What to Do About the Solomons Page 9

  It had never been all about Carolyn.

  First she’d fallen in love with the men, now she’d fallen in love with her pimp.

  Are you fucking stupid? Whitney asked. Women like Whitney always struck gold. Her boyfriend had paid off her student debts, her credit cards, and gave her one thousand dollars a month spending money—and never saw hookers. No, never saw hookers, according to Whitney. Carolyn didn’t say a word. Why, Carolyn wondered, wouldn’t any guy rather see a hooker? Relationships were a misery. Whitney said—and she was right—You’re not supposed to fall in love with your pimp. Even I know that. You should crawl right back to Cleveland.

  Sure, she could. Carolyn had ten thousand dollars saved up in the six months she’d been working. It was stuffed in a safe-deposit box at the Chase branch on Park Avenue. The same bank that laughed at her just one year ago, chuckling away as they collected her overdraft and insufficient funds fees. She could do whatever the fuck she wanted.

  Only later did she realize she’d never get what she really wanted.

  Chapter 11

  The Reserves

  Shai Skymatsky’s thighs stick to the vinyl seats of the little Toyota. He throws the car into reverse and heads down the beach road. He is still in his underwear. He is two hours late for the drill. The largest reserves drill the army has ever executed.

  Every gear locks into place. The engine fires.

  The sea crashes beside him. He cuts the lights.

  A bottle of Sprite rolls on the floor. He picks it up, opens it, downs it, and tosses the bottle onto the seat. Tonight the entire military fleet will mobilize. The men will storm the beach north of Yaffo like four hundred horsemen of the apocalypse.

  He loves his guys so much he sleeps with their wives.

  Back on Avenue Viron, the woman who sleeps in his bed is small but bossy. She is in love with Shai Skymatsky. Maya belongs to the officer in charge of tonight’s exercise, who is also his best friend. Her thighs gripped him tight. Don’t leave, she said.

  He fucks with the lights off.

  That’s what they say about Shai Skymatsky.

  The surf crashes on the beach before him. The sand is littered with cigarettes. The ships bulk along the horizon. They are two miles out but he can make it. He can make it. He’s not that late. He can make it.

  He can’t make it.

  Skymatsky reaches into the back of his car for the empty soda bottle. He pulls out a flashlight and knife. He cuts the plastic bottle in half and fits it over the flashlight and runs to the edge of the beach, flashing the green light again and again. He waves his T-shirt over his head. The cold creeps into the fabric of his underwear and through the hair on his back and chest. The night has settled into the sea.

  He jumps up and down, flashing his green Sprite light. What is he now?

  A tiny bit of phosphorus.

  An insect.

  At sea, men slip from the ships into the velvet water. Others stand on the decks in slick black frog suits. They sit in the cockpits of Neshers. Some blink through binoculars. Some talk into radios. The air is biting cold but no one feels it. They are one long artery of adrenaline.

  Something on shore, says an officer.

  Never mind, says the officer in charge.

  No, I’m seeing something. I see something right on the beach.

  Never mind, says the officer in charge. Let’s begin.

  I don’t think that would be prudent, sir.

  Never mind, says the officer in charge.

  Take a look, sir.

  The officer in charge grabs the other officer’s binoculars. Men in freezing water. Men piss their suits for warmth. Men in minisubmarines, submersibles, men in Zodiacs, waiting.

  God help us. Something is on the beach, says the officer in charge. I see a green light.

  Is it supposed to signify the enemy? the officer asks the officer in charge. Have the perimeters of the operation changed?

  This was not the original plan, says the officer in charge.

  Should we shoot it? Should I fire a short-range missile? Should I radio the snipers?

  The officer in charge picks at his face with delicate fingers. That is not the plan, he says again.

  Is it a drone? asks the officer. Is it a drone? Should we shoot it?

  The officer in charge shrugs. He turns his pocked face to the sky and locates the constellations. There is no moon. The stars fire on all cylinders.

  The officer stands beside the officer in charge. He adjusts himself. The tiny pin of green light dances on shore.

