The Theatre - Kellerman, Jonathan

On the story, off reality.

The four men in the car didn't talk. They really didn't seem concerned with him.

That scared him.

Details:

Apartment tracts knocked up quickly for new immigrants -clusters of no-frills rectangles, cinder block faced with limestone, sitting on dry beds devoid of landscaping. Depressing. Like the housing projects back in New York, but these had a ghost-town quality to them, separated from one another by acres of sand.

Laundry on lines.

A vest-pocket park shaded by pines and olives. Kerchiefed women pushing strollers. Hassid types walking with their hands clasped behind their backs. A small shopping center.

A handful of people. Too far to notice what was happening.

Or care.

The Escort kept barreling along, traveling so fast the chassis was rattling.

Ramot Pollin.

Fewer people, then none. Things were starting to look downright desolate.

Half-finished foundations. Scaffolding. The skeletal underpinnings of buildings. A prefab gas station on a concrete pad, the windows opaque with dust and still X-taped, four oblong trenches where the pumps were going to be.

But no workers, no signs of construction activity. Some goddamned strike, no doubt.

Trenches. Tractor treads. Craters occupied by dormant bulldozers and cranes, the dirt pushed up around the rims in soft brown pyramids.

Unfinished roads bleeding off into dust.

Quiet. Silent. Too damned silent.

A roller-coaster hump in the road, then a sharp dip, another construction site at the bottom, this one stillborn, completely deserted: a single story of cinder block, the rest wood frame. Off in the distance, Wilbur could see tents. Bedouins-where the hell were they taking him?

Kinky answered that question by driving off the road, down a muddy ditch, and onto the side. He circled the cinder-block wall until coming to a six-foot opening at the rear and driving through it.

Another car was parked inside, half-hidden by shadows. Red BMW, grayed by dust.

Kinky turned off the engine.

Wilbur looked around: dark, damp place, probably the future subterranean garage. Roofed with sheets of plywood and black plastic tarp. Garbage all over the dirt floor: nail-studded wood scraps, plasterboard fragments, shreds of insulation, bent metal rods, probably a healthy dose of asbestos particles floating in the air.

During orientation, Grabowsky had amused him with stories of how the Israeli mafia buried their victims in the foundations of buildings under construction. Religious Hassid who were kohens-some special kind of priest-afraid of going into the buildings because Jewish law prohibited them from being near dead bodies.

No longer amusing.

No, couldn't be. Kinky wore a yarmulke. Nice Jewish boy, no mafia.

Then he remembered some of the stuff that guys with yarmulkes had pulled off in the diamond district.

Oh, shit.

"Okay," said Dry Voice. He opened the door. Wilbur saw the gun bulge under his suit jacket. Wool suit-asshole wasn't even sweating.

All of them except Kinky got out of the car. Dry Voice took Wilbur's elbow and led him a few feet past the front bumper.

Handsome and Iron Pumper folded their arms across their chests, stood there staring at him. Iron Pumper turned full face. Wilbur saw he was an Oriental-goddamned Oriental giant with cold slit eyes. This had to be a dream. Too much booze-he'd wake up any moment with a four-plus hangover.

A door slammed. Kinky was out of the car now, holding an attache case in one hand, the paper he'd used to shield his face in the other.

Wilbur looked at the paper. This morning's international Trib, his Butcher-letter story on page two.

Dry Voice held on to his elbow. Handsome and Slant-Eye had backed away into the shadows, but he could still sense their presence.

Kinky came closer. Small guy-not black, more like a mixed-blood, the kind you saw all over Brazil. But with weird golden eyes that shone in the dimness like those of a cat. The hand holding the paper was a mess-stiff-looking, covered with shiny pink scars. Real contrast to the rest of him, which was all brown and smooth and seamless. Baby face. But the eyes were old.

"Hello, Mr. Wilbur." Soft voice, barely an accent.

"Who are you?" Who the fuck are you!

"Daniel Sharavi. I understand you've been asking about me."

Goddamned geezer at the archives. They all stuck together.

"In the course of my work-"

"That's what we want to talk to you about," said Sharavi. "Your work." He waved the Herald Tribune.

Wilbur felt the anger return. More than anger-rage-at what the bastards had put him through.

"This stinks," he said. "Kidnapping me like some-"

"Shut your fucking mouth," said Dry Voice, tightening the hold on his elbow. Heavier accent than Sharavi, but no mistaking the words or the tone.

Sharavi glanced at Dry Voice, smiled apologetically, as if excusing an errant brother. So this was going to be one of those good-cop-bad-cop routines

"Have a seat," said Sharavi, motioning to a plywood board suspended on cinder blocks.

"I'll stand."

Dry Voice led him to the board and sat him down. Hard.

"Stay."

Wilbur stared up at him. Asshole looked like an accountant. IRS auditor delivering bad news.

Wilbur kept eye contact. "These are Gestapo tactics," he said.

Dry Voice knelt in front of him, gave a very ugly smile. "You're an expert on Gestapo?"

When Wilbur didn't answer, the asshole stood, kicked the dirt, and said, "Shmuck."

Sharavi said something to him in Hebrew and the guy moved back, folded his arms over his chest like the others.

Sharavi lifted a cinder block, brought it close to Wilbur, and sat on it, facing him.

"Your article today was very interesting," he said.

"Get to the point."

"You used a biblical scholar to locate the precise references of the passages."

