Muller, Marcia - [McCone 05] Leave a Message for Willie [v1.0] (htm) (6 page)

He cut straight through an open stall that sold ceramics, and I
followed. Briefly I was aware of the vendor standing open-mouthed, a
garish ceramic cake topped with strawberries in her hands. The man
plunged into a crowd near an ice cream peddler and, my eyes fixed on
him, I smacked into a woman in a long dress who wore five flowered
bonnets piled on her head.

"Watch where you're going!"

"Sorry!"

"That's okay. You want to buy a hat?" I heard her last
words over my shoulder as I sprinted toward the exit. The man was
pushing around a line of people and heading for the frontage road.

He ran along beside the cars that were parked there, his shiny
shoes slapping on the pavement. I raced after him. Near the
half-finished marina, he came to a sudden stop and jumped into a
beat-up brown sedan. When I got to it, he was frantically grinding
the starter.

I reached through the driver's window and grabbed at the keys. He
slapped my hand, got the car started, and stalled it. I pulled the
keys from the ignition and backed up, bracing myself for a struggle.
But the man gave a groan and flopped back against the seat, his eyes
closed. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

"Okay," I said, "who are you and why have you been
watching Willie Whelan?"

He remained still for a moment. Then he brought his hands down on
the steering wheel with a thump.

"Answer the question."

Slowly he opened his eyes and turned his head. "Who are you?"

"One of Whelan's employees. Now you answer
my
question."

"I don't have to tell you anything. Give me back my keys."

"No."

"Give them to me!"

"Uh-uh."

He tried to glare at me, but wasn't able to summon up much
ferocity. His fingers began to drum on the steering wheel. "I
told them this would happen," he said.

"Told who?"

"The committee. I told them I'm no good at this sort of
thing; none of my training has prepared me—"

"What committee?"

He shook his head.

I stuck the keys in the pocket of my jeans, went around to the
passenger side, and got in the car.

"What are you doing?" He shrank back against his door.

"Neither of us is going anywhere until you talk."

"Get out of my car!"

"No."

He fell silent, staring down at his hands. He'd put up a token
resistance, but there was very little real fight in him.

"Look," I said, "I'm a detective. Whelan hired me
because you've been bothering him. You can either talk to me, or to
the cops. Take your pick."

He remained silent.

"What committee?" I asked again.

He looked up, his face flooded with anger and frustration. "The
Torah Recovery Committee. I told them it was ridiculous, skulking
around like some kind of double agent, and now look what's happened!"

"What's your name?"

"I don't have to tell you."

"Like I said, you can tell me or you can tell the cops."

"Oh, all right! It's Levin. Jerry Levin."

"And you're a member of this…Torah Recovery Committee?"

"Sort of an investigator for them."

And a poor sort at that, I thought. "Okay, Jerry, what have
they hired you to investigate?"

"The Torahs… Maybe I'd better start at the beginning."

"I wish you would."

"Torahs are Jewish religious scrolls…" He paused.
"There's a lot of background; it's complicated."

"We have plenty of time."

He sighed, glancing at his watch.

"As you were saying…"

"The Torah Recovery Committee is an East Coast organization.
It was formed a couple of years ago, in response to a rash of thefts
from synagogues back there."

"Thefts of Torahs?"

"Yes. The scrolls disappear, and later they turn up in other
synagogues around the country."

"You don't mean the other congregations are stealing them?"

"Oh, no. What happens is they buy them, not knowing they're
stolen."

"I see. And your job is to find them and get them back?"

"Yes."

"Where does this tie in with Willie Whelan?"

"I'll come to that. Torahs are hand-copied parchment scrolls.
They contain only the Hebrew words from the first five books of the
Old Testament. But in 1982, a number of congregations instituted a
practice of marking their Torahs with code symbols—in the
margins, in invisible ink. The codes are registered so there's a
record of ownership. When a congregation is considering buying a
Torah, they're supposed to check under ultraviolet light for the
code."

"Does it work?"