  Operation will be moved. Two miles south.

  Men are hauled up. The helicopters slice the air above. The mass moves south.

  Hey! Skymatsky calls. Hey! Hey! He calls again and again. He falls to his knees and tears at the beach. The beach! The bloody stupid beach! He stands up again and starts toward his car. He knows where they’ll go. He’ll follow them. He’ll catch up to them.

  A hand clamps down on his shoulder. Shai Skymatsky? says the voice. Is that you, Shai Skymatsky?

  Sir! Skymatsky salutes.

  Skymatsky, says the rav aluf. The head of the army stands with his men off the beach in the bushes. Why don’t you go home? Go home. We’ll call you when we’re finished.

  They call out as he walks to his car, Give our regards to your old man, Skymatsky.

  Skymatsky climbs in. The army can go fuck itself.

  Skymatsky drives home. He rushes up the steps that lead to his apartment. He throws open the door but she’s already gone.

  Chapter 12

  Marc in Handcuffs

  The detectives ask him about gambling. They ask him about his secretary. Molly, his secretary, a tough paralegal from the Valley, argues with the police. She’d insisted on calling a lawyer. She’s telling the detective they’ve made a mistake.

  The rest of the company is up in arms. Some of his guys argue with the officers. The IT guys are asked to give the Dropbox password. You give us the password, we won’t take the computers, says one of the detectives. Saul, one of his IT guys, looks over at Marc. Marc nods.

  Give it to them, Marc says.

  But they’re making a pile of the computers anyway, against the objections of Saul, who finally slumps in his chair and submits to having his bag searched.

  The police officers are emptying and rifling through the bags of the employees. They have large plastic bins in which they place laptops and tablets.

  Marc is chai b’seret. Living in a movie.

  We’ll have to call in a truck, one detective calls to the other, to get all the computers.

  The chief detective Gambello drifts in and out of Marc’s office. Quite an operation, he says to Marc. Tell me. How do you afford this space? Rent alone, guys you got working here.

  Financial services, Marc says. I told you. I run a successful financial services firm.

  Oh right, Gambello says. You mentioned that. So what about the gambling? You know about the database in your cloud?

  No, Marc says. I have no idea what you’re talking about.

  Some of your guys seem to think there was a pool—

  Where isn’t there one? Marc says. I’ll bet even in your precinct—

  Watch it, the detective says. Marc slumps in his chair. Gambello raises his finger up and darts it toward Marc’s face. He calls out, All right. Take him in.

  Two detectives come into Marc’s office and pull Marc up out of his chair. They hold onto his arms, one on each side. The IT guy, Saul, says in Hebrew, We’ll come for you.

  Marc is led out the glass doors to the elevator bank. They turn him and he faces the office. One of the detectives presses the down button.

  Marc says to the detective: Come on, take off the handcuffs. Don’t take me down the elevator in handcuffs.

  The detective sucks the air betwe
en his teeth. You think any of these people will remember? In a week they’ll forget everything. No one remembers anything in this town, he says.

  As the elevator doors close, Marc watches Molly through the glass windows as she bursts into tears.

  The doormen stand and gawk as Marc is led through the lobby, one detective lightly holding each arm. Marc remembers when they rented the space in the building. They’d left New York for warmer weather and the beach. How Marc suffered those New York City winters and the commute into Wall Street. He dare not look down but he is afraid he will trip over his feet. Having his hands cuffed behind his back throws him off balance. He shuffles slightly, but dignity above all.

  The police car waits out front. A cop leans up against the hood staring at his phone. They place him gently in the backseat. Careful of your head, the cop says. Marc’s eyes fill, this unexpected moment of kindness. Not kindness exactly, but consideration.

  Sitting comfortably is impossible with his hands cuffed behind his back.

  We’ll take you down to the Metro Center, the cop driving says.

  The detective turns to look at him. Just a few more minutes, the detective says. Sorry about the handcuffs.

