Gangsterland: A Novel (46 page)

Jeff sat there for a moment and tried to reread the column. His heart was beating so hard that he wasn’t quite able to focus on the words. Jeff had never heard of Bennie Savone prior to arriving in Las Vegas. It was impossible not to know about the Wild Horse, since they had advertising all over the city—on top of cabs, inside the weekly rags, guys wearing Wild Horse T-shirts walking up and down the strip and handing out flyers that promised “the most Wild ride in town”—and the club itself was the size of a football field . . . a football field covered in topless women, no less.

All the words in the column were ones Jeff knew, but he’d never seen them put together before.
A wiseguy. A strip club. A rabbi. A temple.
It was like the beginning of a bad joke. It was also the first time since last April that Jeff Hopper felt like Sal Cupertine was anywhere near his grasp. He didn’t know how the dots connected yet, didn’t have even the faintest idea how it had come to pass, but what he did know was simple and tangible: Last April, on the same night Sal Cupertine killed four men in the Parker House in Chicago, a truck departed Kochel Farms and ended up at Temple Beth Israel in Las Vegas, maybe fifty yards from where Jeff was sitting, seven days later. That was a fact. It was also, apparently, a fact that one of Temple Beth Israel’s rabbis was the father-in-law of a reputed wiseguy named Bennie Savone, who, if the gossip column was to be believed, was spearheading the development of the temple’s sprawling campus.

There was nothing illegal with that, at least not on the face of things. Nor was there anything illegal in getting meat delivered, though Jeff wondered when Temple Beth Israel had begun to use Kochel Farms. In fact, there was no proof yet that this Savone guy had done anything wrong, though legitimate businessmen didn’t usually let their local newspapers call them wiseguys.

Jeff stood up and looked out the window. He could see the parking lot, a bit of a playground that was filled with children now, and then, in the distance, tractors moving land, maybe thirty construction workers in the midst of various tasks, a water tank, and acres of undeveloped land that hadn’t even been graded yet. How much did this kind of development cost? Millions. Multi-millions. Where was that money coming from? And how would Sal Cupertine fit into this? Or was he buried underneath that high school? There was that, too, he supposed. He needed to find out from Agent Poremba all he could on Bennie Savone and how the hell he ended up married to the daughter of a rabbi. The local Las Vegas boys would know more than Poremba, but it wasn’t like he could just walk into the field office anymore. He was little more than a rent-a-cop at this point. Then he’d call Matthew, get him to drive up from Palm Springs, only four hours south, and start getting eyes on this temple.

“Beautiful view, isn’t it?”

Jeff startled at the sound of Rabbi Cohen’s voice, turned, and saw that the rabbi was standing directly behind him, just inches away. The office door was closed. Christ. When had he walked in?

“The construction?” Jeff said.

“No,” Rabbi Cohen said, “the children playing.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose it is,” Jeff said.

“But they can be a bit loud.” Rabbi Cohen reached past Jeff, slid the window closed, then closed the thick brown curtains, too, descending the office into half-light. “Please, have a seat, and I’ll see if I can help you.”

Jeff sat down. He needed to settle his thoughts, take this point by point. There was nothing here yet, just some words in a newspaper article. He needed to be meticulous, as ever. “Right,” Jeff said, mostly for himself. He took the photos of Sal Cupertine back out of his notebook and set them on the rabbi’s desk, next to the newspaper. “As I said, I’m looking for this man. Have you seen him?”

“And who are you?” the rabbi said.

“A private consultant for the FBI,” Jeff said. It was a mouthful. And not one that Jeff particularly cared for.

“What does that mean?”

“I’m working on a special project for them,” Jeff said.

“They don’t have enough agents?”

“Not for this, no,” Jeff said.

“There seem to be quite a few agents in Las Vegas,” Rabbi Cohen said. He pointed at the newspaper, which was still open to the column about Bennie Savone. “If what Mr. Curran in the
Review-Journal
says is to be believed, at any rate.” Rabbi Cohen picked up the photos of Sal Cupertine then and carefully looked at each one. “He doesn’t look familiar, I’m afraid,” he said eventually.