"Sometimes, but not all that well. A lot of them are too
trusting to do it; some are afraid of offending the sellers. Also,
many congregations don't want to mark their Torahs, even invisibly;
they feel it's a kind of desecration."

"I see." But I still didn't understand what all this
talk of religious scrolls had to do with Willie.

"Recently quite a few stolen Torahs have turned up in Bay
Area synagogues," Levin went on. "Some were detected right
off, and that alerted other synagogues, who checked those they'd
already purchased. There have been at least a dozen cases, and God
knows how many others haven't been uncovered."

"And Willie—"

"There are indications that the Torahs may have been moved
through his operation."

"What indications?"

"I can't say. It might give away the identity of our
informant. But I can tell you that Mr. Whelan probably has several
Torahs in his possession right now."

“A Torah is parchment, wound around two large wooden pegs
with handles at either end, right?"

"Yes."

I thought back to the jumble in Willie's garage. I'd seen nothing
remotely resembling a Torah there, but that didn't mean much. Willie
himself didn't know for sure what he had back there. "What
happens when you find someone is in possession of a stolen Torah? Do
you go to the police?"

"If we feel the person is a thief, yes."

"What about someone like Willie? Would you call the police or
merely try to get the Torahs back?"

"All we really want is the Torahs. I understand Mr. Whelan
has a large fencing business; I don't suppose one arrest would stop
him."

"No, I don't think it would." I was silent for a moment.
If Willie did indeed have the stolen Torahs, chances were he'd taken
them in an odd deal, like the player piano. I doubted if fencing
religious scrolls constituted a large part of his livelihood. "What
if I can get the Torahs back for you and promise that Willie won't
trade in them again?"

"I think I could promise in return that we wouldn't bother
him anymore."

I nodded. "I'll have to talk to him, of course. But I don't
think there will be any problem. You've been annoying Willie by
watching him, and all he wants is for it to stop."

"We'd have no need to watch him, once the Torahs are
returned."

"Good. Then shall we go back to the market and settle this
right now?"

Levin glanced nervously at his watch. "I'm supposed to meet
with Rabbi Halpert in fifteen minutes."

"Who's he?"

"Rabbi David Halpert; he's my advisor here in San Francisco."

I'd heard of David Halpert; he was active in a number of social
causes. "All right. What about this? You keep your appointment
with the rabbi, and I'll talk to Willie. Then we'll all meet at seven
tonight."

"Where?"

I thought of Willie's house, and then of the bar that took his
messages. "The Oasis Bar and Grill, on Irving Street."

Levin wrinkled his nose.

"Don't worry; it's a respectable place. Bring Rabbi Halpert,
if it will make you feel more comfortable."

"Maybe I will." He held out his hand, palm up.

I stared at it.

"May 1 have my car keys?"

"Oh, sure." I dug in my pocket and gave them back to
him. "Don't forget—seven o'clock."

"I won't. We're as anxious to straighten this out as you
are."

Willie was mystified by the story of the stolen Torahs. "I
wouldn't know a Torah if I tripped over one. And I sure as hell
wouldn't fence religious stuff anyway. Jesus, I was brought up a
Catholic; I got too much respect to do a thing like that."

"Well, some informant claims you have been."

"I'd like to get my hands on the son-of-a-bitch—"

"That kind of talk isn't going to help us. We don't even know
who he is."

"So now what do we do?"

"I think we should keep our appointment with Jerry Levin.
Maybe you can convince him to tell you who the informant is. Or you
might be able to convince him you don't have the Torahs, and then
he'll go away."

When I left the flea market a few minutes later, Willie was
muttering angrily to the parrot. The bird sat on its perch, regarding
him with calm beady eyes.

As I parked in front of my house, Don's antique gold Jaguar pulled
up behind my battered MG. He jumped out, looking exceptionally
cheery, then hoisted a sack of groceries. "That was good
timing!" he called.

I waited for him on the steps. "How was the concert?"

"Great. I love Stern Grove—all those eucalyptus
trees… How was your day?"

"Confusing."

"You want to talk about it?"

