The Day the Rabbi Resigned (19 page)

“The rebbitzin could have the old one.”

“She doesn't drive.”

“So his son, Jonathon—”

“He's away at law school in Washington.”

“So he could come home by plane and then drive it back.”

“You know what I think, guys? I think if we spring for a big-ticket item like a car or even a set of sterling, it ought to be only if the rabbi signs a lifetime contract. I mean, what if the very next year some temple comes along and offers him a big increase in salary?”

“You got a point there.”

“You bet. No sense in—”

“Damn right. No lifetime contract, no present.”

“And how would we work that?” asked the president.

“What do you mean?”

The president explained. “The present is supposed to be a surprise, right? So we hold this banquet, and then what do we do? Do we hand him a contract and the keys to the car and say, ‘You sign this, Rabbi, you get these. And if you don't, you get nothing.' Is that what you'd like us to do?”

“Well …”

“Look, Al, you and the rabbi are pretty friendly. I mean you people see the rabbi socially. They've had dinner at your house.”

“Yeah, now and then.”

“They've never accepted an invitation to dinner at our house,” Dr. Halperin remarked. “Whenever Rachel has invited them, they always had some prior engagement. How come they dine at your house?”

“Because we keep kosher, I suppose.”

“I suppose that's it. So why don't you invite them over some evening, and while you're shmoosing over your roast chicken or whatever, you could ask them what they'd like for a gift.”

“Then they'd think that was why we invited them,” said Bergson.

Myron Levitt spoke up. “Look, I'm not one for pussyfooting. What's involved is a big-ticket item, and that means it's serious business. And serious business should be conducted in a serious, businesslike way. So I suggest, and I'll make it a motion if you like, that the chairman appoint a committee to go and see the rabbi and put it to him straight.”

“Yeah, that's the ticket.”

“That's what we ought to do.”

“Right on.”

“All right,” said Bergson, “who'd like to serve on this committee?”

No one raised his hand.

“How about you, Ed?”

“Aw, I couldn't. Me and the rabbi are like this and that. We say hello when we see each other, but we aren't what you could call friendly.”

“Ben?”

Ben shook his head. “The guy taught me my Bar Mitzvah. He did that kind of thing back then. So I always feel a little like I'm just a kid when I'm with him.”

“I don't mind going to see him,” said Myron Levitt. But this was received with little enthusiasm. Not only was Levitt a new man, but he was also inclined to be outspoken. On the other hand, no one else appeared to be willing to serve.

Then someone suggested a possible solution. “Look, if Al goes with him …”

“Yeah. How about it, Al?”

The president shrugged. “Okay by me.” And to Levitt, “How about sometime today?”

“But he's got a guest from out of town.”

“That's right. Maybe—how about next week, say, after the board meeting?”

“You mean while he's having his dinner?”

“No, of course not. I was figuring on around two o'clock.”

“Okay with me,” said Levitt. “Matter of fact, there was something I wanted to do this afternoon.”

“Look,” said Ben Halperin, “if Al and Myron are going, I don't mind going along.”

“Fine,” said the president. “So we'll be a committee of three.”

27

As soon as her husband came in the door, Mimi Gorfinkle could see that something was amiss. He seemed worried and ill at ease. She always felt a little guilty on the rare Wednesday afternoons when she left him to his own devices, and always tried to make amends by preparing one of his favorite dishes for supper.

“Guess what I prepared for supper,” she said with forced gaiety.

“Gee, Mimi, I'm not very hungry,” he said.

“You had a hamburger before coming home,” she accused.

“No, it's just that I'm not particularly interested in food.”

“Something happened,” she stated positively. “You operated and it didn't go well.”

“No. I didn't operate today. Nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

He knew she would keep after him until he told her, so he said, “A guy came into the office this afternoon—”

“In the afternoon? Without an appointment? An emergency?”

“No, not a patient. He said he was a detective from the Barnard's Crossing Police Department. He was wearing an ordinary suit, but he showed me a badge in like a little leather case. He said he was investigating that car crash on Pine Grove Road Saturday night.”

