To Kill a Matzo Ball (A Deadly Deli Mystery) (13 page)

Blacks and other minorities have made stunning progress. Except for dwellers on the radical fringe, people go out of their way
not
to lash out at them. Muslims get multi-faith rallies to decry Islamophobia. Illegal immigrants get federal mandates affirming their rights. Gays and the transgendered get legislative protection. Single mothers with five kids from different fathers get state assistance. Blacks, Latinos, Native Americans, and every blend or subdivision of those groups have grassroots advocacy in towns and cities and on college campuses.

Not me and mine. I’m not
kvetching,
mind you. It’s been that way for millennia. We’re raised to be on guard. Which brings me back to Louis. His wife convinced him that “I”—meaning Jews—had enough money and that he should charge me a delivery fee for the small amount of gas he was using to come to the deli during his daily rounds. He broached the subject. I told him, fine, but then I’d charge him interest on the forty-thousand-dollar loan. That came out to way more than the gas. He withdrew his request, embarrassed that he had made it. His wife e-mailed that I wasn’t being fair. I didn’t respond.

My point being, while Thom is and feels free to express herself, I was raised to expect every act to boomerang—if not by the nature of the act then by the fact that I am a Jew. True or not, that paranoia is in the air, in the genes, in my soul. And that fear was playing out in my brain even as the evidence failed to provide any actionable information. Who was angry at
me:
the SSS or the Chinese? I didn’t have enough information to make that call. It’s worse when you’re a woman because, added to that, you’re wondering if someone like Banko is a perv or Detective Bean is sweet on Grant and angry at me for maltreating him or whether Agent Bowe-Pitt is an anti-Semite or a misogynist or both, even though he appeared to dislike me, Bean, and Grant equally. I spend so much time working out ancillary issues that there is less time to focus with clarity on the main problem.

Like: would I be walking into some kind of viper den at the wake? Or, more important, would I be walking out again?

I didn’t know. All I knew for sure was that I had to go if for no other reason than to get hard data or firm impressions to push aside the feelings of bigotry and oppression. I dressed in black slacks and a black sweater, which were all I’d brought with me, since black is the default going-out color of New York women. I weathered Thom’s disapproving eyeballs as I headed for the door.

I didn’t get out clean, though. As I was leaving, my office phone rang. Thom answered it at the counter extension.

“Do you want to talk to a Richard Richards?” she asked.

I hurried back to my office.

I took the call in my office, glad to hear from Richards because he and his manner and his voice relaxed me, and curious to hear what he had to say.

“I didn’t clear this with the detectives, who are out, so I hope you’ll keep this between us,” he said.

That was sweet. Either that or I was really hungry for a kind soul. Or, more likely, both. “Not a breath will escape,” I assured him.

And then he said, “Your friend Mr. Juarez is a pimp.”

I remember, when I was about five years old, my father and I built a snow man in Washington Square Park. It was about six feet tall, and while my father was putting the head on top, I was on my knees behind it, reinforcing the section where the torso met the base. Suddenly, the big snowball that made up the bottom collapsed and the entire figure fell on me. I was startled at the time, though I knew I shouldn’t be: we had piled too much snow too high on too little base.

That was how I felt now. I had put an awful lot of weight on a foundation that was obviously shaky. I was startled for about a second—and then everything fell into place.

“There was enough on his laptop for me to go online and see that someone operates a series of websites across the country offering escort services on an ‘in-call’ basis, meaning at local apartments or motels,” Richards said. “There were exotic first names and references to ‘roses’ in the data. Roses are the buzzword for dollars. Oh, and before you ask how I know that, it’s my job,” he added quickly. “It was easy to connect several of the websites to his laptop.”

“So Banko goes around the country, stays in places where he’s already renting rooms, and does his little experiments on the side.”

“Apparently.”

I didn’t think the etheric research was a fake. Given how quickly he jumped at the opportunity of legitimizing his studies—with the very group, law enforcement, that would be keen to shut down his other activities—I guessed it was more of a passion for him than the actual big-earnings work he did.

I asked, “Is there enough to file charges, do you think?”

“Probably not,” he said. “I did conduct what was, in effect, an unlawful search. And I understand that he did leave town late this morning. Didn’t he contact you?”

“I don’t think—” and then I told Richards to hold on. Thom had answered the phone throughout the busy day, written down my messages on those little pink pads, and handed them to me. I looked at the thin stack on my desk. One of them was from Banko. No message, other than to call him back. He left his cell number. “Yeah, he did.”

“If anything, this is probably a matter for your agent friend to follow up on,” Richards said. “I’m sure the gentleman is out of our jurisdiction by now, if not out of the state.”

“Right.”