“He would have been here in April,” Jeff said. He flipped through his paperwork. “The twenty-second, to be exact.”

“Doing what?” Rabbi Cohen said.

“We’re not sure,” Jeff said. “But there’s some indication he might have been transported via the company who delivers meat to your cafeteria. Kochel Farms.”

“And what did he do that he needed to escape inside of a meat truck?”

“He murdered three federal agents and a confidential informant,” Jeff said.

“Oh, I think I read about this,” Rabbi Cohen said. “In Detroit, wasn’t it?”

“Chicago,” Jeff said.

“I see,” Rabbi Cohen said. “And it’s your belief he is now standing in our cafeteria, waiting for you?”

“No,” Jeff said. “It’s my belief he went from here to somewhere else, but I’d like to talk to your staff and see if they recognize him, remember any details about the day in question.”

“This man,” the rabbi said. “Does he have a name?”

“Sal Cupertine,” Jeff said.

“Oh,” Rabbi Cohen said. “Now I understand.” He picked up the newspaper and spent a few moments looking at the article about Bennie Savone. “This is the only city in America where it’s illegal to be Italian, apparently. As you can imagine, Rabbi Kales is sickened about all of this. That’s the father of his grandchildren and the husband of his only child that this . . . this . . .
golem
. . . is libeling.”

“If he’s innocent,” Jeff said, “he has nothing to worry about.”

Rabbi Cohen opened a desk drawer and pulled out a pair of silver scissors and began to cut the story out of the newspaper. “Talmud says that there are those who gain eternity in a lifetime, others who gain it an hour,” he said, and he continued cutting up the story until it was little more than confetti, then he very carefully scooped the pieces up and dumped them in his trash can. “How long do you think an article in a newspaper lasts?”

“Bennie Savone is not my business,” Jeff said.

“And yet here you are,” Rabbi Cohen said.

Rabbi Cohen tented his hands together at the fingertips but didn’t speak for a moment. Jeff couldn’t quite place the inflection in the rabbi’s voice, couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or intrigued or simply bored. He didn’t seem surprised by the appearance of someone working for the FBI, which most people are, and that seemed odd. The more he stared at the rabbi, the more Jeff also got the sense that maybe he’d been in some kind of accident, because the skin on his neck and along his hairline seemed slick. Not like he’d had a facelift, exactly, but like he’d had something reconstructed. Maybe he’d been attacked by a dog or something. That would account for the weird way his mouth wouldn’t quite wrap around a smile. And then there was the way his beard didn’t quite connect with his sideburns . . . must have been an accident, maybe a burn? It was impossible to tell what the skin around his mouth looked like under his thick beard.

“You’re wondering about my face,” Rabbi Cohen said.

“I’m sorry?” Jeff said, because he didn’t know what to say.

“I see you looking at my face,” Rabbi Cohen said, “trying to figure what’s wrong with it. It’s all right. You’re not the first person. Turns out children frequently have the same question.”

“I apologize,” Jeff said. “I just . . .”

Rabbi Cohen waved him off. “No need,” he said. “You can’t be more candid than you are with your own face, now can you? Talmud tells us that we cannot expect the Torah to live in only the most beautiful people. Eventually even the best wine spoils in gold chalices.” He tried to smile again. “Well, in light of everything, Mr. Hopper, I’m afraid that I can’t let you search our grounds without a warrant. While I trust your intentions are pure, you’ll pardon me for not trusting the FBI right now.”

“I’m not an FBI agent,” Jeff said.

“Then you’re just trespassing,” Rabbi Cohen said, “and I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“This is how you want to do it?” Jeff said. “You want twenty guys in here tomorrow? That’s what you want?”

“If you’d like,” Rabbi Cohen said, “I’m happy to take you on a tour of our public facilities. Show you that all we’re hiding here is dirt and sand. And if tomorrow you come back with a warrant, Temple Beth Israel will be happy to let you do as much searching as you’d like.”

