The Theatre - Kellerman, Jonathan

The bigger they were, the easier they fell, he thought, watching Malkovsky collapse facedown. Something to do with leverage, according to the self-defence instructor, but until now Avi had never really believed it.

Working swiftly, enjoying his competence, he yanked Malkovsky's arms behind his back. The man's corpulence made it hard to stretch the limbs far enough to cuff them, but he tugged hard and finally clamped the cuffs over soft. hairy wrists.

"Oy, you're hurting me," said Malkovsky. His breathing was labored and rapid. He turned his head to the side and Avi saw blood seeping into his mustache and beard; the fall had bruised him.

"Tsk, tsk," said Avi, making sure the cuffs were secure. Malkovsky moaned.

Wouldn't it be funny if the fat bastard gave out right here-heart attack or something? True justice, but the paper-work would be a nightmare.

'Oy."

"Shut up."

Malkovsky safely trussed, Avi turned to the child. She was sitting on the ground, knees drawn up, head buried in her arms.

"It's okay," he said. "You're all right." Her small body convulsed. Avi wanted to comfort her, didn't know if touching her was the right thing to do. Footsteps sounded in the courtyard. An older couple:- neighbors coming to gawk. Avi showed them his police identification and told them to go back inside. They stared at Malkovsky's prostrate bulk. Avi repeated his order and they complied. More tenants came filing into the courtyard, Avi shooed them away, forcefully, until finally he was alone again with Malkovsky and the girl. But the others were still there, watching. He could hear windows sliding open, whis-pers and mutters. Saw their silhouettes, outlined muddily in the half-light.

Real voyeurs. A damned exhibition. Wbere the hell was the mother?

Malkovsky started praying, something familiar-Avi had heard it before but couldn't place it.

The girl sobbed. He put his hand on her shoulder and she jerked away.

He told Malkovsky to stay put, kept his eye on Sheindel, and went to the door of the Malkovsky apartment. The wife opened the door before he'd finished the first knock; she'd been waiting behind it all the time.

She just stood there, staring at him. Her hair was long and blond-first time he'd ever seen it uncovered. 'Come outside," Avi told her.

She walked out slowly, as if sleepwalking. Looked at her husband and began cursing him in Yiddish.

Well, listen to that, thought Avi-piece of shit, whore-master-he wouldn't have thought a religious one knew words like that.

"Bayla, please," said Malkovsky. "Help me."

His wife walked over to him, smiled at Avi, then began kicking the fat man violently in the ribs.

Malkovsky bellowed with pain, squirmed helplessly, like a steer trussed for slaughter.

Sheindel was biting her knuckles to keep from hyperventilating.

Avi pulled the wife away, told her: "Cut it out, take care of your daughter."

Mrs. Malkovsky curled her hands into claws, looked down at her husband, and spat on him.

"Momzer! Meeskeit! Shoyn opgetrent?"

Sheindel let go of her knuckles and started to wail.

"Oy," moaned Malkovsky, praying as his wife cursed him. Avi recognized the prayer, now. The El Molei Rakhamim, the prayer for the dead.

"Shtikdreck! Yentzer!" screamed Batla Malkovsky. "Shoyn opgetrent? Shoyn opgetrent-gai in drerd arein.r She lunged at Malkovsky. Avi restrained her and she twisted in his grasp, spitting and cursing, then began clawing at him, going for his eyes.

Avi slapped her across the face. She stared at him, stupidly. A pretty woman, actually, when you looked past the grimness and the hysteria and the baggy dress. She started crying, clenched her jaws shut to stem the tears. Meanwhile the kid was sobbing her heart out.

"Cut it out," he told the mother. "Do your job, for God's sake."

Mrs.Malkovsky went limp and started to weep, joining her daughter in a sobbing duet.

Great. Yom Kippur.

"Oy," she said, tearing at her hair. "Riboynoy sheloylam!"

"Oy, nothing," said Avi. "God helps those who help themselves. If you'd done your job in the first place, this wouldn't have happened."

The woman stopped mid-sob, frozen with shame. She yanked out a healthy clump of hair and nodded her head violently. Up and down, up and down, bobbing like some kind of robot whose controls had short-circuited.

"Take care of your daughter," said Avi, losing patience. 'Go inside."

Still bobbing, the woman capitulated, walking over to Sheindel and touching her lightly on the shoulder. The girl looked up, wet-faced. Her mother stretched out arms that had been forced into steadiness, uttered vague maternal comfort.

Avi watched the kid's reaction, the gun still trained on Malkovsky's broad back.

"Sheindeleh," said Mrs. Malkovsky. "Bubbeleh." She knelt. put her arm around the girl. Sheindel allowed herself to be embraced but made no move to reciprocate.

Well, thought Avi, at least she hadn't pushed her away, so maybe there was something still there. Still, to let it go this far

Mrs. Malkovsky stood and raised Sheindel to her feet.

"Get inside," said Avi, surprised by how gruff he sounded.

The two of them walked into the apartment.

"Now, as for you," Avi told Malkovsky. The fat man groaned.

"What's the matter?" said a new voice. "What's going on?'

A little bald man with a gray bandage of a mustache had come out into the courtyard. He was wearing a sport coat over pajamas, looked ridiculous. Greenberg, the building manager. Avi had seen him nosing around. "You," said Greenberg, staring at the Beretta. "The one who uses the tennis court and swimming pool all the time."