  Marc is pulled out of the car and led into the police station. LAPD. For Marc, it’s surreal. He’s sat on a bench and his handcuffs are removed. The detective sits beside him. Betcha never thought you’d be here, the detective says.

  I’ve seen worse, Marc says.

  Oh yeah?

  Sure. Marc shrugs. The army.

  Oh yeah, right. You guys all have to serve.

  Marc nods.

  Well, the detective says. I never served. I wanted to. My brothers served. My dad. You know. But I got a heart thing. Almost kept me out of the force. I been here twenty years.

  Yeah? Marc says. Twenty years. Huh. Marc nods. That’s a lot.

  Sure. I’m all set to retire. And then. I don’t know what I’m going to do. You guys in finance, you make pretty good money.

  Marc thinks about Carolyn and the house in Santa Monica. He winces. Before the kids, everything they owned could fit in the back of a taxi. They had a tiny studio on the Upper West Side. Marc remembers how cold the winters were in New York.

  Yeah, Marc says. We do all right.

  Let me ask you. You got some advice? I got some money saved.

  Marc is led into a room. They snap his mug shot and take his fingerprints. Make your phone call, they tell him. Marc feels around in his pocket. No, of course. They took his phone.

  You got to make an account, they tell him. Whoever accepts the call pays ten dollars a minute so you’re gonna wanna make it short.

  Marc calls Saul. In Hebrew he tells him to empty the accounts, any accounts the police have not already got to. Saul sighs and tells him the accounts are frozen already. He quickly tells him the account number. He tells him he’s going to need bail money. He’s not sure how much but probably over one hundred thousand. They’ll need to put ten percent down.

  Everyone’s gone home, Saul tells him.

  Marc pinches the skin of his temples. Nu, ma? Marc says.

  I’m not sure they’re coming back, Marc. Ani mitsta’er. I’m sorry.

  Saul, Marc says. We’ve known each other how many years? Eight years? I’ll come back. You’ll see. The firm will be back on its feet in no time.

  I hope so, Saul says.

  Get the money together. Call the bondsmen. I’ll be in touch. Call Carolyn and make sure she’s all right.

  Another hour goes by. Marc sits beside the detective, who tells him his life story. His divorce. The troubles he’s had with his older son. Marc is grateful for the company. After the second hour, he’s given a stack of clothing, brought into a room. Asked to turn around while some poor bastard looks up his asshole.

  He’s handcuffed again, thrown into the back of a police car. The detective who’s been babysitting him waves goodbye. The handcuffs chafe his skin. He’s got a neck cramp. This time the cops drive fast with the lights on and he’s thrown around the back of the car a bit and driven to police headquarters downtown.

  Bail is set at one hundred fifty thousand and Marc finally sees the inside of a jail cell.

  Hard benches line the walls. Twenty men sit and stand around the cell. The guards heckle him. I got a good business, Marc says.

  Oh yeah? the guard says. He glances at the other guard and they exchange a look Marc can’t quite decipher. You make a lot of money?

  Sure. It’s a good business.

  Yeah see, says the other guard. You make a lot of money. That’s why you over there on that side and we here, on this side.

  The guards laugh. They high-five and Marc suddenly has a sense of himself. As they see him. A rich guy who got caught doing unsavory things. Doesn’t it happen all the time? He sees how naïve he’s been. Imagining they would understand his point of view. Recognize their mistake. That he’s done nothing wrong. A gambling ring? In every office in America for every sporting event including figure skating, probably. Some office somewhere is gambling on a Little League game. How can this be? In America? How can this be?

  A man approaches. He’s dark-skinned with slicked-back hair and a handsome, youthful face. Hey, he says to Marc. How much your bail?

  One hundred fifty thousand, Marc says. The size of the amount shocks the man, who Marc can see is really just a boy. Probably still in his teens.

  Man, what did you do? the boys asks.

  I didn’t do anything, Marc says.

  Yeah, the boy says. I didn’t do anything either.

