The Yiddish Policemen's Union

24

A dark cavern lit with blue diodes. Cool, dry, fragrant with some kind of lemon deodorizer. Landsman senses in himself a trace of that smell, a lemony hint of boundless hope and energy. This may have been the stupidest thing he’s ever done, but it needed to be done, and the feeling of having done it, for this instant, is the answer to the only question he knows how to ask.

“There’s ginger ale,” says the queen of Verbov Island. She’s folded like a throw rug, coiled in a shadowy back corner of the interior. Her dress is drab but cut of fine stuff, and the lining of her raincoat betrays a fashionable logo. “Drink it, I don’t care to.”

But Landsman gives his attention to the rear-facing seat, up by the chauffeur, and the likeliest source of trouble. Sitting there is six feet, maybe two hundred pounds, of female in a black sharkskin suit with a white-on-white collarless shirt. This formidable person’s eyes are gray and hard. They remind Landsman of the backs of two dull spoons. She wears a white earpiece wormed around the flange of her left ear, and her tomato-gravy hair is cut short as a man’s.

“I didn’t know they made lady Rudashevskys,” Landsman says, crouched on his toes in the wide space between the front- and rear-facing benches.

“That is Shprintzl,” says his hostess in the back of the car. Then Batsheva Shpilman lifts her veil. The body is frail, perhaps even gaunt, but it can’t be with age, because the fine-featured face, though hollow, is smooth, a pleasure to look at. She has wide-set eyes of a blue that wavers between heartbreaking and fatal. Her mouth is unpainted but full and red. The nostrils in her long, straight nose arch like a pair of wings. Her face is so strong and lovely, and her frame so wasted, that it’s disturbing to look at her. Her head sits atop her veined throat like an alien parasite, preying on her body. “I want you to be sure to notice that she hasn’t killed you yet.”

“Thank you, Shprintzl,” Landsman says.

“No problem,” Shprintzl Rudashevsky says in American, in a voice like an onion rolling in a bucket.

Batsheva Shpilman points to the opposite end of the backseat. Her hand is gloved in black velvet, buttoned at the cuff with three black seed pearls. Landsman takes the suggestion and gets up off the floor. The seat is very comfortable. He can feel the cold sweat of an imaginary highball against his fingertips.

“Also, she hasn’t contacted any of her brothers or cousins in the other cars, even though, as you see, she’s wired right to them.”

“Tight-knit bunch, the Rudashevskys,” Landsman says, but he understands what she wants him to understand: “You wanted to talk to me.”

“Did I?” she says, and her lips contemplate but decide against lifting at one corner. “You’re the one who barged into my car.”

“Oh, is this a car? My mistake, I thought it was the Sixty-one bus.”

Shprintzl Rudashevsky’s wide face takes on a philosophical, even mystic, blankness. She looks like she’s wetting her pants and enjoying the warmth. “They’re asking about you, darling,” she says to the older woman with a nurselike tenderness, “They want to know if you’re all right.”

“Tell them I’m fine, Shprintzeleh. Tell them we’re on our way home.” She turns her soft eyes toward Landsman. “We’ll drop you at your hotel. I want to see it.” They’re a color he’s never seen, her eyes, a blue you would find in bird plumage or a stained-glass window. “Will that suit you, Detective Landsman?”

Landsman says that will suit him fine. While Shprintzl Rudashevsky murmurs into a concealed microphone, her employer lowers the partition and gives instructions to the chauffeur that will take them to the corner of Max Nordau and Berlevi.

“You look thirsty, Detective,” she says, raising the partition again. “You’re sure you won’t have a ginger ale? Shprintze1eh, get the gentleman a glass ginger ale.”

“Thank you, ma’am, I’m not thirsty.”

Batsheva Shpilman’s eyes widen, narrow, widen again. She’s taking inventory of him, checking it against what she knows or has heard. Her gaze is quick and unsparing. She would probably make a fine detective. “Not for ginger ale,” she says.

They turn onto Lincoln and roll along the shoreline, past Oysshtelung Island and the broken promise of the Safety Pin, headed toward the Untershtat. In nine minutes they will arrive at the Hotel Zamenhof. Those eyes of hers drown him in a jar of ether. They stick him with pins to a corkboard.

“Sure, all right, why not?” Landsman says. Shprintzl Rudashevsky fixes him a cold bottle of ginger ale. Landsman holds it to his temples, then takes a swallow, fighting it down with a sensation of medicinal virtue.

“I haven’t sat this close to a strange man in forty five years, Detective,” Batsheva Shpilman says. “It’s very wrong. I should be ashamed.”

“Particularly given your choice of male companions,” Landsman says.

“Do you mind?” She lowers the black moire, and her face is gone from the conversation. “I’ll feel more comfortable.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Nu,” she says. The veil puffs out with her breath.