"Not right now." I unlocked the door and went down the
hall to the kitchen. "I want to relax; I have to go out again at
seven."

"That's fine with me. We've got the fixings for a feast
here." He patted the grocery bag. "There's salami and some
anchovies with capers and mozzarella."

"Sounds wonderful." I cleared the Sunday paper off the
table and got out glasses and a bottle of red wine. The fog had
started billowing in over the hills, and I went to change into a
heavy sweater. When I came back, Don had the food spread on the table
and was pouring wine. He hummed happily, some lilting tune that they
must have played at the concert.

"You're sure in a good mood." I sat down and began to
cut the salami.

"I know. I ran into an old friend at the Grove."

"Oh? Who?"

"Tony Wilbur, a guy who used to work at KPSM." KPSM was
the station in Port San Marco where he was a disc jockey. "Tony's
up here now, program director at KSUN."

"KSUN—that's the station that calls itself 'the light
of the Bay.' "

"Right."

"It's a rock station. Sort of like KPSM."

"Worse. Louder. It's pretty horrible."

"Does your friend like working there?"

"Loves it. He's a nut, like me." Don paused. He looked
like a little kid who had spent all his allowance on your birthday
present and couldn't wait another minute to give it to you. "Babe,
there's a job open at the station. Tony wants me to apply for it."

I picked up my wineglass, then set it down again. "A job as a
disc jockey?"

"Yes."

"Doing the kind of show you have now?"

"Yeah."

"I thought you hated that show."

"I do, but…" He shrugged.

"I'd think if you made a move, you'd want to get into
something you'd like better. Like a job with a classical station."

"Babe, there aren't that many classical stations around. Or
many jobs for d.j.'s, period. This is a bigger station, in a major
metropolitan area. It's better exposure, and the pay would be
higher."

"I see." I felt a prickle of annoyance with myself. Why
was I being so unenthusiastic? I picked up my glass and raised it in
a toast. "Well, here's to good luck. If you want the job, that
is."

"I do." But there was an uncertain look in his eyes.

"Then I think it's wonderful." I sipped wine and winked
at him, then felt even more annoyed with myself. I
never
winked at anyone.

With a relieved grin, he winked back.

"So," I said, "what do you have to do, go in for an
interview?"

"First I have to give him my demo tape."

"Demo tape?"

"A sample tape of a show. For a d.j., it's like a resume."

"Oh. How do you get one made?"

"I have one."

"You have one. You mean with you?" A strange, flat
feeling was stealing over me.

"Yeah. I had one made before I came up here."

"Why?"

"Just in case."

"Just in case you ran into someone who offered you a chance
at a job?"

Don frowned.

"I mean, were you planning to look for a job here?"

"Not really. I just had the tape made…" His voice
trailed off and he began to cut some mozzarella.

I was being horrible and spoiling all his pleasure. Why? I liked
having Don around; I should be pleased he wanted to move to San
Francisco. If he did, it wouldn't necessarily mean… I reached
across the table and took his hand.

"I think it was a great idea to bring the tape with you. And
it would be terrific if you got a job up here."

He set the cheese cutter down. "Do you mean that?"

"Of course. Can I listen to the tape?"

"Sure." His enthusiasm rekindled, Don got up and bustled
into the bedroom to get the tape from his suitcase. And I sat there,
an odd, hollow feeling in my stomach.

The Oasis was a country-and-western bar. When I entered, a bunch
of urban cowboys were rolling dice for drinks, and Waylon Jennings's
voice boomed from the jukebox. I spotted Willie at the back of the
room, behind a potted palm that seemed to be the bar's only
concession to its exotic name.

I got myself a beer from the bar, then joined my client. He nodded
perfunctorily. "You're early."

"Only fifteen minutes." I hadn't wanted to stay at home
after Don had played his demo tape. It was very good, and chances
were he'd get the job. He had wanted to talk about the possibility,
something I couldn't do with this inexplicable flat feeling growing
inside me.

There was a leather pouch on the table in front of Willie. I
motioned at it and said, "What's that for?"