, delaying going to Sam's until the late afternoon. He wasn't in the mood for an argument, and the abrupt shift in his father's personality had him worrying about the possibility that Sam might be losing it, too.

He found a spot on the street behind Nigel's red Taurus, a broken-down bundle of nonmoving violations.

“Consider yourself warned,” he said, stepping onto the patio, where Nigel stood holding a full trash bag. “Again.”

Nigel grinned. “The Lord is my shepherd.”

“Fine if you drive a sheep.”

Nigel's smile widened until nothing remained of his cheeks; he began to laugh, a gold cross bouncing on the trampoline of T-shirt stretched between massive pectoral muscles.

“I'm not kidding,” Jacob said. “Each of those infractions is like a two-hundred-dollar ticket.”

“Which one should I handle first?”

“The taillight, and the windshield, and the bumper, and—”

Nigel clucked his tongue.

Jacob said, “The taillight. That's what's going to get you pulled over.”

“Yakov,” Nigel said, enunciating the Hebrew name with his usual glee, “I don't need anything extra to get pulled over.”

Driving while black. End of debate. Jacob glanced at the trash bag. “You need a hand?”

“Taking this out and I'll be on my way.”

“I'll walk you to your car.”

As soon as they were out of earshot of the apartment, Jacob said, “How's he doing?”

Nigel seemed confused by the question. “Could use a haircut.”

“You haven't noticed anything weird, though.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. Mood changes.”

Nigel shook his head.

“And you'd let me know if you did.”

“Most definitely.”

“I'll be back in a week, tops,” Jacob said. “Promise me you'll keep a close eye on him. I know you will, but I need to say it again so I can feel better about leaving.”

“Don't you worry. He's a strong one.”

Jacob felt it unnecessary to point out that Sam didn't buy his own groceries; Nigel did, as well as take in Sam's laundry and shuttle him to
any destination beyond a half-mile radius of the apartment. A deeply religious Evangelical, Nigel held Sam in awe, and he took his assignments seriously, although how they had come to be his remained a trifle unclear. For a man who worked at a lumberyard, he had extremely soft hands. That made a great deal more sense when you learned the lumberyard was owned by none other than Abe Teitelbaum.

Nigel put the trash bag in the curbside can. “He has that light within him.”

“Too bad I didn't get any.”

Nigel smiled. “Take care of yourself, Yakov.”

“Thanks. Since we're on the subject of light?”

“Yes?”

“Taillight.”

—

S
AM
HAD
HIS
MAGNIFYING
SPECTACLES
ON
, the ones that made him look like a mad scientist. Books smothered the dining room table.

“I still can't see why it's necessary to go all the way there.”

“This guy wouldn't talk to me otherwise.”

“What makes you think he'll talk to you in person?”

“He implied as much.”

“But what if I need to get in touch with you?”

“Call my cell.”

“It's too expensive.”

“Call collect.”

“Too expensive for you.”

“I'm not paying. Give it up, Abba.”

“I do not approve.”

“I understand.”

“Does that mean you're not going?”

“What do you think?”

Sam sighed. He plucked two softcovers from the nearest pile and slid them to Jacob. “I took the liberty of pulling these for you.”

Jacob picked up a guidebook to Prague. “I didn't know you'd been.”

“I haven't. But where you can't go, you can read.”

The guidebook had to be a quarter century old, minimum. Jacob scanned the table of contents and saw a chapter devoted to traveling in Soviet bloc countries, including a subsection titled “Bribes: When and How Much?”

“I'm not sure this is current.”

“The important stuff stays the same. Don't take it if you don't want. The other one I know you'll like.”

Jacob recognized the cover art immediately: the lurching ogre that had sent him fleeing into his mother's arms. He'd forgotten the title, if he ever knew it.

Prague: City of Secrets, City of Legends

Classic Tales from the Jewish Ghetto

TRANSLATED FROM THE
C
ZECH BY
V
.
G
ANS

“Thanks, Abba. Not sure how much pleasure reading I'll do.” He was thinking of the file from Aaron Flores, arrived that morning, occupying the front pocket of his carry-on.

“There's the plane ride.”

“I was hoping to sleep,” Jacob said. Sam's evident dismay led him to add, “I'm sure I'll appreciate it when I'm jet-lagged and up at two in the morning.”

Sam said, “That was your favorite book, when you were little.”

Mine,
Jacob thought,
or yours?
He nodded, though.

“I was thinking about how we used to read together, when you were very small. Most babies, they come out smushed. They barely look
human. That wasn't you. You . . . you had a face, a—a substance, to you. Fully formed, from the womb. I looked at you and I thought I could see the future, read all the days, even the ones that hadn't been written yet.” He paused. “And I would read to you, and you would listen. I would read the words and you would look up at me, like a wise old man, and you wouldn't stop looking until I said, ‘The End.' I must've read that book to you five hundred times. You didn't like to sleep, so I would tie you inside my bathrobe and read to you till the sun came up and we said
Shema
.”

He paused again. Cleared his throat. “Those were good mornings.”

Sam abruptly removed his spectacles and tapped the book twice. “Anyway, I thought you might enjoy it.”

“Thanks,” Jacob said. He was picturing himself as a grown man, tied inside his father's robe, pressed to his bony chest. It was both creepy and comforting, as was the revelation that Sam had been reading him the tales since before he could remember. “You want me to bring anything back for you?”

Sam shook his head. Then: “As long as you're there, though.”

“Yes?”

“Visit the Maharal's grave. Place a stone for me. Not if you're too busy, of course.”

“I'll find the time.”

“Thank you. One more thing,” Sam said, reaching into his pocket. He pressed some money into Jacob's hand. “For
tzedakah
.”

It was an old custom: giving a traveler charity money to ensure his safe passage. When one was engaged in a good deed, no harm could befall him, and charity, in particular, preserved one from death.

Allegedly.

Jacob ironed out the bills, expecting a couple of dollars, seeing instead two hundreds.

“Abba. This is way too much.”

“How often are you in Prague?”

“I don't need two hundred. One's fine.”

“One for the way there, one for the way back. Remember: you're my messenger. That's what protects you. The kindness, not the money.” He reached for Jacob's neck, pulled him in for a scratchy kiss. “Go in peace
.
”