“There also isn’t anything, as far as I can tell, that has to do with Mr. Juarez’s energy research, other than the blocked software,” Richards said. “He seemed to be cooperating on that front, so I didn’t look into it.”

“What about the shooter in the park?”

Richards was silent and then made a
hmm
sound.

“Is that a ‘yes, but I can’t tell you?’” I asked.

“I should really let Detective Daniels or Detective Bean handle that.”

“Meaning there
is
something.”

“A point of origin,” he said reluctantly. “But I really, really shouldn’t be talking about that.”

“I understand,” I said. And I did. If I didn’t like the man I’d have pressed him. Instead, I’d press Grant.

“I just wanted you to be aware, in case you are in touch again, that Mr. Juarez has had some shady dealings with which you might not want to be associated.”

“I really appreciate that. And I hope to see you again under happier circumstances.”

The sentence hung in the air like a high pop fly. We both watched it, wondering if it would land foul or fair.

“I’m sure we will,” Richards replied, which as far as I was concerned was the equivalent of having a beer spilled in your lap.

“Great,” I replied ambivalently as the ball game suddenly became about my wet blue jeans.

I couldn’t hang up fast enough, and I even wiped my hands on the sides of my pants. They were sweaty and felt unclean. My brain blanked on everything we had discussed, except for that last painful exchange. I struggled to regroup.

Right,
I thought.
I’ve got to return Banko’s call
.

I looked at the computer clock. I decided to call Banko when I got back from the wake. I needed to think about what I would say to him, and I couldn’t do that given where my head was now. In a strange way, knowing the truth strengthened my belief that
he
believed in the etheric studies he was doing. The man made sure I knew nothing about his income-producing work, lest my opinion color all else. The funny thing was, I didn’t have a problem with his pimpery. A woman should be allowed to do what she wants with her body. In fact, maybe these ladies were smarter than me. I’d done some pretty stupid, destructive things in that area and come away totally empty-handed.

I decided to drive to the school. Given what had happened the day before, it seemed to make more sense to have a couple of tons of metal between me and a potential kidnapper or gunman.

The trip took just a few minutes, even in early rush hour traffic. That was the thing about Nashville that I would never get used to. Even the exit from the city was a relatively brief spurt instead of the flood it was in New York. It was almost cute.

The police car was still parked around the corner. I pulled up behind it. The same officer was on duty. I was surprised by the availability of parking until I saw the bicycles chained behind the school. I wondered if it was fitness or economy or both that was responsible. Then I noticed a banner on one that went off like fireworks in my brain: it was emblazoned with a tiger atop the letters TSU.

Tennessee State University.

Oy
.

As I passed the window I saw about two dozen people inside. That wasn’t the only change from the previous day. The mirrors on the side of the school had been covered with bed sheets. There was a gong standing outside the door to the left. A young man dressed in black stood beside it, outside the door. He was a stern-looking fellow, more like a bodyguard than an usher. Beyond him I could see the casket of Ken Chan. It rested on ornate blocks that raised the bottom to about eighteen inches off the ground; the foot of the coffin faced the window. There, at the foot, was a table overflowing with offerings of food. At the head were little tables adorned with framed photographs of Sifu Chan. Only a few people wore the brooches with photographs that Aunt May had been wearing. I assumed they were family members. They were the only ones who were sitting, all of them on stools that were low to the ground.

I glanced over at the young man. He wore an expression as iron-hard as the gong. I tried not to take it personally. The man was in mourning.

“Hello,” I said. “Is there—I’ve never been to a wake like this. Is there anything I need to know?”

“About the wake or what is expected of mourners?”

“I guess—both?”

He said, “To begin with, take off your shoes before entering.”

“All right.” As I began removing them, I saw where the others were lined up just inside the door.

“The mirrors are covered because we believe that if you see the dead in a mirror, the death will be repeated on another member of the family,” he said. “The gong, placed to the left, informs passers-by that a male has died.”

It was like the Jewish custom of sitting shiva; in that case, the mirrors were soaped, though that was to discourage inappropriate vanity. Outside the home was a different object—a bowl to wash the dirt of the graveyard from one’s hands. It was interesting how similar-but-different elements showed up in unrelated cultures.

“One thing more,” he said. “Do not crawl to the casket.”

I looked past him. Several people were on their knees beside it; I hadn’t realized they’d crawled there.

“That is only for relatives who are not part of the immediate family.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Am I permitted to kneel?”

“You are permitted, though it is not expected unless you were a student.”