“All right. Yes, I wanted to talk to you.”

“I wanted to talk to you, too.”

“Why? Do you think that I killed my son?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t. But I was hoping you might know who did.”

“So!” she declares, a low thrill in her voice, as if she has caught Landsman out. “He was murdered.”

“Uh, well, yes, he was, ma’am. Didn’t — What did your husband tell you?”

“What my husband tells me,” she says, making it sound rhetorical, like the title of a very slim tract. “You’re married, Detective?”

“I was.”

“The marriage failed?”

“I guess that’s the best way to put it.” He reflects for a moment. “I guess that’s really the only way.”

“My marriage is a complete success,” she says with out a trace of boastfulness or pride. “Do you understand what that means?”

“No, ma’am,” Landsman says. “I’m not sure that I do.”

“In every marriage, there are things,” she begins.

She shakes her head once, and the veil trembles. “One of my grandsons was at my house today, before the funeral. Nine years old. I put the television for him in the sewing room, you’re not supposed to, but what does it matter, the little shkotz was bored. I sat with him ten minutes, watching. It was that cartoon program, the wolf that chases the blue rooster.”

Landsman says that he knows it.

“Then you know,” she says, “how that wolf can run in the middle of the air. He knows how to fly, but only so long as he still thinks he’s touching the ground. As soon as he looks down, and sees where he is, and understands what’s going on, then he falls and smashes into the ground.”

“I’ve seen that bit,” Landsman says.

“That’s how it is in a successful marriage,” says the rabbi’s wife. “I have spent the last fifty years running in the middle of the air. Not looking down. Outside of what God requires, I never talk to my husband. Or vice versa.”

“My parents had it worked out the same way,” Landsman says. He wonders if he and Bina might have lasted longer if they had given this traditional route a try. “Only they didn’t much trouble themselves over God’s requirements.”

“I heard about Mendel’s death from my son-in-law, Aryeh. And that man never tells me anything but lies.”

Landsman hears someone jumping up and down on a leather valise. It turns out to be the sound of Shprintzl Rudashevsky’s laughter.

“Go on,” Mrs. Shpilman says. “Please. Tell me.”

“Go on. Nu. Your son was shot. In a way that — Well, to be frank, ma’am, he was executed.” Landsman is glad for the veil when he pronounces that word. “Who by, that we can’t say. We’ve learned that some men, two or three men, were looking for Mendel, asking around. These men might not have been very nice. That was a few months back. We know he was using heroin when he died. So, at the end, he felt nothing. No pain, I mean.”

“Nothing, you mean,” she corrects him. Two blots, blacker than black silk, spread across the veil. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. About your son. I should have said that right off.”

“I was relieved that you didn’t.”

“We think that whoever did this to him was better than amateur. But look, I admit it, since Friday morning we’re getting more or less nowhere with our investigation of your son’s death:”

“You keep saying ‘we,’ ” she says. “Meaning, naturally, Sitka Central.”

Now he wishes he could see her eyes. Because he gets the distinct idea that she is toying with him. That she knows he has no right or authority at his back.

“Not exactly,” Landsman says.

“The Homicide division.”

“No.”

“You and your partner.”

“Again, no.”

“Well, then, maybe I’m confused,” she says.

“Who is this ‘we’ getting nowhere investigating my son’s death?”

“At this point? I, hmm, it’s sort of a theoretical inquiry.”

“I see.”

“By an independent entity.”

“My son-in-law,” she says, “claims that you have been suspended because you came by the island. Came by my house. You insulted my husband. You blamed him for being a bad father to Mendel. Aryeh told me that your badge has been taken away.”

Landsman rolls the cool shaft of the ginger ale glass along his forehead. “Yes, well. This entity I’m talking about,” he says. “So maybe they don’t give out with badges.”

“Only with theories.”

“That’s right.”

“Such as?”

“Such as. All right, here’s one: You were in occasional, maybe even regular, communication with Mendel. You heard from him. You knew where he was. He called you up every once in a while. He sent you postcards. Maybe you even saw him from time to time, on the sly. This secret ride home that you and Friend Rudashevsky are so kindly providing me, for example, it sort of gives me ideas in that direction. ”

“I have not seen my son, my Mendel, in over twenty years,” she says. “Now I never will again.”

“But why, Mrs. Shpilman? What happened? Why did he leave the Verbovers? What did he do? Was there a break? An argument?”

She doesn’t answer for a minute, like she’s fighting the long habit of saying nothing to anyone, let alone to a secular policeman, about Mendel. Or maybe she’s fighting the mounting sense of pleasure she will take, in spite of herself, in remembering her son aloud.

“Such a match I made for him,” she says.