“What was there to investigate?”

“He said where it's not a natural death, they got to investigate it.”

“So?”

“So he starts asking me a whole bunch of dumb questions. Did I know the man? Had he ever been a patient of mine? How fast was I driving? Had I been drinking? How far behind him was I? And every time I answer, he writes it down in his notebook. So I began to get a little nervous. From the questions I began to get the idea that maybe he thinks I drove him off the road. So I told him I had an important meeting at the hospital, and he says he'll come back tomorrow and he'll have my answers all typed out for me to sign.”

“So then what did you do?”

“I called Ira Lerner. He told me not to sign anything and not to answer any more questions. When he comes back tomorrow, I'm to tell him he should see my lawyer first.”

“So Lerner will see him and ask him what he wants. And if he's trying to make trouble, Lerner will know what to do.”

“Yeah, to him it's just another case,” Gorfinkle scoffed. “And suppose it gets in the newspapers—‘Doctor Questioned in Pine Grove Death'? And then goes on to say I refused to cooperate, will Lerner sue the police department? Or the newspaper?”

“So what else can you do?”

“I could go see the rabbi.”

“So he can offer a prayer or ask a blessing?” she asked scornfully.

“No, but he and the police chief are buddy-buddy. Maybe he could ask him what gives.”

When Rabbi Small saw Dr. Gorfinkle among the fifteen or so congregants present at the evening minyan, he assumed that he had come to recite the Mourner's Kaddish on the anniversary of the death of a member of his family. Very few came to the daily services who were not mourners, and Dr. Gorfinkle was certainly not one of them. He did appear occasionally at the Sunday morning service, but that was because he had arrived early for the Board of Directors meeting that immediately followed, and attending the service was preferable to waiting in the corridor.

But Gorfinkle remained seated when the mourners rose to recite the Kaddish, which led the rabbi to suspect that he wanted to confer with him. The ruse was not infrequently employed by those who were unable to see him in his study during the day and were hesitant about obtruding on his privacy when he was home in the evening. Sometimes, he admitted ruefully, it was the only way they were able to make up the necessary ten for a minyan.

Sure enough, no sooner was the service over, when Gorfinkle said, “Oh, I say, Rabbi, got a minute?”

“Sure.”

“Well …” Gorfinkle hesitated, not out of uncertainty, but obviously because he did not want to be overheard by the other members of the minyan, who were now leaving. When the door swung behind the last of them, he said, “You know the police chief, don't you? I mean you and he are pretty friendly from what I've heard.”

“Yes, we're friendly,” said the rabbi cautiously. “Is there something …”

“I'm not sure. Today is Wednesday, and I take Wednesday afternoons off. Usually, the wife and I do something together, go into Boston maybe, have an early dinner and catch a movie. But today she had a luncheon to go to. So I thought I'd hang around the office and read some of the medical journals. It's not easy keeping up, you know. So there's a knock on the door, and when I open it, there's a man in an ordinary business suit who says he's from the police and he shows me a badge, and he says he's working on the Victor Joyce case. At first I didn't get it, and then it came to me: Victor Joyce was the guy who was in that accident on Pine Grove Road Saturday night. Did you see the item in the paper? They gave the name as Victor Jones, but it's the same guy.”

“Yes, I saw it.”

“Well, I was the one who reported it to the police. I was coming home from this formal dinner we hold once a month, and I see this car that's plowed into a tree. So naturally I stop. The side window is shattered with some jagged fragments along the bottom of the frame, and this guy's hand is sticking out. There was nothing I could do, but I reached in and turned off the ignition. I read somewhere that the car could explode if the ignition is on even if the motor has conked out. Then I took his pulse, and it was fairly normal even though he was unconscious.

“Well, I was halfway home, and what was the sense in turning around and going back to Breverton, so I went on home and called the police from there and reported it. If it had been on a regular street, I might have stayed there and stopped some car to report it while I waited. But Pine Grove Road and late at night, and misty at that, I could have been there for hours and no other car would come along.