Wilbur said nothing.

"May I ask which scholar?"

"My sources are confidential. Your government assures the right-"

Sharavi smiled.

"Mutti Abramowitz isn't much of a scholar. In fact, his father told me his grades in Bible Studies have always been very poor."

Little guy put his hands on his knees and leaned forward, as if expecting an answer.

"What's your point?" said Wilbur.

Sharavi ignored the question, opened his attache case, and rummaged in it. Head concealed by the lid, he asked, "Where were you three Thursdays ago?"

"Now, how am I supposed to remember that?"

"The day before Juliet Haddad's body was found."

"I don't know where I was, probably following some… Whoa, wait a minute. I don't have to do this." Wilbur stood. "I want a lawyer."

"Why do you think you need one?" Sharavi asked, mildly.

"Because you people are trampling on my rights. My strong advice to you is quit right now and minimize the damage, because I'm going to raise a stink the likes of which-"

"Sit down, Mr. Wilbur," said Sharavi.

Dry Voice took a step forward, hand in his jacket. Sit, shmuck."

Wilbur sat, head swimming with booze and bad vibes.

"What were you doing three Thursdays ago?" Sharavi repeated.

"I have no idea. I'd just gotten back from Greece, but you guys probably know that, don't you?"

"Tell me everything you know about the murders of Fatma Rashmawi and Juliet Haddad."

"My articles speak for themselves."

Dry Voice said, "Your articles are shit."

"Tell me about the wounds on Juliet Haddad's body," said Sharavi, almost whispering.

"How the hell would I know anything about that?"

Sharavi unfolded the Herald Tribune, searched for a place with his finger, found it, and read out loud: '"… rumors of sacrificial mutilation have persisted.' Where did you hear those rumors, Mr. Wilbur?"

Wilbur didn't reply. Sharavi turned to the others and asked, "Have you heard such rumors?"

Three head shakes.

"We haven't heard any such rumors, Mr. Wilbur. Where did you hear them?"

"My sources are confidential."

"Your sources are shit," said Dry Voice. "You're a liar. You make them up."

"Inspector Shmeltzer lacks tact," said Sharavi, smiling, 'but I can't argue strongly with him, Mr. Wilbur." Little bastard held out his hands palms up, all sweetness and light. The palm of the messy hand was puckered with scar tis-sue.

"Mutti Abramowitz as a biblical scholar," he said, shaking his head. "A clown like Samir El Said as a sociological scholar. Rumors of 'sacrificial mutilations.' You have a vivid imagination, Mr. Wilbur."

"Lying shmuck," said Dry Voice.

"Listen," said Wilbur, "this good-cop-bad-cop stuff isn't going to work. I've watched the same movies you have."

"You like movies, don't you?" Sharavi reached in the briefcase, took out some papers, and handed them to Wilbur.

The notes and title page for his screenplay. Not the original, but photocopies.

"You have no right-"

"Very interesting reading," said Sharavi. "You seem to have many ideas about the Butcher."

"That's fiction-"

Sharavi smiled. "Many ideas," he repeated. "It was you who named him the Butcher, wasn't it? So in one sense you invented him."

"What else did you steal from my office?"

"Tell me everything you know about the murders of Fatma Rashmawi and Juliet Haddad."

"I already told you-everything I know is in my stories."

"Your stories are shit," said Dry Voice-Shmeltzer.

"This is outrageous," said Wilbur.

"Murder is always outrageous," said Sharavi.

"Breaking into my office, stealing my personal-"

"Just like Watergate," suggested Sharavi.

"Wilburgate," said Shmeltzer. "Shitheadgate." He said something in Hebrew. Handsome and Slant-Eye laughed.

Sharavi shook his head. The others quieted.

"A good imagination," he said, returning his attention to Wilbur. "You heard rumors that the police haven't heard, receive letters from someone you claim is the Butcher-"

"I claimed nothing of the sort, I simply-"

"You implied it strongly. Just as you implied that the Gvura people were responsible-"

"I analyze facts," said Wilbur. "Do my research and come up with feasible hypotheses-"

"Feasible hypotheses?"

"You got it, chief."

"You seem to know more about the Butcher than anyone. His motives, his 'sacrificial mutilations,' what goes on inside his head. He must appreciate your understanding, think of you as a friend, because he sends you a letter-a letter without postage. A letter without any fingerprints or serum traces except the ones that match those removed from your liquor bottle and typewriter. Your fingerprints. Your serum type."

"That envelope was stuck in my mail."

"Yes, that's what Mutti says. However, the mail lay in the box there for an hour before he collected it and brought it to you."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning perhaps you placed it there yourself."

"That's absurd."

"No," said Sharavi. "That's a feasible hypothesis. Mutti Abramowitz as a biblical scholar is absurd."

"Why would I do something like that?" asked Wilbur, knowing the question was stupid, the answer obvious. "I report the news," he said. Talking to the walls. "I don't create it."

Sharavi was silent, as if digesting that.

"This morning," he said, finally, "five men died, a woman will probably lose her baby, another man, a good portion of his intestines. Several others were injured. All because of "news' that you invented."

"Blame the messenger," said Wilmur. "I've heard it before."

"I'm sure you have. My research reveals you have a history of inventing the news. Mardi Gras ritual murders that turn out to be suicides, exposes that end up exposing nothing."

Wilbur fought to stay cool. "We have nothing to talk about."