"I'm Detective Cohen, on special assignment from police headquarters and I need you to make a call for me."

"What has he done?"

"Broken the laws of God and man. Go back to your flat, phone 100, and tell the operator that Detective Avraham

Cohen needs a police wagon dispatched to this address." Malkovsky started praying again. A symphony of window-squeaks and whispers played in counterpoint to his entreaties. "This is a nice place, very tidy," said Greenberg, still trying to absorb the reality of the moment.

"Then let's keep it that way. Make that call before everyone finds out you rent to dangerous criminals."

"Criminals? Never-"

"Call 100," said Avi. "Run. Or I'll shoot him right here, leave the mess for you to clean up."

Malkovsky moaned.

Greenberg ran.

Laufer's secretary liked Pakad Sharavi, had always thought of him as kind of cute, one of the nicer ones. So when he entered the waiting room she smiled at him, ready for small talk. But the smile he offered in return was brittle, a poor excuse for cordiality, and when he brushed past her instead of sitting down, she was caught off guard.

"Pakad-you can't do that! He's in a conference!"

He ignored her, opened the door.

The deputy commander was conferring with his soda water bottle, polishing the metal, peering up the spout. When he saw Daniel he put it down quickly and said, "What is this, Sharavi!"

"I need to know where he is."

"I have no time for your nonsense, Sharavi. Leave at once."

"Not until you tell me where he is, Tat Nitzav."

The deputy commander bounded out of his chair, came speeding around the desk, and marched up to Daniel, stopping just short of collision.

"Get the hell out."

"I want to know where Malkovsky is."

"He's not your concern."

"He's my suspect. I want to question him."

"Out."

Daniel ignored the digression. "Malkovsky's a suspect in my murder case. I needed to talk to him."

"That'scrap," said Laufer. "He's not the Butcher-I ascer-tained that myself."

"'What evidence did he present to convince you of his innocence?"

"Don't try to interrogate me, Sharavi. Suffice it to say he's out of your bailiwick."

Daniel struggled with his anger. "The man's dangerous. If Cohen hadn't caught him, he'd still be raping children under official protection."

Ah, Cohen," said the deputy commander. "Another bit of insubordination that you-and he-will be answering to. |Of course, the charges against him will be mitigated by inex-perience. Improper influence by a commanding officer."

"Cohen was-"

"Yes. I know, Sharavi. The girlfriend at Wolfson, one of |life's little coincidences." Laufer extended a finger, poked at the air. "Don't insult me with your little games, you bastard. You want to play games? Fine. Here's a new one called suspension: You're off the Butcher case-off any case, without pay. pending a disciplinary hearing. When I'm finished with you, you'll be directing traffic in Katamon Tet and feeling grateful about it."

"No." said Daniel. "The case is mine. I'm staying with it." Laufer stared at him. "Have you lost your mind?" When Daniel didn't answer, the deputy commander went behind his desk, sat, took out a leather-bound calendar, and began making notes.

"Traffic detail, Sharavi. Try calling the pretty boy in Australia if you think it'll hefp you. Your protekzia's long gone-dead and buried." The deputy commander laughed out loud. "Funny thing is, it's your own doing-you fucked yourself, just like now. Nosing into things that don't concern you." Laufer lifted a pack of English Ovals off the desk, found it empty and tossed it aside. "Like a little brown rat, rooting in garbage."

"If I hadn't rooted," said Daniel, "you'd still be pushing paper in Beersheva."

Laufer made a strangling noise and slammed his hand on the desk. His eyes bulged and his complexion turned the color of ripe plums. Daniel watched him inhale deeply, then expel breath through stiffened lips, saw the rise and fall of his barrel chest, the stubby fingers splayed on the desk top, twitching and drumming as if yearning to do violence.

Then suddenly he was smiling-a cold, collaborative smirk.

"Aha. Now I understand. This, beating Rashmawi, it's all something psychiatric, eh, Sharavi? You're trying for a stress pension."

"I'm fine," said Daniel. "I want to work on my case. To catch criminals rather than protect them."

"You have no case. You're on suspension as of this moment." Laufer held out a fleshy palm. "Hand over your badge."

"You don't really want it."

'What!'

"If I walk out of here under suspension, the first place I'm going is the press."

"All contact between you and the press is forbidden. Violate that order and you're finished for good."

"That's okay," said Daniel. "I'm allergic to traffic."

Laufer leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling for several moments, then lowered his gaze and directed it back at Daniel.

"Sharavi, Sharavi, do you actually think you're intimidating me with your threats? What if you do talk? What will it amount to? A nosy little detective, unable to solve the case he's charged with, tries to distract attention away from his incompetence by whining about administrative manners. Small stuff, even by local standards."

The deputy commander folded his hands over his paunch. His face was calm, almost beatific, but the fingers kept drumming.

A poor bluffer, thought Daniel. Shoshi would wipe him out in poker.

"I'm not talking local," said Daniel. "I'm talking international. The foreign press is sure to love this one-child rapist shielded by the police as he stalks the streets of Jerusalem, secret deals cut with Hassidic rebbe. 'The suspect was apprehended assaulting his own daughter while under privileged protection of Deputy Commander Avigdor Laufer. The officer who apprehended him has been disciplined-'"

"It goes higher than Avigdor Laufer, you fool! You don't know what you're dealing with!"

"The higher the better. They'll eat IT with a spoon."