My ten-minute acquaintance with the deceased did not qualify me as anything other than a fellow New Yorker who was briefly his caterer. I walked inside, as the young man held the door. Only once before had I experienced a sensation of standing out so completely—and it was not when I went to a show at the Apollo in Harlem during my college days. There, at least, I was with another Jew, even though he was Ethiopian. It was when I went to a Buddhist meditation center in Chinatown. The experience was like one of those Inspector Clouseau movies in which, as quiet as you tried to be, your shoes squeaked or your breathing was wheezy or the fabric of your blouse made rustling sounds. It was so quiet inside that every sound seemed sharply magnified.

There were glances in my direction, but no one stared. While most of the mourners were Asian, several were not. They were young, students most likely, ranging in age from around fourteen to nineteen. They were wearing their traditional uniforms, black with white frog buttons and rollback cuffs. The solemnity of the occasion was heightened by the dress; to say I looked out of place is to state the apparent.

I found Aunt May among the understandably sad—even sour-looking—family members. I would have felt a little better if she had done more than glance at me then glance away. No acknowledgment. Maybe there was an aspect of Chinese mourning that I didn’t understand. It made me feel totally adrift. I stopped when I reached the casket—which was closed—and I stood for a while with my head bowed and my eyes shut. I thought of the brief moment we shared and it made me grin. With the smile still on my lips I turned to May. From where I was standing I could see a young woman with a small girl at her side. The girl was four or five and as petite a little lady as I’d ever seen. The widow and daughter, I presumed; she had her mother’s sad eyes and high, proud forehead. I felt I should go over and say something, but without any kind of sign from Auntie May, I didn’t know if I should.

Which is ridiculous,
I reminded myself.
You don’t know who the target was
.

Nonetheless, he was killed in my deli. I was about to go back and ask my friend at the door when the young woman rose and walked in my direction. She was tiny, about four-ten, with the most delicate-looking features I had ever seen. Her daughter stayed behind, sitting on her stool and looking at the casket as if the sadness and weight of the planet were on her straight little shoulders.

Maybe they are,
I thought. I remember being that old and thinking that the dress I couldn’t have or the friend who suddenly, inexplicably wouldn’t talk to me was a tragedy. How does a little girl react when something truly is catastrophic ?

The woman stopped in front of me.

“You are Gwen Katz?”

I told her I was.

“I am Maggie Chan,” she said in a grieved, respectful whisper. “Thank you for coming. May I speak with you privately?”

That was a surprise. I’m sure it showed in my expression. “Of course,” I said.

Auntie May regarded her through slightly narrowed eyes. “Are you sure you are up for this, niece?”

“I am,” she replied.

There appeared to be a “moment” that was way over my head. Though the meaning was elusive, the tension was very real.

Maggie turned toward the office in the back of the school, along the same side as the covered mirrors. It was literally not much more than a closet, about half the size of my office. And this one had mine beat in terms of clutter. On the facing wall were trophies with martial arts belts and caps draped over them; on the wall above hung certificates and framed and lopsided photographs of people in martial arts uniforms, along with candids fixed to the wall with pushpins. There were newspaper articles, though nothing that seemed older than three months. A sign of the times: they were printouts from newspaper websites. To the right were shelves filled with VHS cassettes and DVDs of movies and what looked like training videos; a small cathode ray TV and various connected players were stacked precipitously on a stool. On the left side was a desk with a laptop, a phone, various hand exercisers worn from use and stained from bodily oils, and sundry knives and guns that, I assumed, were used in training but kept here for safety. Among the items was a small, framed photo of Maggie and their daughter. There was no photo of the deceased. Those had apparently been moved to the shrine.

Maggie shut the flimsy wooden door behind me. I felt a flash of concern at all the weaponry. I wondered if she knew kung fu. I tried not to worry for my safety. Why would Auntie May have lured me into a trap?

To stuff my body into that casket with Ken Chan,
I thought.
Maybe bury me without a trace
.

Maggie did not offer me the only seat, a straight-backed wooden chair. I didn’t take it personally. If someone sat in it, there wouldn’t be room for anyone else inside the office. She stood with her back to the door. I faced her.

“I am sorry that you are involved in this situation,” she said.

“I’m sorry it happened,” I said.

“Thank you. But you don’t know the entirety of it.”

The feeling of being out of place evaporated. I was suddenly right at home, my catcher’s mitt on, ready to receive hardball information about a crime. It was amazing how a slight tilt toward the familiar could take body, mind, and soul with it.

I waited expectantly as Maggie’s eyes went to the photo on the desk, lingered, then came back to me.

“This was supposed to be a joyous day, when the school comes together for promotions,” she said. “Instead we are in mourning.”

“I’m so sorry.” I was, though I was beginning to wish I hadn’t come. This was additional agita I didn’t need.

“We grieve as a family and as a closely bound community. A school is like a church or a veterans’ organization or a trade union. We are one.”