Jeff knew one thing for certain: Poremba wasn’t going to be able to get a warrant to start searching a temple in twenty-four hours. He’d be lucky to ever get one. And Jeff wouldn’t be in on the search even if they did. Tomorrow, he and Matthew would do this on their terms.

Jeff stood up. “Show the way, Rabbi.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

C
hristianity, unlike Judaism, Rabbi David Cohen learned, was about rejecting the idea of luck. It was a consequence-based process. If you led a pious life, good things would happen. If you led an evil life, bad things would surely follow. If you led a pious life and bad things
still
happened, then that was the hand of God, it was meant to be, and in the afterlife you would be rewarded with the gift of God’s eternal love. He created humans, gave them free will, only to demand fealty, or there would be hell to pay. Nothing was chance. All was either reward or punishment.

It wasn’t unlike being in the Mafia. Except at least with God, if you waited until the last minute and said that you were sorry, and you really did respect his authority, you could go on living your life in everlasting peace. David was not under the impression his cousin Ronnie, nor Bennie Savone, operated under those same rules. He was certain that the FBI wasn’t about to accept his apology for knocking off their agents, especially not this Jeff Hopper, a man he thought he’d killed.

And yet here they were, two men raised from the dead, walking through a cemetery, David pointing out where the aquatic center would be housed, the bluff they were constructing so that the performing arts center could be seen from the bottom of the street, all the better to attract natural light, you see, to catch the brilliant colors of the desert sunset, as it was in Israel. “For the Talmud tells us,” David told Agent Hopper now, “whoever did not see Jerusalem in its days of glory never saw a beautiful city in their life.”

“You’ll pardon me, Rabbi,” Agent Hopper said, “but it’s still Las Vegas.” David heard a hint of boredom in the agent’s voice, which was good. They’d spent the last thirty minutes walking the perimeter of the temple and its property, David narrating the entire time, filling Agent Hopper with the arcane and the minute, explaining every plan Temple Beth Israel had for the future. The agent had stayed largely quiet, apart from every now and then muttering some empty platitude.

As they walked, David let the agent stay at least a half step in front of him, let Agent Hopper feel like he was guiding the tour, when in fact David was pushing him the entire time. They were inching toward the far end of the cemetery, blocks from the street and the bustle of people, where later that afternoon David was scheduled to bury a man named Alan Rosen who’d been brought up from Palm Springs that morning, but who David guessed was an Indian. The grave was already dug, a mound of dirt covered by a green tarp in the distance, the simple green shovel they used in burial ceremony placed at the ready for the mourners who preferred not to use their hands. All that was missing was the body.

“Where there is the temple, there is Israel,” David said.

“I’m sure that’s true,” Agent Hopper said. “But don’t you have a difficult time believing in the sanctity of your faith in a town like this?”

“Chicago is any better?” David asked.

Agent Hopper chuckled once. “Tell me something, did you always believe?”

“Does anyone have absolute faith?” David said.

“My family was not particularly religious,” Agent Hopper said. “Personally, I never bought into any of it.”

“So you think the world is just wicked?”

“That’s what the evidence suggests,” Agent Hopper said. He stopped walking then and turned around, a field of the dead before him. “Did any of these people die with any faith left? Any pride?”

“And you have yours?” David said, doing something Rabbi Kales had taught him, to answer questions with questions, as the Jews have always done.

“I don’t know,” Agent Hopper said, “but I’m still alive.”

“
Mazel tov
,” David said. He reached into his pocket and felt the butterfly knife there. It hadn’t been luck that made him carry the knife every day, nor faith; it was fear. God told Abraham that Israel had no
mazel
, and so the Jews created their own. A single
mitzvah
, done without question, done without the need for recognition, was the door to finding
mazel.
Luck didn’t happen because of
mazel
, luck was the embodiment of it: Everyone was able to transcend the merits of their life and, for at least a moment, find prosperity and unfathomable happiness. A wedding, a baby, a new job?
Mazel tov.
Jews had forgotten what the term really meant. It was only the moment that was blessed. You still had a chance to fuck up what came next.