  The other men in the cell crowd around Marc. They compare bail. They look to Marc for approval. All of them are innocent. One guy has not paid child support. He claims unemployment. Another guy is in for a bump of coke. He claims he was holding it for a friend. Armed robbery, domestic violence. Public lewdness. Everyone is innocent. One man whistles. That is a steep bail, he says to Marc.

  Marc understands. Highest bail is king. He is king of the jail cell.

  They ask him for advice about finance. Can he get them a job? Where is he from? What did he do in the army? No shit! they say. Commando! You like Rambo, they say. Their eyes grow big. How many Arabs you kill, they ask. Yeah right, they say, when he tells them none. It was peacetime, he says, when I served. The guards bring sandwiches in clear plastic wrappers. Bologna and cheese on white bread. Marc wolfs it down.

  It is delicious.

  Chapter 13

  The Soldier Gabriel

  Step away from the door, Joseph says in his biggest, most grown-up voice.

  The weight against the door lessens and Joseph pushes it shut as hard as he can. Joseph turns the dead bolt.

  The soldier begins to weep. Joseph sits down on the floor of the apartment. He is too stunned to cry. He stares at the floor. It is wooden parquet, newly installed.

  The phone rings.

  Joseph, please, the soldier whimpers. Please let me in.

  No way, Joseph says under his breath. No way.

  The weeping on the other side of the door grows louder and Joseph’s stomach begins to growl. When he stands up, he is dizzy and slides back down to the floor. Shh, Joseph says, addressing the door. Shtok! Joseph says. Shut up!

  I cannot, the soldier says. I am heartbroken and I have lost my way.

  The phone stops ringing and Joseph crawls across the floor toward his bedroom. He will shut the door and pull the blankets up over him and by morning the man will be gone and the cafe will open. He will dress quickly and get himself a croissant. No, thinks Joseph. Do not think about the croissant. But it is too late. His stomach is growling and the man is pounding on the door again. He wails Joseph’s name. But Joseph is halfway across the new living room floor that Saba Yakov put in as a consolation gift when he’d forced Joseph’s mother to break up with her last boyfriend.

  T
he soldier pounds on the door. He shouts, Joseph, Joseph! Ach sheli! My brother!

  Joseph has no brother.

  Clawing animal noises come from the other side of the door.

  Allo? a voice shouts from deep in the stairwell. A woman’s voice. The neighbor upstairs. Mi zeh po? the voice asks. Who’s there?

  Joseph springs to the door. He must shut up Mrs. Tzifat, who is a busybody and who will ask for Joseph’s mother. Never mind, Mrs. Tzifat, Joseph says, calling through the door.

  Joseph, is that you? Joseph Mendel? Is that you?

  Yes, Mrs. Tzifat. I’m fine.

  But who is there, Joseph? Who is making so much noise?

  Never mind. It is just my cousin. He’s come to visit.

  Let me talk to your mother, Joseph.

  Never mind!

  The soldier calls out, It is okay, Mrs. Tzifat. It is only me, Gabriel Strauss. Don’t you remember me?

  Joseph opens the door quickly. Shut up! he whispers, furiously. The soldier pushes through the door with the butt of his gun.

  Rabble-rousers! the old woman shouts down the stairs. They wait until Mrs. Tzifat’s door closes. Joseph crouches down in the doorway between the apartment and the stairwell. Joseph could escape now. He could run all the way to his father’s house. But somehow he is curious and no longer afraid.

  The soldier wanders around the apartment. He stares at the bright new floors, the gleaming table, the invisible particles in the air. Joseph wonders what he is thinking. The soldier lingers by the stereo, shuffling through a pile of CDs. He selects one. This was my father’s favorite, the soldier says, and Neil Young fills the room. Joseph stares down at the soldier’s gun and duffle bag in a heap beside the door. I trust him, Joseph thinks. He is IDF and he is American.

  But still: Please, Joseph says. Please don’t kill me.

  Relax, yeled, the soldier says, bending down now beside him. I only want to take all your money and food. Hara katan, he says affectionately. Little shit. I’m joking! You don’t trust me? I’m your big brother! Gabriel! You have never heard of your father, Avi Strauss?