“So he comes in—the guy in the business suit, I mean—and he sits down and takes out a notebook. I didn't know we had any plainclothesmen on the Barnard's Crossing police.”

“Well, Lieutenant Jennings doesn't always wear a uniform, and Chief Lanigan—”

“No, I know Eban Jennings.”

“I guess they have one on the force every now and then.”

“Well, anyway, he starts asking questions and writing down what I say. Every now and then he looks at what he's written and kind of frowns like there's something he doesn't understand. Where was I coming from? What was I doing in Breverton? What time did I start out for Barnard's Crossing? Is there someone who can vouch for the time I left the club? Did I recognize Joyce? Was he maybe a patient of mine at one time? When did I first see his car? How far back was I? How fast was I driving? To tell the truth, Rabbi, I began to get a little nervous. It was like he was trying to make out that I hit the guy, or forced him off the road. So finally I say, ‘I'm sorry, but I've got to be at the hospital for an important consultation.' I figured maybe I ought to see my lawyer, see. So he says, ‘All right, I'll get this typed out and bring it in sometime tomorrow for you to sign.' He closes his notebook and gets up like he's ready to leave. Then he says, ‘By the way, was he wearing gloves?' and I tell him no. ‘And how about a wristwatch?' Well, I'm being careful now, you understand, so I say, ‘I didn't see a watch, but I saw a watchband. Maybe it got turned on his hand from the impact of the crash, or maybe he wears it with the watch on the inside.' Then he opens the door and says, ‘I'll be back tomorrow with your statement, and if you'll bring the watch, I'll take it with me.' And he's out of the door. Gone, just like that.

“What watch was he talking about, Rabbi? So I go to the door, and he's standing in front of the elevator. He's got the door open and is ready to go into the elevator, so I ask him what watch he's talking about. And he says, ‘I figure you took his watch off to take his pulse and you put it in your pocket and forgot about it.' And he steps into the elevator and the door closes. But I didn't touch his wrist or his hand, Rabbi. I wouldn't because it might be broken and I could make it worse. It was when I reached in to turn off the ignition. I put my fingertips at his throat—his head was kind of lolling back against the headrest. That's when I took his pulse.”

“I see. And what do you want me to do?”

“Well, I figured where you and the chief are kind of friendly, if you were downtown and dropped into the station, like to say hello—”

“The Lanigans are coming over tonight for a bit of supper,” said the rabbi.

“Well gee, that's swell. If you could kind of bring it up. Don't tell him I came to you special, but you could say you bumped into me and—”

“I understand.”

“See, I was wondering was this official, or was this guy, the plainclothesman, I mean, just kind of fishing, you know, working on his own.”

28

Amy Lanigan was in the kitchen helping Miriam with the dishes. On the basis of previous experience, they were apt to remain there for some time after they finished, so the police chief and the rabbi repaired to the living room.

“You want another cup of coffee?” Miriam called out from the kitchen. Having received a nod of assent from Lanigan to his questioning look, the rabbi hurried out to the kitchen and returned a moment later with two steaming cups. Then he told his guest of his conversation with Gorfinkle, and explained just how the doctor had taken the victim's pulse after turning off the ignition.

Lanigan nodded and was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I went to see the widow yesterday to offer my condolences.”

“Oh, you know her? Or is that your normal practice?”

“She's the niece of Cyrus Merton—”

“The big realtor?”

“Uh-huh. He makes a sizable contribution to the Policeman's Retirement Fund each year and buys I don't know how many tickets to the Policeman's Ball. You know how it is. She was more of a daughter than a niece; she was brought up in his house and he has no children of his own. I have seen her in church occasionally on a Sunday. But Amy knew her. She had worked with Amy on some church project Amy was interested in. She's a very devout girl, according to Amy. Brought up in convent schools, and then went to Saint Madelaine's, which is a very strict college run by the Sisters of the Sacred Heart. Amy says, from what she let drop from time to time, that she thought she had a vocation—”